Not according to the online news archive of the Indianapolis Sun, you didn't. In fact, 108 people died when the flight went down outside of Pittsburgh a year ago -- which, according to the masthead, was December 5, 2005, and I'm not sure if that's Sign Number Twelve That Things Are Not Quite Right With El Deano Because Who In The Hell Has A Lawn To Mow In Kansas In December For Christ's Sake, or if it's simply another example of shitty, nonexistent-budget production design, but at this point, I don't really care. We're already halfway through this episode, there has been NO GORE WHATSOEVER, and all of this alternate reality crap is starting to bore me, so let's kick this plot in its ass to get it moving. "Gore?! Did you just say GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!?" Yes, Raoul, I did, but only to note the lack of it. "Rats!" By the way, who are you reading about now? "Marie Prevost! And after her, it's Lupe VÃ©lez!" Oh, again? "I just can't help myself! It's all just so sordidly delicious!"
In any event, Dean plows through the Wide Wide World Of Web searching for the cases they've dealt with over the last two years, only to discover that each one of them ended badly for everyone involved because Our Intrepid Heroes were not there to save the day. The kiddies in Fitchbu/erg? Dead. The parents of all those mouth-breathing morons in Medford and Mishicot? Ditto, along with poor little boring Tyler Thompson in Cornwall, Connecticut. As Dean attempts to process the implications of all this, a shadowy figure shoots past the corner of his eye into the apartment's bedroom. Dean leaps out of his chair to give chase, only to find nothing amiss. Well, nothing amiss until he hears a suspicious creaking in the closet, of course. And no, it's not his repressed sexual orientation, but it is pretty damn close: A couple of decaying corpses strung up by their rotting hands to dangle from the ceiling. Geddit? Skeletons in Dean's closet? Oh, show. Oh, clever, clever show. Dean stares at them in horror until The Woman In Now-Filthy White's reflection snaps into focus in the closet door's mirror. He spins around to find her now looking a lot worse for the wear -- a gash in her forehead, bloodstains on her blouse, scabs around her mouth -- and what's more, she buzzes and blinks and flickers in and out before vanishing completely. Once she's gone, a visibly rattled Dean turns slowly back around to face the closet. It's empty, too.