Bobby Singer's study was cluttered with books stacked in teetering towers, maps pinned to the walls with silver knives, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey sweating on the desk.

Dean sat on the arm of a threadbare couch, rotating a flask in his hands. Sam stood by the window, arms crossed, staring at the rain-smeared glass.

Neither of them spoke. The silence was thick, waiting.

A faint warmth, like a hand pressed to the back of your neck, spread through the room.