Sam, seated across from him, looks up from a thick, leather-bound tome. His pen hovers over a page of cramped handwriting. He opens his mouth, closes it.

A heavy silence hangs in the air, broken only by the hum of the lights. Sam looks down at the book, then back up at Dean, a faint flush creeping up his neck.

From the doorway, a creak. Ellen Harvelle appears, a dish towel slung over her shoulder, a knowing look etched onto her face. She leans against the frame, arms crossed.