Fairy lights—orange, red, green, blue—were strung haphazardly across the war room ceiling, sagging in the middle where Dean had clearly just tossed them up and hoped for the best.

A lopsided tree stood in the corner, shedding needles onto a pile of old newspapers. Tinsel dripped from its branches like tinsel was supposed to, but the angel on top was leaning at a forty-five degree angle, one wing bent and her halo dangling by a thread.