After Sam and Dean indulge in a particularly depressing phone call precipitated by Lucifer's extremely seductive invasion of Darling Sammy's sleepytime at the end of the last episode, Zachariah drops by Dashing El Deano's rathole of a Kansas City motel room to propel Our Intrepid Hero five years into the future, where President Palin bombing Houston back into The Stone Age is the least of humanity's problems. Remember the Croatoan virus? The one that Azazel's so-called son unleashed upon River Grove, Oregon, killing almost every single person in the town? The one that "the Winchester boy" was "definitely immune" to, "as expected"? Lucifer's minions released it in major cities across the United States 2012, and by the time Dean wakes up in what's left of The Barbecue Capital Of The World, three-fourths of the world's population has been reduced to mindless 28 Days Later-style rage zombies.
Dean eventually escapes from Missouri, and -- after a quick side trip to the lush coastal rainforests of central South Dakota to collect several key clues from now-dead Bobby's Emporium -- he hauls himself over to the survivalist guerilla camp his future self has established somewhere remote. Wacky Double-Dean hijinks ensue, with Future Dean bonking Present Dean on the head a couple of times due to Present Dean's reckless insouciance and both Slutty Deans getting into trouble with the ladies and such, until Future Dean rallies the troops for a raid on Future Lucifer's stylish downtown Detroit digs. Unfortunately, the raid ends in nothing but horrible death for the all the troops involved, including Future Dean, who winds up with a snapped neck after Future Lucifer over-vigorously hugs him and pets him and names him George, for Future Lucifer is none other than...The Ginormotron Antichrist! In a white leisure suit with matching loafers, no less, and let me tell you: Future Lucifer's clothing was by far the most terrifying part of the episode.
Future Lucifer of course lectures Present Dean on a variety of topics, because everyone knows evil simply cannot shut the hell up, ever, and just when Present Dean is at his lowest in 2014, Zachariah pops in to zap Our Intrepid Hero back to 2009, where Dean promptly summons his errant brother to a summit next to that trestle bridge we've seen at least five times before on this show, and long story short, they're no longer broken up, because Dean's convinced himself that despite the risks involved, they're at their best when they're with each other. Or something like that.
In other news, My Sweet Baboo continues to be adorable in all his many guises, and Future Chuck suggests you start hoarding toilet tissue now.
Rattle Rattle THEN! A long time ago, Our Intrepid Heroes found themselves stuck in a tiny Oregon town whose residents had been afflicted with a sulphur-based "dee-monic virus" Darling Sammy and Dashing El Deano called "Croatoan," for lack of familiarity with scientific naming conventions. An even longer time ago, Samuel Colt made a fucking plot device that could kill anything, except when it usually couldn't. Far more recently, Dashing El Deano and Darling Sammy learned they were meant to be angel condoms for St. Michael and Lucifer, respectively, and -- much to the horror of many in the viewing audience -- broke up with each other in the middle of a ridiculously scenic highway rest stop. Though, you know, not because they're meant to be angel condoms. I'm pretty sure.
Slashy, Slashy NOW! Somewhere in America, a premillennialist fundie stands on a dark, rain-streaked sidewalk, pestering innocent passersby with the question, "Is your soul Rapture-ready?" Guess he didn't get the memo that The Tribulation officially started four episodes ago when The Ginormotron Antichrist unwittingly unleashed Lucifer from Hell, thereby invalidating one of his cult's central doctrines. Ooops. While all this is going on, Dean wheels the Impala over to the curb and disembarks to enter the cheap-looking hotel that stands at the premillennialist fundie's back, and though Our Intrepid Hero takes great pains to carefully sidestep the religious nutball on the sidewalk, the premillennialist fundie nevertheless accosts him with, "Excuse me, friend, but have you taken time out to think about God's plan for you?" Dean tosses the loopy pamphleteer a hairy side-eye before grumbling, "Too friggin' much, pal." Having thus devoted more time than is strictly necessary to the insane crazy person on the sidewalk, Dean wearily enters the hotel. Fundie Man waits until Dean's vanished, then darts his eyes back and forth in a manner most suspicious. "Evil!" shrieks Raoul The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon, terribly agitated by this turn of events. "The exceptionally slender gentleman on the sidewalk is EVIL!" And Raoul, honey, the guy's a fundamentalist Christian shoving pamphlets into people's faces. Of course he's evil. "Eeep! I can't bear to look! Make that...that thing go away!" Um. He's already gone. "Really?!"
