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 recognition of a specific variation on apocalyptic mythology, it failed, but then again, I am not and have no desire to be an expert on such things, so whatever. Anyway, Sam argues that they can fight back, and Dean agrees with that, as long as they remain apart. "We're not stronger when we're together," he claims. "Whatever we have between us -- love, family, whatever it is -- they are always going to use it against us. And you know that." Well, he should, at any rate. Sam's speechless, and as Dean misinterprets his brother's silence as acquiescence, he concludes, "We're better off apart -- we got a better chance of dodging Lucifer and Michael and this whole damn thing if we just go our own ways." "Don't do this," Sam begs, finally regaining his voice, but Dean's had it, and he snaps shut his phone to brood while the screen slowly fades to black.