Later that evening, Dean contemplatively scrolls through The Greybull Gazette's extensive online archives back at The Broken Saddle Motel, focusing on one story in particular until Sam bursts through the room's door with further details on this past week's other mysterious survivor. "That cancer survivor was clinically dead," Sam explains, almost angry about it all, what with the bitchface with which he delivers the news. "His wife pulled the plug, and now he's taking her out for their twentieth anniversary." Once again, there's no sign of a deal, so the boys are once more at a loss until Dean off-handedly remarks that "these souls just ain't gettin' dragged into the light." Sam thinks that one through for a bit before realizing, "Maybe because there's no one around to carry them." "Whaddya mean?" Dean slurs. "Reapers," Sam reminds his brother. "That's what they do, right? Schlep souls?" "So if Death ain't in town..." Sam begins. "...then nobody's dyin'," Dean finishes, and they're getting awfully folksy this week with the dropped Gs and the ain'ts and the don't-wanna-be-holdin'-you-back-or-nothin's and whatnot, aren't they? "They are, and it is most unsettling indeed!" shrieks Raoul, and thanks for backing me up, friend of friends. "Not a problem, I'm sure!" In any event, Dean initially scoffs at the very idea of a Reaper going on strike, or whatever, but Sam insists they investigate the possibility, starting by attempting to contact the subject of that news article Dean'd been so intently examining at the top of the scene. You see, the last confirmed death in Greybull occurred ten days ago, when a preadolescent named "Cole Griffith" unexpectedly dropped, and Sam reasons that the kid might have seen something relevant. And how are they to interview a dead nine-year-old, I hear you ask? "Yes! How!?"

By conducting a séance on top of his bitterly cold and snowy nighttime grave, of course. "Oh, phooey!" Raoul pouts, once more feeling cheated. "I could have guessed that!" And yet you didn't, my scaly friend, but no matter, for we've already joined Our Intrepid Heroes atop Young Cole's grave, and oops. According to his headstone, Cole Griffith was born in 1997, so he's eleven, not nine. My bad. Then again, I'm lousy at judging kid's ages, so deal. In any event, Sam's spread a festive, pentagram-bedecked tablecloth across the grave, decorated said pentagram with five gaily lit Tahitian Tiare candles from Pier One, and is now filling various shiny silver bowls with herbs and whatnot while Dean stands to one side, riffling through Sucky John's demonic day planner in search of the appropriate spell, and it's just like Indolent El Deano to let his brother do all the work. By the way, looking at their gloved hands and their many-layered outfits and their steaming breath and all that damn snow on the ground is making me wish I'd taken Raoul up on his offer of a Snuggie for myself. "You snooze, you lose!" Raoul uncharacteristically cackles from deep within the comforting confines of his super-soft luxurious fleece with its roomy, oversized sleeves, and you'd better watch the tone, missy. "Hee!"