A cool breeze carried the scent of damp earth and decay through the night air. Somewhere inside, a floorboard creaked.

Sam Winchester moved first, his boots careful on the warped planks. Dean followed a beat behind, hand resting on the pistol tucked into his jacket.

Sam clicked on his flashlight, sweeping the beam across a living room frozen in time—overturned furniture, a television set with a shattered screen, yellowed newspapers scattered across the floor.

He stepped deeper in, his shadow stretching across the wall. The beam cut through another doorway, into what might have been a kitchen.

That's when it caught something.

For a long, tense second, neither moved.

Then Sam's beam lifted, catching the face behind the gun.

He dropped his arms with a heavy sigh.