The Salty Siren was the kind of bar that time forgot—or chose to ignore. Wood-paneled walls stained with decades of cigarette smoke, a jukebox playing something twangy and sad, and exactly three customers scattered like afterthoughts.

Dean Winchester pushed through the door first, the bells jangling overhead announcing his arrival like a herald. Sam followed, ducking slightly under the frame, his eyes already scanning the room with that habitual hunter's vigilance.