Back at Bobby's, Dean spins Pestilence's ring around on Bobby's desk as the gentleman of The Emporium notes, "Well, it's nice to actually score a home run for once, ain't it?" Sam, Dean, and My Sweet Baboo remain uncharacteristically gloomy, so Bobby wonders what gives. The boys plus Dean's celestial boyfriend glumly explain about The Horseman's final cryptic warning. "We're just a little freaked out that he might have left a bomb somewhere," Dean adds, "so please tell us you have actual good news." "Chicago's about to be wiped off the map," Bobby replies. Well, that's cheery. "Good thing we moved!" I already made that joke in the recaplet, Raoul. "Rats!" But are you wondering how, exactly, the city of Chicago will be wiped from the map? "I am!" Let's listen in, then, friend of friends, as Bobby explains: "'Storm Of The Millennium' sets off a daisy chain of natural disasters -- three million people are gonna die." And I'll be honest with you all, here: When the episode thread exploded shortly after 10 PM last Thursday with little more than post after post deriding Sam's patently stupid plan to end The Apocalypse while also yelling about how MEAN TO DEAN this evening's installment was, I found myself scrolling through them all going, "Yeah, Sam's an idiot, and WHATEVER ALREADY, Deangirls, but is no one wondering how a fucking thunderstorm kills three million people in Chicago? Seriously? 'Cause a fucking thunderstorm killing three million people in Chicago is one of the most mind-bendingly stupid things this show's ever attempted to pull over on us, and that's saying a lot after five years of Insta-Dawns and magical highway wormholes and racist trucks and goddamned angels finding their goddamned grace in goddamned trees, for Christ's sake." And then I remembered that the people who make this show believe that the Chicago Loop cowers in the shadow of a two-thousand-foot-high bluff, figured Kripke & Ko. would therefore think a lot of water could trigger a massive landslide that would sweep the entire city into Lake Michigan, decided everyone on the boards came to the same conclusion, and dropped it. "A wise decision on your part, I must say!" Thanks, Raoul. Now, might I continue? "Please!" Excellent.
"I don't understand your definition of 'good news,'" Castiel admits. Heh. Bobby patiently elaborates that Capital-D Death will somehow be responsible for the massive landslide that shoves The Windy City into the lake, and if they somehow manage to find The Horseman before he triggers the storm, and if they somehow manage to separate Capital-D Death from his ring, not only will they have saved three million people, but they'll also have the final key needed for Lucifer's divinely wrought cage. "You make it sound so easy," Dean grumbles. "I'm just trying to put a positive spin on things!" Bobby more or less snaps back. Super-Smart Sammy, meanwhile, finally thinks to ask how Bobby managed to put all of this together. "I had, you know. Help," Bobby evasively replies. Cue Crowley, materializing behind them without a sound, but making quite a bit of racket pouring himself a scotch. D'OH! "Don't be so modest," Crowley croons in Bobby's direction. "I barely helped at all." He sniffs at Bobby's inferior liquor, pointedly sets the offensive swill down on the sideboard, and prompts, "Go ahead -- tell them. There's no shame in it." Our Intrepid Heroes are all, "No shame in what, exactly?" and Bobby hems and haws and stutters and stammers and finally admits to trading his soul with Crowley in exchange for Death's coordinates. Dean is shocked and appalled. "You sold your soul?" "More like pawned it," Crowley corrects, adding, "I fully intend to give it back." Sam, meanwhile, has been scrunching his nose up, lost in thought, and finally blurts out, "Did you kiss him?" "Sam!" Dean yelps, shocked and appalled again. "Just wondering!" Sam counters in his defense. Bobby denies it. Crowley clears his throat and directs their attention to his iPhone, and I'm sorry, but I never, ever needed to see Jim Beaver and Mark Sheppard engaged in a hot-n-heavy liplock. NEVER. Call me ageist or lookist or whatever the hell you like, but no. NO. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" I see it disturbs you as much as it does me, my scaly friend. "To the contrary, I'm sure!" Oh, God. "It's the most deliciously foul thing I've seen on this charming little Thursday-evening divertissement since that lovely little security guard found himself split in two by that delightfully whimsical elevator! 'EEEEEEEEEEEEE!' say I! EEEEEEEEEEEEE!"