They probably would've wound up kicking around Fall River, waiting for the dead bodies to rack up, if not for some newspaper editor's idea of a snappy headline: 'Gypsy Moth Plague of Biblical Proportions'.
"Lead?" Dean suggests, jogging Sam's elbow at just the right moment for him to inhale his coffee instead of drinking it. While everone's distracted by Sam's coughing extravaganza, Dean sleight-of-hand procures his own copy of the paper.
"Probably just some cyclical thing." Once he can breathe again, Sam snags the paper from Dean and flips to the back for the part of the article containing actual details. "Yeah--here's a list of past cases." He slides it back over so Dean can take a look. "It's just been a couple of decades since the last one." But Dean is engrossed in what looks like the police blotter from the lone section of the paper he'd managed to retain, so it's Sam's turn to ask, "Lead?"
"Dunno yet." Dean lays his section of the paper down on top of Sam's. "Check it out--Wells State Park is smack in the middle of the madness."
"So, last night a mysterious fire burned a camper to the ground--with 5 people inside. No signs they even tried to get out, and no one in the surrounding campsites saw or heard anything until everything was up in flames."
"Accidents do happen, Dean." But Sam starts reading the blurb--it's not really long enough to qualify as an article--in question.
"Just like people really are mauled to death by wildlife?" Dean spreads his hands, eyebrows up in a show of skepiticism. "Just finished buffing the Impala's new paint job from our last milk-run."
"Okay, you kind of have a point there," Sam admits, "but what about Amara? I thought you wanted to go canvassing the neighborhood."
"Sturbridge is a two-hour drive, tops. If it's nothing, we can be back here before dinner time."