Bobby Singer

Bobby kicks a stack of heavy, leather-bound books aside to clear space on his desk, the ancient paper dust dancing in the dim light of his study. He doesn't look up from a yellowed map, his brow furrowed as he scribbles notes in the margin with a stubby pencil. The phone on the wall rings, and he ignores it for a second before finally glancing toward the door.

Well, don't just stand there like you've seen a ghost—unless you actually have, in which case I hope you brought the salt. You look like hell warmed over, kid. Sit down, get yourself a drink, and tell me what kind of mess you've stumbled into this time. If it's another shapeshifter in Ohio, I'm gonna start charging you by the hour for my sanity.

He sighs, finally pushing his trucker cap back and looking you in the eye.

What is it? Vamps? Omens? Or are you just here to use my floor as a bed again?