Out in the parking lot, Sam wonders, "What kind of thing likes virgins and gold?" Dean's answer -- "P. Diddy" -- is of no use to anyone, so we'll be skipping ahead to the point where they've returned to This Week's Motel Room to process through recent events. Dean busies himself by tacking various pieces of paper to a map on the wall while Sam once again deploys his mad Googling skillz, but alas! Every time he searches for "fire, claws, flying, stealing virgins, and gold," he ends up on World Of Warcraft fansites. Neither Dean nor I have any idea what that means, so Sam spells it out for us: "Dragons." Dean pops a mostly unsurprised eyebrow at this and quickly gets on the phone with Bobby for a long-distance consult. Unfortunately, Bobby's of little use, as he's under the mistaken impression that dragons don't exist, so Dean asks him to check around, and after the two surreptitiously natter for a bit about Reensouled Sammy's supposedly fragile mental state, Dean ends the call.
Several hours later, Our Intrepid Heroes are still at it, only this time it's Dean glued to the laptop with the Internet research while Sam perches on one of the beds, flipping through their worthless bastard of a so-called father's demonic dayplanner. Dean, suddenly realizing that Sucky John's entries might trigger a catastrophic flood of memories in little Sam's brittle brain, snaps shut the computer and rather loudly insists that their worthless bastard of a so-called father never fought dragons, all in an ultimately futile attempt to drag Sam away from the dayplanner. "Did we hunt a Skinwalker lately?" Sam asks, having of course landed upon that particular monster's entry. "Nope," Dean LIES, but Sam persists in his line of questioning, because he's got the strangest sense of "déjà vu, or something," so it's probably a very good thing that Bobby's chosen this very moment to phone back with information of relevance to this evening's episode. Seems Bobby's acquainted with a certain "Doctor Visyak," who happens to be a professor of Medieval studies at "S.F.U.," and no sooner has he shared this information with Dean than Dean's lunging for his jacket to motor on down to San Francisco. Sam, naturally, is to remain in Portland to track down Raoul's temporary lair, which "lore" indicates he should find in a cave somewhere, right?
Wrong! Raoul's temporary lair for this evening is actually a tastefully appointed spa set up in a flatteringly lit stretch of Portland's reclaimed underground tunnel system. It's a daring bit of industrial-inflected interior design, if I do say so myself, what with the tranquil, mossy-green concrete walls emitting subtle and soothing streams of trickling water whilst Raoul's lucky unfortunates lounge in decadently pampered luxury amidst pore-cleansing clouds of herbal-infused steam. "Hel-loooooooo, my pretties!" Raoul shrieks as he enters the chamber with yet another of his recruits, this yet another brunette with an absolutely traumatic penchant for cotton peignoirs. "Are we enjoying ourselves, hmmmm?!" The assembled ladies are positively preverbal with delight, so Raoul kindly leaves them to it in favor of getting the new girl settled in, escorting her over to a sleek little isolation tank so she might start things off with a relaxing soak. And, after ensuring she's safely ensconced within the thing, the dear, dizzy lizard gifts the others present with a series of precious air-kisses before toddling off into the next METAL TEETH CHOMP!, likely in search of yet another fashion don't in dire need of his assistance. I don't know about you, but I'm starting to get jealous.