Kidding. Sort of. I'll spare you the whole "Samantha Stevens, her magnificent bitch of a mother, her delightfully swishy stereotype of a gay uncle, her dodderingly befuddled early-onset-Alzheimer's victim of an aunt, and that malpracticing lush Doctor Bombay kicked stupid bimbo Jeannie's scantily clad and offensively submissive ass in every conceivable way" rant, save to note that Dean's preference for scantily clad and offensively submissive stupid bimbos does make depressingly perfect sense when we remember that Dean is, at heart, a heterosexual Neanderthal. ANY-way, Sam verbally bitch-slaps Dean's attention back to the matter at hand, and informs his brother that people-sucking genies tend to hang out in "ruins" "the bigger the better," as there are "more places to hide." Fortunately for the furtherance of this evening's plot, El Deano just happened to have motored past a building that fits Sam's description perfectly not five minutes ago and, brushing off Sam's suggestion that he return to the motel so they can investigate the place together, hangs up to swing the car around. By the way, Darling Sammy's cell phone makes this little zzzzzzwing! noise when he hangs up, and maybe it's just because they've already busted out the relevant reference this evening, but it does bring to mind the sound effect you hear every time Endora swings her arms around in a fit of pique to transform Durwood into a newt. Make of that what you will.
The rain-streaked Metallicar grumbles up outside the abandoned factory headquarters of The C. & R. Jacob Chemical Company, and El Deano disembarks into the night to poke his nosy yet tantalizing ass around the place. After a bit of flashlight-fu at the main entrance, he makes his way upstairs to the company's former offices, and as he obliviously ambles past abandoned old-fashioned floor fans and positively antique upright typewriters, a ghostly figure appears in the miraculously intact frosted glass behind him. DUN! The figure trails along after him until Dean reaches a doorway connecting the office to the outer hall, and as the figure presses its ashen face against the frosted glass for a better look, Dean suddenly senses the thing's presence. He carefully hoists a blood-tipped hunting knife into the air and, after taking a moment to steel himself, leaps into the hallway with the knife at the ready. Unfortunately, the figure's disappeared. Or has it? The camera pans along with Dean as he warily picks his way across the trash-strewn floor, and we catch a fleeting glimpse of the figure's bald head in the foreground of the shot right before it leaps from an alcove to slam Dean up against the miraculously intact frosted glass. Dean loses his flashlight and his hunting knife in quick succession, and when he focuses his eyes on his attacker, the camera cuts around to reveal a heavily browed and bald gentleman whose skin -- every visible inch of it, from the top of his head to the tips of his fingers -- is covered with navy blue tribal tattoos. The Frigging Genie, for that is indeed who our new friend is, presses Dean against the wall of glass in a chokehold while allowing his eyes to flip an almost neon shade of blue. Soon enough, a shimmering swath of identically tinted mojo bursts from the palm of his free hand and races up and out across his fingers until it looks like his entire appendage is aflame. He then gently -- and that's a nice bit of incongruity, there -- presses that hand against Dean's forehead, and Dean struggles and chokes until his eyes roll back in his head, his irises replaced by sickly cataracts that quickly disappear into the METAL TEETH CHOMP!