They were in Hicksville, Nowhere County, when Dean decided it was safe to use the IDs that Sam had prepared. The kid had been snickering at them ever since he'd made them, and Dean, awesome big brother that he was, wasn't averse to letting Sam have some fun. Just as long as it wasn't at his, Dean's, expense.

"Sheriff?"

Dean was letting Sam take the lead on this, so it was Sam showing his ID.

"I'm Agent Michael Foucault. FBI. This is my partner …"

The sheriff, typical small-town guy, looked like he'd been living on doughnuts and cheeseburgers, red-faced, red-necked, bleary-eyed, interrupted, slapping his hand down on his desk.

"Michael Foucault, you say? Well, if that doesn't beat the band!"

"It does?" Sam was getting his patented deer-in-the-headlights look.

"Well, yeah. I've just been rereading my Michel Foucault. And here you are – Michael Foucault! You must have read your namesake's stuff?"

He pulled out a battered paperback, the sight of which made Sam pale.

"The History of Sexuality? Yeah, I've read it."

"Changed my life, this book. All that stuff about the scientia sexualis? Brilliant. Just brilliant. And the next two volumes? Just amazing."

"Uh huh. It was a real pity he died before he wrote more." Sammy was obviously drowning.

Time for big brother to step in.

"So, Sheriff? About these disappearances?"

Outside, Dean turned on his idiot brother. "So, this Foucault guy? Famous?"

"Well, yeah, if you're doing cultural studies." Sam was looking completely bemused. "You'd never heard of him, right?"

"No, but that sheriff obviously had. Gonna be safe to keep using that ID?"

"We can't change it now," Sam said. "Plus, what are the chances of anyone else here reading Foucault?"

Pretty high, as it happened. The doctor's favourite book was Madness and Civilisation; the preacher had been overwhelmed by Discipline and Punish. By the time they hit the town's only diner, Dean was taking the lead.

"Excuse me, ma'am," he gave his most charming smile to the forty-something waitress. "I'm agent Luke Irigaray, FBI …"

"You don't say? Any relation to Luce Irigaray?"

"Not that I'm aware of, ma'am."

"No, of course not. But she's one incredible thinker. Her The Sex Which Is Not One? Wow!"

"Would you excuse me for a moment?" Dean asked. "Agent, would you come with me?"

Outside he turned on Sam. "You named me after a chick?"

"I named you after a French psychoanalytic and cultural theorist."

"You named me after a French psychoanalytic and cultural theorist chick. What the hell were you thinking?"

Sam shrugged. "I thought it'd be fun. How'd I know that this town had the reading habits of a cultural studies class?"

"Seriously, dude," Dean said, "you suck at this."

In the next town agents Ford and Hamill were on the case.