Meanwhile, back in their holding pen with "Misha," Sam and Dean perch on their little Supernatural chairs and bitch. "Who wrote this?" Sam snaps as his humiliation curdles into rage. "Nobody says 'penultimate'!" he seethes. For his part, Dean would be quite happy to shoot himself in the head, if that'll keep him from ever setting foot on that damn set again. Fortunately for the two of them, Brian Doyle-Murray bellows, "Moving on!" and Our Intrepid Imbeciles dart out of the frame with their box, leaving "Misha" alone to narrate another twit like so: "I-M-H-O, J and J had a late one last night, R-O-T-F-L-M-F-A-O." WHO THE FUCK TALKS TO THEIR PHONE LIKE THAT?
We head back to the monitors to find Brian Doyle-Murray on the phone with "Sera Gamble," the latter of whom asks, "What's our terror alert level, here?" "Orange, maybe," Brian Doyle-Murray shrugs, adding, "They started talking to each other!" "But that's a good thing," "Sera Gamble" replies. Brian Doyle-Murray thought so, too, but now "Jensen's living at Jared's house, plus they're smuggling illegal stuff in from Mexico." At this, Brian Doyle-Murray's primary assistant pipes up to clarify, "Misha's celebrity tweet says it's a black-market organ thing, but I'm betting drugs." Is any of this supposed to be funny? I mean, if it is, let me know, and I'll start laughing. Anyone? No? Okay, then.
Over on the set, Dean's carefully replicated Belthazor's original sigil on the candy glass someone reinstalled in The Emporium's window frame, and the boys now hurl themselves through the thing to land on the soundstage concrete. Back at the monitors, Brian Doyle-Murray's primary assistant sanctimoniously presses his lips together and pisses, "Drugs!" Um. Ha?
Trailer. Sam and Dean slump through the door to slouch down dejectedly in a couple of chairs, with Sam moping, "Maybe we did it wrong." Dean insists the reversal spell was perfect in every detail, so Sam quite obligingly moves on to his next theory: He was up all night the previous evening
boning his fake wife searching online, you see, and he found no evidence to support the existence in this reality of The Apocalypse, or indeed of any monsters, ghosts, or demons whatsoever. "They're all pretend," Sam insists. "So nobody's hunting them?" Dean dims. "No hunters," Sam duhs before going on to add, "Maybe that's why our spell didn't work, Dean -- maybe here, there's no supernatural." "No demons?" Dumbass El Deano repeats, still trying to wrap his puny little brain around the concept. "No Hell?" he continues, because he apparently wants to piss me off with his blithering obtuseness. "No Heaven?" he panics. "No God?" "Something like," Sam shrugs. He thinks about their current situation for a bit, then bright-sides, "Even better? No angels."