Later that afternoon, the Impala's arrived at Stabby Granny's gingerbread cottage, and the boys trample the entirely unsecured crime scene to wave their EMF reader around the curtains and such until the thing goes, "VVWOOORP!" They realize they must be dealing with a ghost, and Sam further realizes what the audience already knows: For whatever reason, the ghost is forcing people to reenact the grimmest of fairy tales in real life. Dean wearily understands this theory will involve more than a bit of research, and we quickly find him trudging dejectedly from a central municipal library that is not in Chautauqua County to reveal he "found the usual amount of childhood deaths for a town this size," but none of them involved foul little Satanic creatures who happen to resemble Snow White. Meanwhile, Sam's been conducting a little research himself, deploying his mad Googling skillz to dig up Lilian Bailey, "a British medium from the 1930s" "who'd go into these unconscious states where her thoughts and actions were completely controlled by spirits," which sounds an awful lot like Whoopi Goldberg in Ghost, and the less said about that, the better, I suppose. They natter at each other about the implications of all of this before Dean eventually concludes, "Fairy tale trances? That's bizarre, even for us." And in a Cleansing Burst Of Synchronicity, no sooner have those words left his mouth than Our Intrepid Heroes stumble across The Frog Prince, who offers his most riveting performance of the evening while belching at their feet. As Dean swears never to kiss a frog no matter how dire their situation might become, or whatever, Eagle-Eyed Action Sammy spots a pumpkin plonked down on a porch across the way along with the expected passel of mice practically dancing around the damn thing, for we've now entered the Cinderella portion of this evening's festivities. And when Sam draws Dean's attention to this fact, Dean calls his brother a faggot. Isn't Dean the most, to say the least? "The very least!" Raoul shrieks. "And those silly little women you call 'Deangirls' defended him anyway?!" But of course, my scaly friend. Anything less than a full-throated and rabid defense of the stumpy little bow-legged midget, no matter how odious he's become this season, would amount to being MEAN TO DEAN, and we can't be having that, now can we? "..." Well? "..." Come on, spit it out. "Those INFANTILE ASSHOLES!" Raoul, I am absolutely shocked and appalled with your language. Then again, don't you feel better? "Much!" Let's continue, then shall we? "By all means!"