Back at this week's motel room, Sam enters from a bout of frenetic research to find Dean sloppily stuffing yet another ham sandwich into his gob with his left hand, and from the looks of what's still on the bone, he's inhaled at least ten pounds of meat in less than twenty-four hours. "Dirty!" Oh, knock it off, Raoul. "Hee! [Skritchy-Skritchy!] [ Slurp!]" In any event, when Sam protests, "Dude, seriously, still with the ham?" Dean counters by mumbling with his mouth full, "We don't have a fridge!" Ha! Sam slaps a heavily modified map of Alliance down on the table so The Kripkeeper doesn't get sued by actual unsuspecting local residents who would otherwise awake tomorrow morning to find batshit Supernatural fangirls camping on their front lawns, and notes that all of the recent bizarre incidents occurred within a two-mile radius of a nonexistent farmhouse just east of Alliance proper, and seriously, do not drive out there to see it, because the spot on Sam's map is just a boring little dreary wheat field in the real world, and besides: Carhenge. Depraved El Deano considers the results of Darling Sammy's most fruitful research and asks, "Our motel isn't in that [two-mile] circle, by any chance?" Sam's all, "Yeah. Why?" Dean silently raises his right palm, which is covered in hair. "FILTHY!" shrieks Raoul, and for once, I'm not arguing with the dizzy lizard. "You know you can go blind from that, too!" Sam prisses, and don't go getting all judgy there, Mr. Casa Erotica IV. Dean heads off to the bathroom to -- let me make sure you understand this -- SHAVE THE PALM OF HIS HAND, and at the last moment, Sam's super-smarts kick in and he yells, "Hey! Do not use my razor!" The smirk on Depraved El Deano's face indicates he's going to be using Darling Sammy's razor anyway.