...Sam's gasping face. He's having another of his visions, you see, linked to the hardware store by the filthy porcelain gas station sink in which he's washing his face at the moment, apparently. Sam heaves his way through the major points again before finally focusing in on the gas station sink for good. He splashes a handful of water onto his face and shuts the tap just as Dean bursts through the door behind him with, "Come on, zip it up!" "Let's hit the...road?" Dean falters once he realizes Sam's practically vomiting from some sort of pain. "What?" Dean asks. Sam squints and shakes and drips right into the METAL TEETH CHOMP!
RAAAWWWR! "I am as unreasonably excited by the new title credits as I was when I first saw them a month ago! Eeeeeeeeeeeee!"
The Impala motors down a dark stretch of road as some cheeseball radio announcer geeks, "Rockin' Nebraska -- your source for the classics All. Night. Long!" Eeek. Still, I suppose it's preferable to farm reports all night long. Not by much, though. "I don't know, man," Dean comes close to whining inside the car. "Why don't we just chill out and think about this?" Sam pissily snaps off the radio and snits, "What's there to think about?" "I just don't know if going to the roadhouse is the smartest idea!" Dean protests. Sam's all, "It's another premonition, and Ash can tell us where it's gonna happen, and besides, we know The Ceiling Demon's involved in it because The Ceiling Demon's always involved in my premonitions, so what the hell is your problem, asshole?" Sam was likely much more polite about all that than I was just there. In any event, Dean reasonably enough argues, "There's gonna be hunters there, and I don't know if going in and announcing that you're some kind of supernatural freak with a dee-monic connection's the best thing, okay?" "So, I'm a freak now?" Sam huffily eyebrows. Dean goes "Ooops!" for a second before clapping a friendly hand on Sam's knee and grinning, "You've always been a freak." With that, he guns the engine. Sam pouts.
Harvelle's, and judging from all of the motorcycles and trucks parked out front, it's a busy night. Inside, Jo's scamming some middle-aged trucker-type at a shooting video game called Ten Point Buck, expertly knocking off each pixellated deer head that pops up into her sights. "Damn, little lady," he grumbles, handing her a crumpled wad of bills, "that was my room money." "Then I guess you're taking a truck nap tonight!" she sasses, spinning away from him. "Oughta check the high scores before you put your money down," Ellen smirks as she saunters over from the bar to hit a button on the machine. Jo's got the top seven spots. "You went and got yourself hustled, Ed!" Ed grimaces. And if I must, I'll mention the fuss kicked up on the boards by Jo's prowess with a video game gun by countering with this: If any of you had challenged me to a Galaga duel at the restaurant I worked in way back when I was waiting tables during college, I'd have smoked each and every one of your asses. There's little to do but play video games during the copious amounts of downtime between the daily rushes. So there.