Harvelle's. Over Jo's weak protests, Ellen sends her daughter to the cooler to fetch another case of beer while she herself has it out with Our Dear Boys. She slaps Ash's Andy-related research onto the bar and insists they tell her what gives. Sam's about to offer an honest explanation when Dean snaps, rudely, "It's none of your business!" Ellen locks eyes with Sam for a moment before inhaling sharply and pivoting to give it to Dean with both barrels. "You mind your tongue with me, boy. This isn't just your war, this is war. Something big and bad is coming, and it's coming fast, and their side holds all the cards. Now at best, all we got is us, together. No secrets or half-truths here." "Sigh," Raoul whimpers, smitten. "I think I want to be Ellen when I grow up." Dean throws Sam A Look Fraught With Significance and, in short order, Sammy spills. There's a brief and heated debate over whether Sam and his compatriots are dangerous, with Dean -- in full protective mode -- too eager to insist they're not, while Sam's completely willing to acknowledge the fact that some of them are, in fact, human monsters. Dean pulls the focus off his brother to assure Ellen they've established a pattern, so it should be easy enough to find the others, but ooops! Sam steps in to deliver the rather inconvenient news that Anson Weems and his adoptive family escaped The Great Mommy Immolation Of 1983 entirely unscathed. "So if there are any others like him," Ellen realizes, "there'll be nothing in the system -- no way to track them all down." Sam looks down and examines his nails. Dean gazes at his younger brother and breathes, "And so, who knows how many of them are really out there?" Ellen eyes the two of them with a mix of apprehension and sympathy before calling out to her daughter, who'd unobtrusively returned during the conversation. "Jo, honey? You better break out the whiskey instead." Soundgarden's "Fell On Black Days" cranks up on the soundtrack as Jo yes-ma'ams her way back to the liquor. The shot leaps up to another overhead of Our Intrepid Heroes looking impossibly small before the screen cuts to black.

Next week, we meet Dr. H. H. Holmes. This one better be good.