Really, for we've leapt ahead in time a bit, and have now joined Our Intrepid Hero in his lavishly appointed suite on the fleabag's second floor, where we find him with cell pressed firmly against his ear, carefully drawing the drapes while asking the person on the other end, "You're talking about The [Fucking] Colt, right? As in, The [Fucking] Colt?" "We are," My Sweet Baboo's voice tinnily replies from the other end of the line. "That doesn't make any sense," Dean grumps, and Dean. It's The Fucking Colt. The fricking thing never makes any goddamned sense. Ignoring me, as is his wont, Dean continues, "Why would the demons keep a gun around that kills demons?" Because The Kripkeeper can't bring himself to let go of the fucking thing as a goddamned plot device? Just a thought. But never mind me, because Castiel's having trouble hearing his boyfriend, because Castiel's standing at the side of a nighttime highway somewhere remote for some reason, and an eighteen-wheeler just roared past. "It's kinda funny," Dean chuckles, "talking to A Messenger Of God on a cell phone -- it's like watching a Hell's Angel ride a moped." "This isn't funny, Dean!" My Sweet Baboo protests. "The voice says I'm almost out of minutes!" Hee. Dean smirks, but politely gets back to business, telling Castiel he's certain "the mooks have melted down [The Fucking Colt] by now." Castiel begs to differ, citing intelligence from unnamed sources, and if those sources are correct, and if Dean's "still set on the insane task of killing The Devil," they have little choice but to chase The Fucking Colt down. Dean, bone tired, collapses onto the lavishly appointed suite's bed and sighs, "Where do we start?" "Where are you now?" Castiel asks by way of response. "Kansas City, Century Hotel, Room 113," comes the answer, and Castiel proposes he flutter over immediately, but Dean vociferously objects to that plan, noting that he's just spent sixteen straight hours on the road, and he'd like to get at least four hours' worth of sleep before dealing with this Fucking Colt nonsense. To the disappointment of many, I'm sure, My Sweet Baboo does not offer to flutter over and snuggle with Our Intrepid Hero during the latter's extended nap. "You can pop in tomorrow morning," Dean grunts, sounding just a tetch disappointed himself. "Yes," Castiel agrees, but Done-In El Deano hangs up before My Sweet Baboo can finish, "I'll just...wait here, then." And that's exactly what he does, standing stoically at the side of the road. Awwwwww!
Sometime later, Dean's cell buzzes on the lavishly appointed suite's bedside table, and Dean somehow manages to rouse himself and answer with a sharp, "Dammit, Cas, I need some sleep!" "Dean, it's me," Darling Sammy replies, and the next thing we know, Dean's grabbing a beer from the lavishly appointed suite's refrigerator while snarking, "Lucifer's wearing you to the prom?" and thank God for time-jumps, because that's a lengthy confession none of us needed to hear in real time. "Just when you thought you were out, they pull you back in," Dean jokes, much to Sam's sniffy consternation. "So, that's it?" he huffily snits from the driver's seat of the stolen Lincoln Continental he's steering through the night. "That's your response?" "Whaddya lookin' for?" Dean replies, his accompanying shrug efficiently transmitted to the phone lines courtesy of his tone. "A little panic, maybe?" Sam snippily suggests. "I guess I'm a little numb to the earth-shattering revelations at this point," Dean eyerolls, taking a swig from his beer bottle, and take it from me, Ducky Lips: You're far from the only one at this point. "Indeed!" agrees Raoul. "Why, I simply can't keep track of them anymore!" That's because your brain's the size of an apricot pit, darling. "Oh, you horrible little man! What on earth have I ever done to merit such tawdry treatment at your wretched hands, I'll never know! Why, I've...!"
Sometimes it's just too easy. In any event, as my freeloading houseguest rants on regarding my supposed mistreatment of his lizardly ass, Sam whines something about taking immediate action while proposing the brothers reteam immediately, and as I believe this conversation might become important both later in the episode and later in the season, I'll be a little more careful than usual to transcribe the relevant bits. "I'm gonna hunt him down, Dean," Sam vows, referring of course to this season's primary adversary. "So, we're back to revenge?" Dean replies. "Not revenge," Sam corrects. "Redemption." Dean's eyeroll is practically audible, but Delusional Sammy soldiers on: "I can do this -- I can! I'm gonna prove it to you!" Dean tiredly closes his eyes and, slumping into one of the lavishly appointed suite's chairs, sighs, "It doesn't matter, whatever we do -- I mean, it turns out you and me, we're the fire and the oil of The Armageddon, and on the basis of that alone, we should just pick a hemisphere. Stay away from each other for good." And if his pointed use of that odd turn of phrase "the fire and the oil of The Armageddon" was supposed to trigger my recognit