...present, where Dean attempts at commiseration and fails, and the two blather about The Uncertain State Of Poor Darling Sammy's Fragile Little Mind -- again, SOME MORE -- and Sam snivels, "I'm a freeeeeak!" over and over and over again, and it's all very Season Two -- and Season Three, and Season Four, and Season Five, and Season Six, and OH MY GOD, can't these two ASSHOLES come up with something NEW to talk about after ALL THESE GODDAMNED YEARS? -- and then it's over, and we drop into this evening's final commercial break most dreadfully CHOMP!-less.
The next day, Sam emerges from the local Biggerson's with breakfast-in-a-bag while Dean loudly finishes up a call he's supposedly having with Bobby. And once he's done, he announces they'll be spending the night in Spokane, and kindly flips the Impala's keys over to Sam so the latter might drive.
Eventually, they end up at The Spokane Swan Motel. Dean sends Sam off to check them in for the evening and slides himself into the driver's seat so he can motor on over to the nearest pharmacy to get a refill on his painkillers, which is clearly a vicious LIE, because Dean obviously doesn't need painkillers, because: What shattered tibia? Stupid show. And as Sam disappears into the motel's office...
...Amy enters a motel room of her own to find Dean waiting for her in the shadows. DUN! And does anyone -- anyone -- really give a shit what these two talk about over the course of the subsequent fifty-six seconds? "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" Didn't think so. Long story short, Dean drives a hunting knife into Amy's chest, and she collapses against the bed, dead. Unfortunately, little Jacob had been standing in the doorway this entire time, and so was witness to everything. And then? Get this: Our Intrepid Moron lets the fucking kid go. I...I...I just can't with this crap anymore!
Meanwhile, back at The Whitefish Gas & Sip, that Leviathanically-enhanced customer service agent from what seems like an entire frigging lifetime ago confirms Sam's recent presence in the store thanks to a security tape now unspooling on the wall-mounted television set, and he reports the same to his boss via his cell before going on to promise that he'll continue tracking Our Intrepid Idiots across the country until he finds them. At the moment, though, he's feeling a bit peckish, so after he snaps shut his phone, he turns to the trussed-up clerk and confides, "You know what I find? Plain old people taste fine, but everything's better with cheese!" With that, he upends a percolating vat of molten convenience-store nacho cheese substitute over the trussed-up clerk's head, and as the hapless clerk shrieks and wails -- all the while off-camera in the most budget-friendly manner possible, I should note -- we finally cut to black.