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.
Motel Hell. The hellhound on Doctor Sylvia's trail finally tracked her down, and is now snarling and hurling itself at her room's futilely barricaded door. By the way, they never really focus in on the door's fire escape card long enough for me to confirm this, but I'm almost positive this establishment's name is "The Baskerville Motel." Get it? No, seriously, do you get it? Because if you don't, you need to turn off the television set and push yourself away from the fan fiction on Live Journal and read a fucking book already. "Just not that one!" Raoul hastens to caution. "Arthur Conan Doyle makes for a terribly dry slog nowadays." In any event, at least now the room's crimson bordello furnishings make some sort of sense. Now, where was I? Oh, yes: Doctor Doomed busies herself by peeing her pants in the tiny little alcove in which she's hidden herself for the initial phase of the hellhound's attack, and just as suddenly as that attack began, it ends. Doctor Doomed tentatively pushes herself to her feet and hesitantly edges towards the center of the room. Just then, she spins around for whatever reason to scream as the window explodes inward, hurling her onto her back on the carpet as glass shards cascade to the floor around her. The camera scuttles over to take in her panicked form from beneath the shattered window, giving us a hellhound's-eye view of what follows as Doctor Doomed scrambles backwards to wedge herself against the night stand between the two beds, caterwauling all the way. The camera-slash-hellhound lunges forward to dig its invisible claws into her leg, shredding her pants and gouging deep, gory lines in the flesh beneath. Doomed Doctor Sylvia snatches frantically at the crimson bedsheet, which gets dragged away with her flailing body across the motel room's now-bloodstained carpeting into the METAL TEETH CHOMP!