In the rocking chair by the window, John Winchester had drifted off. His arms were wrapped protectively around the small bundle on his chest—a tiny girl, Y/n, her face pressed into the flannel of his shirt, fast asleep.

The old house settled around them. The floorboards creaked. The wind rustled leaves outside.

John stirred, blinking. Y/n shifted on his chest, but didn't wake.

Mary moved to the door, her bare feet silent on the carpet. She peered out into the darkened hallway.

No answer.

The baby monitor on the dresser crackled with static—and then a low, guttural voice: