Doomed Janet pulls herself upright for a moment, spastically hacking up yet more blood from somewhere deep in her throat, and the camera leaps from her tortured form just in time to land upon the brunette jamming her athame into her own bloodied toothbrush with a violence. At that moment, the bathroom door quietly unlocks itself and swings open, and Poor Paul stands gape-faced in horror when it swings far enough to reveal his wife, sprawled across the marble tile with half of her bodily fluids fanning out from her now thoroughly dead (and thoroughly de-toothed) mouth. Back at the sink, one of Dead Janet's incisors surfs across copious amounts of grue to launch itself into the METAL TEETH CHOMP!
RAAAWWWR! "Eeeeeeeeeeeee!" shrieks Raoul, who has become more forgiving of this season's title card since they so fabulously altered it for the Christmas special. "However!" Raoul hastens to remind me. "I still find last season's far superior!" You and everyone else, my scaly friend.
"She was so scared," Poor Paul sighs, reliving The Night In Question for the benefit of the LYING LIARS WHO LIE, here masquerading as investigators from The Centers For Disease Control. While The Ginormotron snoopily noses his fifteen-foot frame through the master suite's now-spotless bathroom, Poor Paul continues, "I couldn't help -- I couldn't do anything to stop it." "You wouldn't have had to," Raoul interrupts, "if you hadn't cheated on her glamorously gorgeous behind in the first place!" and dude! Spoiler! "Oh, like anyone reading this doesn't already know, you silly little man!" Raoul chides as he flaps a dismissive and impressively clawed paw directly in my face. "Now carry on with your little story already so we can get to the maggots! Whee!" I swear to God, Raoul. One of these days...
In any event, as Dashing El Deano babbles about viruses and disease trajectories and whatnot, Darling Sammy fumbles through various feminine hygiene products in the can until he pulls an ominous-looking cloth bag out from beneath the sink, and his remarkably broad-shouldered self reemerges into the bedroom proper just as Philandering Paul's vaguely insisting that no one could possibly want to harm his poor, cheated-on, and recently deceased wife. In fact, "everyone loved" her, or so he stresses, but something in the tone of his faltering voice leads Our Intrepid Heroes to exchange Looks Fraught With Significance. Dean thanks the worthless man-slut for the latter's time, and the boys head out into the rain to yammer about Philandering Paul's suspicious demeanor while also examining the "hex bag" Darling Sammy found in the bathroom. "Awwww, gross," Dean mopes, picking open the bag to reveal the bird bones and rabbit's teeth that comprise its contents. Part of the wrapping, incidentally, is likely cut from a piece of cloth Dead Janet owned, just in case you're the sort of bizarre freak who wants to try this at home. "So we're thinking witch?" Dean guesses. "Yep," Sam basically agrees as the two settle into the Impala's front seat with a matched pair of weary grunts. After a beat, Dean pivots to face Sam and announce quite sincerely, "I hate witches -- always spewing their bodily fluids everywhere? It's downright unsanitary!" Try recapping it for six...nah, too easy. "That's never stopped you before!" Cram it, Raoul. "There's no call to get snippy, I'm sure!"