The camera pans across a waiting room full of sniffling, sneezing, rheumy-eyed flu victims hacking away into their sleeves, and it lingers just a moment on last week's convenience store clerk before carrying on to take in the just-arriving LYING LIARS WHO LIE, who are here posing as agents from The Centers For Disease Control. They're both sporting surgical masks, by the way, which are completely useless against the flu, but they do allow Dean to joke that he looks like a dead child molester, so that's nice. "I'm glad the CDC is here," the overcrowded emergency room's attending physician allows, "but what we really need is vaccine." Hmmm. Would that be the same vaccine that turned White Coat One into a Croatoan rage monkey, perhaps? "I think you're right!" Only time will tell, I suppose. In any event, Darling Sammy casually shifts the topic of conversation over to the strain of Mexican influenza afflicting the patients surrounding them, wondering if the good doctor's noticed anything unusual about this particular outbreak, like aggressive behavioral changes in any of the ill. "Excuse me?" the good doctor squints. "Have the flu victims shown any homicidal tendencies?" Dean specifies. The good doctor stares at them like they've just farted in her hair. "Symptomatically speaking," she lectures, "we're looking at a relatively mild case of swine flu, here -- probably add up to a miserable week off of work, that's about it." "So, nothing unusual?" Dean presses. "Well," the good doctor admits, "a day and a half ago, we didn't have a single case, and now we're looking at over seventy." "It's the infectious equivalent of a briefcase bomb," she continues, "so, yeah, I might call that a little unusual." The boys mutter amongst themselves about some statues that coincidentally started weeping a day and a half ago, then smilingly take their leave. Well, I'm assuming they're smiling, what with the pointless surgical masks blocking my view and all.

Moments later, the Impala's photogenically tearing up a length of foggy backwoods blacktop somewhere remote while the boys confer with Bobby via cell. Neither Sam nor Dean can figure out why Pestilence is "dealing up soft-serve like swine flu when he's got the Croatoan virus up his sleeve," but Bobby gripes that that's not important right now, because what is important is the fact that Pestilence has hit at least four towns since he surfaced last week, and Our Intrepid Heroes "are still eating his dust." Or, you know, his mucus trail. Your choice. "I'll go with the mucus! Whee!" That doesn't surprise me in the least, you adorably sick little lizard. "Hee!" Anyway, as there's yet no discernable pattern to Pestilence's wanderings, Bobby suggests the boys just keep heading east. "East?" the two blurt in disbelieving unison before Dean points out, "We're in west Nevada -- 'east' is practically all there is." Bobby rather unhelpfully replies, "Well, you better get to driving!" and rings off, leaving Sam and Dean to grumble at each other until...Crossroads Boss Crowley magically materializes in Metallicar's back seat! DUN! Dean spins the car into a squealing, multiple-lane-hogging halt as Deluxe Action Sammy With Super-Special Glow-In-The-Dark Guest-Star Stabby-Hands whips out The Knife That Can Kill Anything Except When It Usually Can't and rams it into...the Impala's vinyl seat cushions! D'OH! "He's gone!" Deluxe Action Sammy With Super-Special Glow-In-The-Dark Guest-Star Missing Hands pants. Oh, but not for long, of course, for no sooner has Sammy blurted that out than Crossroads Boss Crowley raps at the passenger-side window to offer, "Fancy a fag and a chat?" "Homophobe!" shrieks Raoul, and Raoul, sweetie, Crowley's English. "So?!" So when he says "fag," he means "cigarette." "Oh! Oh! My profuse apologies for the silly misunderstanding, I'm sure!" Not to worry, friend of friends. Now, shall we join the fellows as they yammer away at each other for the next fifteen minutes out there in the middle of nowhere? "Why not!?" Why not, indeed.