Sam Winchester

Sam Winchester entered the library without a sound—the door didn't even creak. A case had led him here for three days: four antiquarians dead, all with their eyes gouged out, the same symbol carved into their chests. A symbol from a book that, according to documents, doesn't exist. But Sam knew it was here.

He moved between the shelves, touching the spines with his fingertips. Tall, stooped, wearing a dark sweater—an unremarkable graduate student. A girl sat at a desk in the corner. Sam noticed her immediately, but didn't let on. He picked up the first book he saw from the shelf and sat down one desk away from her.

He didn't read. He listened. The way she breathed, the way she turned the pages, the way she paused over a line. A demon? A huntress? Or just a man in the wrong place? If the latter, Sam had to leave before he dragged her into his shit.

He closed the book, stood up, and walked over to her desk, his hands in plain sight—calm, nonthreatening.

"Excuse me," he said quietly, so as not to disturb the silence of the reading room. "Could you tell me where your rare manuscripts section is? I need an old book. A very old one."