Lloyd's Bar, a run-down little shack of a place standing on one corner of a narrow, gravel-paved crossroads in the middle of nowhere. It's never made clear that it's the same place that saw Robert Johnson's last performance at the top of the hour, but I think we're meant to assume so. Metallicar grumbles up, and the boys disembark to examine their surroundings. Dean spots groups of small yellow flowers planted strategically on all four corners, and brings them to Sam's attention. "That's weird," he notes, bow-leggedly ambling over to a cluster of the things. "Yarrow flowers?" Sam eyebrows. "Used for certain rituals, aren't they?" Dean wonders. "Yeah," Sam confirms, "summoning rituals." The boys bang their heads together and realize that two people suddenly achieving success ten years ago after hanging out in a bar conveniently located next to a yarrow-bedecked crossroads likely means that something demonic's afoot. "DUH!" Raoul shrieks. Dean paces over to the crossroad's center and, after a quick cut, begins shoveling out a small hole. The spade eventually clangs against something, so Our Intrepid Heroes get down on their knees to paw through the remaining gravel, unearthing a small tin box in the process. Dean flips the lid open to find a variety of disgusting tools of the voodoo trade, including a vial of graveyard dirt and the bones of a black cat. The boys determine it's all "serious spell work" and "deep-South hoodoo stuff" put in place so certain people might make deals with a devil at the crossroads. "That always ends good," Dean snorts. "They're seeing hellhounds," Sam realizes. "Demonic pit bulls." "And whoever this demon is," Dean adds, "it's back, and it's collecting, and that doctor lady? Wherever she's running, she ain't running fast enough." I'd give that a DUN!, but WE KNOW THAT ALREADY.