Cue a peaceful morning in your dingy motel room in Jackson, Mississippi. The chipped coffee mug in your hands warms your groggy muscles as you pore over the report of a local teenager’s disappearance, really devoting less than half your attention to the latest case. Dean opens his mouth wide to stuff in another bite of leftover cherry pie. Happy, healthy breakfast, anyone?

The key jiggles in the lock. Enter Sam, in a cheap, pale tank top with damp crescent moons of perspiration. His face was flushed, presumably from running, and he seemed in good spirits, much more awake than everyone else present.

Dean catches his eye, already preparing a snide remark. “Somebody better be chasing you,” he grumbles through a sip of coffee, his silver ring catching the morning sunlight.

Sam’s brow furrows in that adorable puppy-like way, catching on to his older brother’s criticism. “It’s good for you,” he protests lightly, reaching for a motel towel that he hung off the back of a chair.

You watch in amusement as Dean eyes him over, much the way he would a monster he was trying to figure out. “No, not it’s not good for you, look at you. You’re a mess and you stink.”