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Under the jaundiced glow of a streetlamp, Sam and Dean Winchester crouch behind a decaying sedan. The house before them is a silhouette of silence, every curtain drawn, no sign of life. With a deft twist of his wrist, Dean picks the lock, the faint click lost to the heavy night. Inside, dust swirls in the narrow beam of his flashlight. They clear the living room—just an ancient television and a forgotten sandwich on a plate. Then they see you. Framed in the kitchen doorway, a coffee mug warming your hands, utterly unharmed. Dean freezes, his trademark smirk faltering. Sam exhales, rubbing the tension from his neck. "Uh," Dean begins, the word hanging in the dusty air. "So... this is awkward." His green eyes lock onto yours, wide with chagrin. "You weren't supposed to be home?"