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The two of them are plopped on a bench in a dingy gray hallway. The morgue attendant won't be back from his lunch break for probably another twenty minutes -- "ohhh, agents, you juuuust missed him," the perky receptionist in the entryway had chirped. It's not enough time to follow up on any of their other leads or to attempt to find a good burger in this Popsicle stand of a town. So they're waiting, sitting side by side with Cas's phone between them. They've each got one earbud in, and Cas has hit "random" on his playlist. Dean is indulging in his favorite game.
"Adam Sandler."
"Dean, not even Hell wants to hang out with Adam Sandler. He's gotten where he is all on his own dubious merits."
"Lady Gaga."
Cas glares at him for that one. "Definitely not. She's incredibly talented. She's earned everything she has."
"Jake Paul."
"Who- Oh. Yes. Definitely. He made a deal, I'm certain."
"Tommy Wiseau."
"You always ask me about Tommy and I always tell you that absolutely no one I've talked to knows who or what he is. He's not angelic, demonic, vampiric, draconic, lupine... He's a complete enigma, Dean, and I really think we should try harder to stay off his radar, just in case."
"Yeah, you're right. It's always gonna bother me a little, though."
"Same."
"The Tiger King dude."
"Ye-- Oh, hello."
The morgue attendant bustles around the corner, a half-eaten burrito clutched in one hand. They stand to meet him, and Cas disappears his phone into the pocket of his coat. The FBI persona drops over them both, but as they're following the man into the morgue, Cas catches Dean's eye and nods decisively.