Episode Report Card
Demian: B | 5 USERS: A
A Fistful Of Hardy Boys

...The Emporium kitchen, where he collapses onto the linoleum. Bobby races to the stricken angel's aid, but My Sweet Baboo wards him off with a bloody hand -- a bloody hand he then smears against Bobby's otherwise pristine wall to inscribe a sigil whose purpose, he presently explains, is to mask his presence in The Emporium from his Heavenly fellows. I think. I mean, I'm pretty sure that's what it's for, but I don't feel like fast-forwarding through the rest of Castiel's scenes to confirm it, and he passes out here almost as soon as he completes it, so whatever. Next!

Saloon. Dean's evidently visited the town's tailor, for he enters in the outfit we saw him wearing during the pre-credits sequence, and apparently, the town's tailor sucks, because the stumpy little bow-legged midget is positively swimming in that damn duster of his. It's like they slung a Ginormotron-sized coat on wee Dean's tiny little body. Nevertheless, Dean thinks he looks good, so I guess that's all that matters. Our Intrepid Hero approaches the proprietor and inquires as to the present location of his promised posse. "I must be early," he supposes. "Or you're the only greenhorn dumb enough to go chasin' after a ghost," Elkins shoots back. "What're you talking about?" Dean frowns. "The sheriff's tough as nails -- he'll be here." On cue, a comically distraught voice calls out from the street, "Oh, God! The sheriff's dead!"

Dean and Elkins head out into the early-morning sunlight to stand over the ashy remains of the town's sheriff and, after a beat, Dean asks, "Well, who's the sheriff now?" Elkins bends down, retrieves the sheriff's badge from its place atop its former owner's scorched bones, shines it up a bit with his bar rag, and rises to pin it to a flabbergasted Dean's vest. "Congratulations!" Elkins drawls. Dean mugs and goggles and rolls his put-upon eyes right into the next CHOMP!-less commercial break.

The camera takes in the exterior of a rustic and isolated log cabin before zipping inside, where it finds The Illustrious Mr. Colt diligently penning his journal. Two demonically enhanced cowboys enter, seeking access to that portal to Hell no one's thought about for the better part of four years, and for once, The Fucking Colt That Can Kill Anything Except When It Usually Can't actually works like it's supposed to. The Illustrious Mr. Colt blows a neat pair of holes in the demonic interlopers' chests, and the two intruders drop to the floor, dead.

Back in Sunrise, the panicky sheriff's deputy's throwing his meager belongings into a valise to bolt town for his sister's place when someone comes a-knocking on his chamber door. "Who's there?" the deputy calls out, drawing his gun. "Candygram for Mongo!" Dean replies, offering us all his best Cleavon Little impersonation which, quite frankly, isn't very good. The dimwitted deputy opens the door anyway, and a brief Mexican standoff ensues with Dean and the deputy shoving their six-shooters into each other's face until Dean smiles, "Is that any way to greet your new boss?" The ice thus broken, the two holster their revolvers and settle in for a lengthy chat, the upshot of which is this: Dean knows Finch intends to fry up the dimwitted deputy as he promised when everyone was standing up there on the gallows, and Dean therefore intends to use the dimwitted deputy as bait. Is that everything? "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" Good. Next!

Over in that log cabin, The Illustrious Mr. Colt is just now returning from burying the dead demons in his backyard when The Ginormotron comes tippy-toeing through his front door. How the hell Sam ever found this place, I'll never know, but that's not important right now because what is important right now is the fact that The Illustrious Mr. Colt greets his unexpected guest with a faceful of holy water. "Not a demon! Not a demon!" Sam shouts, waving his hands in the air and backing away while hastily explaining that he is, in fact, a hunter from the year 2011. "Prove it," The Illustrious Mr. Colt challenges, so Sam tugs his Android out from the pocket of his jeans and hands the thing over. The Illustrious Mr. Colt examines the phone's glowing display for a moment, eyebrows an extremely casual, "All right!" and crosses to place the thing atop his makeshift liquor cabinet. "'All right'?" Sam incredulously repeats. "That's it?" "When you've done this job as long as I have," The Illustrious Mr. Colt condescends, pouring himself a cocktail, "a giant from the future with some magic brick doesn't exactly give you the vapors." Nice one. Even Sam has to smile at it, and as The Illustrious Mr. Colt takes a slug of his whiskey, Sam explains the purpose of his visit, pulling the modern-day version of The Illustrious Mr. Colt's journal from his jacket to show his temporary host the appropriate phoenix-related entry. The Illustrious Mr. Colt takes a moment to process all of that, then eases himself into a chair to growl, "I appreciate your situation, but I'm not gonna be of any help to you." "But you say right here..." Sam begins. "Don't believe everything that you read," The Illustrious Mr. Colt warns before claiming he's retired, and announcing that he has no intention of hunting anything ever again. An unimportant bit of back-and-forth bickering ensues until Sam finally exasperates, "Either you're coming with me, or I need the gun." "What gun?" The Illustrious Mr. Colt bluffs. "The gun," Sam emphasizes. The Illustrious Mr. Colt LIES that he "lost it in a game of stud," but Sam calls him out on his bullshit, correctly guessing that his temporary host shot a couple of demons with the thing "less than an hour ago." He can tell, you see, because there are two sets of boot prints on the front porch and "the cabin reeks of sulphur." Further unimportant back-and-forth bickering ensues, and the bottom line is this: Sam demands his temporary host hand over The Fucking Colt That Can Kill Anything Except When It Usually Can't, and The Illustrious Mr. Colt refuses. Next!

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