Box Butte General Hospital, the following morning. Sam's just finishing up interviewing last night's dad, who's lying in bed with his jaws swollen out to Jesus. Out in the hall, Dean's just finishing up an interview of his own with perky young Nurse Fremont, and the two boys gather together for a processing summit. With regard to the case of last night's dad, whatever it was that attacked him made it through bolted doors and windows without triggering the house's alarm system, and furthermore, "it left 32 quarters underneath his pillow, one for each tooth." Dean will see Sam's Hairy Fairy and raise him a couple of urban legends: There are two kids up in the pediatrics unit with stomach ulcers they claim they developed after mixing Pop Rocks and Coke, plus another guy whose "face froze that way." Sam's all, "What way?" so Dean demonstrates thusly: GLAAARRARAAAGH. Yes, I'm cheating by using a screencap, but seriously, how the hell am I supposed to describe that face? "As asinine, perhaps?!" Drink your juice, Raoul. "Thanks! [Slurp!] [Skritchy-Skritchy!]" Dean puts a halt to the torture of The Ducky Lips and allows his eyes to settle back into place before elaborating, "He, uh, held it too long, and it stuck. They're flying out a plastic surgeon." Hee. Sam looks adorably freaked out and perplexed by Dean's entire explanation, then shakes himself out to apply some of his super-smarts to the situation. Unfortunately, his super-smarts fail him, so the two are left to wander through the hospital hallways, with Dean off-handedly remembering he believed in Sea-Monkeys back when he was six years old, and proposing that recent events in Alliance appear to have similar roots: "The Tooth Fairy, the Pop Rocks and Coke, the joy buzzer that shocks you -- they're all lies that kids believe." Sam rolls his eyes when he realizes that anything that could warp reality in such a fashion must have the powers of a god, specifically The Trickster. "With the sense of humor of a nine-year-old," Dean adds. "Or you," Sam bitchfaces. Heh.
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.