The night rolled in in an unmemorable fashion, but then again that should have set off the alarms right at the get-go. Winchesters don’t get unmemorable. And as it turned out, tonight would be anything but forgettable.

Congested gray skies holding the promise of winter rain stretched wide over Kimball, Nebraska, a nothing town in a nothing state that had nothing to offer the world unless you really enjoyed livestock and cornstalks—it didn’t even have the God damn haunting they had gotten word off and traveled six hours to check out. The grass in front of the motel was bright yellow and crunchy, there was a hick and a hooker bumping uglies in the next room to the tune of a cat being skinned alive, there actually was a skinned animal decomposing fifty feet from the motel’s dumpster, and the free internet the motel boasted on the obnoxious neon green sign out front left much (everything) to be desired.

Dean laid stretched out on his motel bed, stripped down to his white flamingo shorts and the worn-soft Led Zepplin t-shirt with the holes in the armpits that he refused to get rid of, flipping through the channels of the ancient TV even though he knew there was nothing on. His thumb popped audibly every time he hit the button, broken one too many times and finally sticking up for itself, but Dean ignored it.

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