You'll have to continue wondering, my faithful recapping companion, because Jeff Albertson's viscera remain snugly in place throughout the scene that follows. "Rats!" Yep, Our Intrepid Heroes refrain from slitting Comic Book Guy from groin to sternum even after he accuses them of something positively repugnant known as "hard-core LARPing," and instead choose to have him explain his oversized self. "You're asking questions like the building's haunted," Jeff continues to duh, "like those guys from the books." Dean squints in disbelief as Jeff racks his brain for the series' title. "Supernatural!" he exclaims once it's popped into his head, and when his revelation's met by more puzzled stares from Sam and Dean, he elaborates, "Two guys use fake IDs with rock aliases to hunt down ghosts and demons and vampires?" Sam, deeply unnerved, shoots a wary side-eye at his equally freaked-out brother while Jeff wonders, "What're their names? Steve and Dirk? Sal and Dane?" Hee. Darling Sammy hesitantly offers, "Sam and Dean?" "That's it!" Jeff agrees. "You're saying this is a book?" Dean asks. "Books," Jeff corrects. "It was a series," Jeff continues, and nice use of the past tense in referring to the inevitable, there, but if I let every last bit of the meta in this evening's episode trip me up, I'm never going to get through the goddamned recap, so I'll skim over that one in favor of following Jeff's further explanation. "Didn't sell a lot of copies, though -- kinda had more of an underground cult following." Heh. Jeff lifts his tubby ass from his stool to head to the back of the shop, where he rummages around the bargain bin for a lengthy period of time -- and: Hee! -- before finding the first novella in the set and passing it over to Dean. It's entitled, simply, Supernatural, and it's written by someone named "Carver Edlund," but the best bit is the cover art: An impossibly large and Lurch-like rendition of "Dean" in a black beater, toting a bag of salt in the foreground, as a Fabio-ized "Sam" stands shirtless in the midnight breeze behind him, his sensuous locks flowing backwards from his chiseled face while his below-the-belt bulge threatens to, like, eat the sawed-off shotgun he's got in his hands. It's all so sick and wrong, and yet strangely exciting at the same time. "I agree! [Swoon!]"