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!