The next morning, Bobby meets up with Sheriff Jody for an apparently prearranged rendezvous somewhere both scenic and aquatic, and after they exchange a few pleasantries, Bobby again chokes down his considerable pride to ask for her assistance. Rufus, as we might have guessed from the tail end of his last phone call, got tossed into a Massachusetts jail, and Bobby needs Sheriff Jody to have him extradited to South Dakota. Sheriff Jody splutters a bit at the sheer lunacy of Bobby's request, but after she realizes how serious he is about it all, she regretfully tells him, "I like you, Bobby, but this could nuke my career." Bobby makes mention of the many ways he's helped the town in the past, but Sheriff Jody just shakes her head and drives off.
That evening, Bobby's about to tie one on when there's yet another knock at his door. Sheriff Jody stands on his porch, and -- surprise! -- she's brought Rufus along with her. "How'd you...?" Bobby begins. "Don't ask," Sheriff Jody interrupts, vigorously rolling her eyes around in her skull. "You got one hour," she tells him, "then I call the Feds and tell them he busted out." "Thanks," Bobby almost whispers, touched. "I lose my job over this," Sheriff Jody immediately warns, allowing for no sentiment whatsoever, "I am taking it out of your ass!" With that, she leaves, so Bobby turns to Rufus with, "Tell me the ring is still in your stomach." Beat. Rufus fishes the thing out of his pocket and presents it to the visibly disgusted Bobby. "I'll go boil some water," Bobby grunts. Heh.
We return from the CHOMP!-less commercial break to find Bobby laying a circle of salt around yet another summoning sigil, this inked onto a piece of animal hide held in place on the floor by four lit candles, with Gavin MacLeod's signet ring placed at the center. Once the circle's complete, Bobby Latinates until Gavin MacLeod's signet ring rises into the air, seemingly of its own accord, and immediately after Bobby dumps some flash powder into one of the candles, his breath becomes visible in the suddenly chilly Emporium kitchen. Moments later, the spectral presence of Gavin MacLeod makes himself known by buzzing and blinking and flickering in and out on the far side of the salt circle. "Is this Hell?" he all too predictably asks in some laughable excuse for a Scottish burr, so I'm already bored with him, and NEXT!
Sometime later, Bobby repeats the summoning ritual from the top of the hour down in the basement, and Crowley returns, looking -- as Bobby so succinctly puts it -- "like a hammered piece of crap." "And you're a vision, as always," Crowley deliciously replies. Crowley glances contemptuously at the devil's trap spray-painted onto the floorboards above his head, then returns his attention to Bobby with, "Don't we both know how this game ends? Really, Bobby, you gotta know when to fold 'em." Bobby ignores that, choosing instead to reveal what he's learned of Crowley's recent promotion. "Trouble in paradise?" Bobby guesses, given Crowley's bleary eyes and weary demeanor. "Mate," Crowley sighs, "you have no idea." The demon produces a highball glass and a flask from his coat pockets, pours himself a stiff one, drops two Alka-Seltzers into it, and confides, "When I got the corner office, I thought it was going to be rainbows and two-headed puppies, but if I'm being honest? It's been hell." Crowley knocks back his effervescent whiskey before continuing, "You know what the problem with demons is?" "They're demons?" Bobby guesses. "Exactly!" Crowley nods. "Evil, lying prats, the whole lot of them -- and stupid!" "You know," he admits after a bit more bitching, "there's days that I think Lucifer's whole 'Spike Anything With Black Eyes' plan wasn't half bad." Suddenly aware that he's been unloading his cares and troubles onto Bobby, of all people, he laughs a bit to himself and notes, "Feels good to get it off my chest -- we should make this a thing!" Bobby snarls something ornery, so Crowley lets it drop and gets down to business. "I'm obviously not here on a social call, so on with it." "I want..." Bobby begins, only to have Crowley immediately and amusingly cut him off with "Save me the recap -- in fact, I'll do the shorthand for you!" Viciously and hilariously caricaturing Bobby's decidedly backwoods demeanor and manner of speech at the appropriate moments during what follows, Crowley riffs, "'I want my soul back, eedjit!' ''Fraid not.' 'But I'm surly and I got a beard! Gimme!' Blah, blah, blah, homespun cornpone insult, witty retort from yours truly, and the bottom line is: You get bupkis. Are we done?" "Just gettin' started," Bobby darkly promises, his eyes glinting in the shadow beneath the bill of his trucker cap.
And with that, he nods towards an apparently vacant corner of the basement, giving Gavin MacLeod his cue to buzz and blink and flicker on in. Crowley's eyes flash from the new arrival to Bobby and back again before he gets all emotional and such to whisper, "Gavin? Is that you? It... it's been so long! I love you so..." At this point, he can no longer maintain a straight face, and he starts giggling before returning his attention to Bobby, whom he compliments for "thinking outside the box" on this whole hostage-swap situation. "Problem is," Crowley grins, "I loathe the little bastard. You want to torture him, just let me pull up a chair, and I'll watch!" Ah, but Gavin MacLeod is not the bargaining chip Crowley imagines him to be. No, Bobby summoned Gavin not in an attempt to trade Gavin's soul for his own, but rather to dig up even more dirt on Crowley's long-dead human incarnation. And as the son hates the father even more than the father hates the son, Gavin was only too happy to drop a dime on dear old dad. "What did you tell him?" Crowley glowers. "Everything," Gavin smiles before buzzing and blinking and flickering on out. Bobby, relishing the moment, takes great and obvious pleasure ticking off the details of Crowley's miserable earthly existence, especially the bit where he notes that Fergus MacLeod originally sold his soul "for an extra three inches below the belt." "Just trying to hit double digits," Crowley smirks before shrugging, "So you got a glimpse behind the curtain. And?" "And now I know where you're planted," Bobby replies. He picks up his cordless from a nearby table and flips it into the demon's chest. "Hiya, Crowley!" Dean perks from the other end of the line. The two exchange strained pleasantries until Dean reveals that he and Sam have flown to Scotland -- or, you know, a reasonably CGI'd facsimile thereof -- to desecrate Fergus MacLeod's grave. "This is ridiculous," Crowley blurts, instantly panicked. "The whole burning-bones thing -- it's a myth!" he insists. "I know an employee of yours who'd disagree," Bobby eyebrows.