Static. Then a modern earth hospital corridor. Sam and Dean are looking around, but Trickster himself is nowhere in sight, despite it being his memory. The boys are wearing doctor's coats and attempt to blend in. Hospital staff and patients bustle around the confused brothers.Then Dean spots a familiar figure, a scruffy, handsome doctor.
Oh boy.
What?
It's him.
Who?
It's him, it's Doctor Sexy.
The sexy, scruffy Doctor walks down the hallway, attracting the stares of everyone around him and stops in front of the brothers. He nods at Dean and addresses him.
Doctor.
Dean ducks his head, trying to hide a star-struck smile.
Doctor.
Doctor.
Sam just nods and Dean smacks him, still looking a little star-struck.Doctor.
You want to give me one good reason why you defied my direct order to do the experimental face transplant on Mrs. Biehl?
Dean's expression turns confused and he shares a telling look with Sam.One reason? ... Sure.
Dean looks at the ground before grabbing Doctor Sexy and slamming him up against a wall. The doctor looks surprised, but he's not struggling to get away. You're not Doctor Sexy.
You're crazy.
Really? Because I swore part of what makes Doctor Sexy sexy, is the fact that he wears cowboy boots. Not tennis shoes.
Yeahhhhh. You're not a fan.
It's a guilty pleasure.
Call security.
Yeah, go ahead, pal. See, we know who you are.
A security guard and other hospital staff rush towards the group, but everyone except these three suddenly freeze in place like time has stopped. Doctor Sexy smiles at the clever, clever boys and the face of the handsome doctor transforms and morphs into the familiar face of the Trickster.
You guys are getting better!
Get us the hell out of here.
Or what?
Trickster easily escapes Dean's hold and twists his arm, something that he could have easily done all along, but it wouldn't have been part of the game he was playing with them.
Don't say you have wooden stakes, big guy.
That was you on the police scanner, right? This is a trick.
Hello? Trickster. Come on! I heard you two yahoos were in town. How could I resist?
Where the hell are we?
Like it? It's all homemade. My own sets—
Trickster pauses dramatically and gestures around them.
My own actors...call it my own little idiot box.
How do we get out?
That, my friend, is the sixty-four-dollar question.
Whatever. We just, we need to talk to you. We need your help.
Hm, let me guess. You two muttonheads broke the world, and you want me to sweep up your mess.
Please. Just five minutes. Hear us out.
Sure. Tell you what. Survive the next twenty-four hours, we'll talk.
Survive what?
The game!
What game?
You're in it.
How do we play?
You're playing it.
What are the rules?
Trickster just grins at the two pawns in this game and vanishes in a burst of television-like static. They would learn. Or they'd be dead.