When an old and now clinically insane hunting buddy of Sucky John's contacts Our Intrepid Heroes with news of a disturbing rash of possibly monster-related suicides in his current loony bin, Darling Sammy and Dashing El Deano conspire to have themselves committed to The Glenwood Springs Psychiatric Hospital in scenic Ketchum, Oklahoma, by, basically, telling the facility's lead physician the truth about The Ever-Impending Apocalypse and their respective roles in same. It works like a charm, and the next thing we know, Our Dear Boys are roaming the nuthouse halls clad in little more than T-shirts and scrub pants, a costuming choice that made many thousands in the audience very happy, indeed. More to the point, however, whilst roaming the nuthouse halls clad in little more than T-shirts and scrub pants, Sam and Dean manage to witness the asylum's next suicide, and that's where the plot points start kicking in. You see, after the boys break into the funny farm's morgue to examine the latest unfortunate's corpse, Sam notices a small hole at the base of the guy's skull, and so naturally proceeds as one does in such situations by revving up the bone saw and hacking the dead lunatic's head open. What he discovers within are the shriveled remnants of the guy's brain, which had been sucked dry by an entity disturbingly unknown, but after a quick consult with their worthless bastard of a so-called father's erstwhile friend, they quickly realize they're after a wraith. The good news? Silver letter openers will kill it, and The Glenwood Springs Psychiatric Hospital in scenic Ketchum, Oklahoma, comes equipped with a seemingly neverending supply of the things. The bad news? Wraiths mimic human forms, and can therefore only be identified through their mirrored reflections. D'OH!
And so, after much insanity and misdirection, during which Sam grievously injures the facility's lead physician before Our Intrepid Heroes scamper off down another dead end by chasing after the institution's resident nymphomanic, Sam and Dean finally realize the culprit is none other than their friendly admitting nurse from the top of the hour, who also secretly infected them with The Crazies to make their BRAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNS taste that much more delicious when she eventually got around to sucking them out of their heads through that nifty retractable straw she keeps hidden in her wrist. Tussling ensues, and the wraith bites it, and Sam and Dean escape the resultant asylum lockdown to indulge in a whiny chick-flick moment over at the rain-streaked Impala before motoring on off towards their next adventure.
Meanwhile, Capital-D Death's been working his way through all of Missouri's 5,987,580 residents since last we saw him before the holidays, but nobody noticed. Go figure.
Rattle, Rattle THEN! Way back before Thanksgiving, Dashing El Deano decided to respond to a snarling Scientological Hellhound menace by shooting one of them in its invisible head, and The Harvelle Girls had to suffer for it. Stupid Dean. Even earlier than that, Desperate El Deano announced to Darling Sammy and the audience at large that Our Intrepid Heroes are, in fact, insane. Neither Darling Sammy nor the audience at large disputed this claim, so Demented El Deano proceeded to shoot Lucifer in the face with The Fucking Colt That Can Kill Anything Except When It Usually Can't, with results both unsatisfying and deeply, depressingly predictable. Lucifer, of course, responded to this particular transgression by pimp-smacking Deluded El Deano end over stumpy little bow-legged end into a tree, then proceeded to compliment Darling Sammy on the latter's long-suppressed rage issues. And then Lucifer raised Capital-D Death from the depths of Hell to lay waste to Missouri, but nobody cared about that because, you know, Missouri, which pimp-smacks us all end over Death-defying end into the...
...Rattle, Rattle NOW! The camera fades up on an institutional facility the just-appearing title card identifies as the "Glenwood Springs Psychiatric Hospital" in Ketchum, Oklahoma. After allowing us all a moment to examine the stately and fog-enshrouded grounds for any suspicious paranormal activity, the camera hops inside to land upon the confidential patient file for one "Susan Fletcher," who was apparently confined to the asylum after suffering a psychotic episode during which she set fire to the family home, thereby managing to incinerate her hapless seven-year-old son, and yes, I'm positive the character's last name is meant to evoke that of a certain Academy Award-winning actress. Thanks for asking. "You'll pardon me, I'm sure!" shrieks Raoul The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon, wantonly interrupting me at this crucial juncture in tonight's presentation. "But I do not recall asking you anything!" I wasn't talking to you, Raoul. "Really?!" Really. "Well!" Now be a dear and keep that rodent-inhaling maw of yours shut for the next couple of minutes, because I really want to see this pathetic whackjob off herself already. "Oh, my!" Raoul shrieks again, pleasantly surprised by my heedless dropping of spoilers for a change. "Will it be gruesome!?" I'm certain it shall, my scaly friend. "Then, by all means! Do continue!" Thanks. I will.
"The nurses tell me you're not taking your medication," the funny farm's head shrink opens, his tone both subtly condescending and mildly accusatory. "The pills make me sleepy, but I can't--" shame-faced Sue attempts to explain, defensively crossing her arms while twisting her withered lips into a variety of amusing crazypants shapes before whispering, "If I sleep, it'll come!" "You mean the monster," Head Shrink sighs, having apparently heard all of this addle-brained nonsense several hundred times before. "It killed Annie!" the kiddie-incinerating nutbag protests, but alas! Her protestations are all for naught, for the good doctor simply reminds her of the fact that she's kee-raaayzee! and that, therefore, her severely shattered mind will often play tricks on her. As it does now, in fact, when she spots the nonexistent specter of her unfortunately uncrispified rugrat lurking off to the good doctor's right with a hellish smirk on its smug little preadolescent face, and would it have killed this show to have the nonexistent spectral brat materialize with a couple of strategically placed third-degree burns smoldering all over his body? "I think not!" shrieks Raoul, as sorely disappointed with this unfortunate development as yours truly, and Raoul? "Yes?!" Gruesome suicide. "Oh, my, yes! Quieting down now over here, I'm sure!" Excellent.