Back inside Plucky's proper, Our Intrepid Heroes arrive just in time to witness a bit of conciliatory business between Harried Libby and her wicked little shit of a son that I will not be bothering to transcribe, after which Dean notices that the placemat the wicked little shit had been doodling upon is now missing. By now understanding that -- as Dean more or less puts it -- "bitchy [parents] plus sad kid plus placemat with something nuts written on it equals wacky corpse," Our Intrepid Heroes once again decide to split up, with Sam chasing after Harried Libby and her evil spawn "just to be safe" while Dean investigates the Plucky subbasement, alone. This should work out well for them. Doesn't it always?

Subbasement. Dashing El Deano expertly picks the lock on the door and proceeds to deploy a little flashlight-fu until he stumbles across a flaming brazier set atop a foul-looking sigil painted on the concrete floor. "Now, that's perfectly normal," Dean announces to no one in particular, after which he examines a series of childish drawings tacked to one of the walls, evidently by Howie The Ginger-Haired Wonder Weenie if that photograph of the dork in question in happier and far-younger times is anything to go by. As a precaution, Dean draws his trusty pearl-handled automatic and pushes further into the subbasement's gloom until he reaches a makeshift altar, upon which is opened some ancient tome filled with ominous squiggles, beneath which lies the wicked little shit's purloined placemat. "Drop it," calls out a voice from somewhere behind him, and Dean turns to find a wild-eyed Howie The Ginger-Haired Wonder Weenie leveling a trusty little revolver of his own at Dean's head. For whatever stupid reason, Dean does not immediately shoot the goopy-eyed shithead in the face, and instead stoops to set his automatic on the floor before rising to wonder, basically, what gives, and Jesus H. Motherfucking Christ on a stick -- they're gonna try to talk each other to death, aren't they? God, I hate this show.