Evil Pharmaceutical Empire. Immediate aftermath. Mildly Mutilated El Deano somehow has made it back to the elevator, and we travel downwards to the lobby with him in real time until everybody in the audience falls asleep, and by the time we all wake up, the episode's over! See you next week, kids!

Kidding. Well, about the episode being over already. We actually do travel downwards to the lobby with Mildly Mutilated El Deano in real time, though, for some asinine and completely boring reason, and then Mildly Mutilated El Deano warily tippy-toes out of the car to glance around the building's apparently deserted entrance for a bit, only to discover that...Buttboy's somehow magically and silently teleported himself from the twelfth floor! DUN! Buttboy slams a fist into the back of Mildly Mutilated El Deano's head, and the Buttboy gloating that follows is almost as tedious as Dean's lengthy journey in the elevator. Almost. So, you know, it really is a very good thing that Crowley arrives at this moment to cinch a sigil-bedazzled burlap sack around Buttboy's surprised head, after which Crowley conjures up a crowbar to beat Buttboy like Buttboy owes him money. Whack! "VIOLENCE!" Whack! Whack! Whack! "WANTON ACTS OF UNREPENTANT SKULL-CRUSHING VIOLENCE!" Whack! Whack! Whack! "WANTON ACTS OF, um, UNRELENTING UNREPENTANT SKULL-CRUSHING VIOLENCE!" Whack! "Can I do it now?!" One more, Raoul: WHACK! "Now!?" Now. "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" And as Buttmunch crashes to the terrazzo, unconscious, Mildly Mutilated El Deano staggers to his feet to demand, "What was that?" "That," Crowley replies with an appreciative smile, "was perfect." "'Perfect'?" Mildly Mutilated El Deano gasps, incredulous. "He didn't want the rings," Mildly Mutilated El Deano protests, "he wanted me!" "Imagine the surprise on your face!" Crowley crows. "Your ignorance and misinformation?" he explains as Mildly Mutilated El Deano flails around, feeling betrayed. "I mean, completely authentic! You can't fake that." Mildly Mutilated El Deano glares. "It went like clockwork!" Crowley insists. "Not for me, you son of a bitch!" Mildly Mutilated El Deano yowls. "That's what you get for working with a demon," Crowley playfully chides, and with that, we're...

...back in the Impala, where Dean dabs at his scalp wounds with a handkerchief in the front seat while Crowley busies himself carving a lurid entrapment sigil directly into Butthead's chest. "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" This will, of course, prevent Buttload from escaping his host's body during the torture to come. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" "Now, up here," Crowley instructs, turning his attention to the road ahead, "we don't want I-50. Take 93 North." Wow. I guess we are still in Nevada. Go figure. Though why Pestilence And Friends would set up their Croatoan plant out in the middle of nowhere is beyond me. Anyway, Dean bristles at the sudden change in route, and wants to know why he's supposed to drive away from the rattrap. "We can't take this guy back to your brother," Crowley explains. 'They got history, all right?" Dean slams on the brakes to shout, "What history?"