Sam and Dean Winchester had been holed up in the Men of Letters' bunker for several days, scouring through records and documents that had little or no meaning to the hunters. Any account of a creature remotely close the one they were searching for had been hunted and classified and stopped being of use decades ago. It seemed that with each mountain of documents they read through that the task only got more strenuous.
By day five, Dean had become sick of the smell of old parchment and thick dust and threw down the file on top of the pile that had grown dangerously tall and threatened to topple with a slight breeze; which, both fortunately and unfortunately for the brothers, did not sweep through the headquarters. Vaguely, Sam raised his eyes from his stack of reports at the sound of the folder being set down more forcefully than usual. In all truth, he was amazed that his brother had held out so long in a stripper-free environment.
"Do you want to do a run into town?" Sam suggested, spinning his chair around and stretching out his lengthy arms, being rewarded with a relieving crack in each elbow.
"No, I don't want to do a run into town," Dean retorted, "I want to kill something, not just sit around all day, reading things we could have been done with in five minutes if it were on the internet." He pushed his chair back restlessly and rose, taking what was left of his whiskey with him. He downed the remains and looked around for the bottle, only to find that it was empty, much to his despair.
"Just give it another day and then we'll go out," Sam promised, picking up another document and beginning to flick through it. "The Men of Letters have documents that are thousands of years old, there has to be one hunter or member that had encountered a Nephilim." Dean sighed, unconvinced.
The whiskey bottle soared through the air for a moment before finally losing momentum and plunging to the ground. Just before it hit, Sam's hand snaked out and caught it, his eyes barely leaving the document. He shook the bottle to find only disappointing silence in its emptiness. His eyes flickered up to see Dean grabbing his wallet, jacket and car keys and head towards the door.
"I'll be back with more fuel," he said, jogging down the stairs and out of view.
Sam's ears twitched as he heard the metal door of the bunker groan open and then closed and the sound of marching footsteps come up the stairs. The unmistakable, heavy thump of beers and whiskey being placed on the wooden desk finally brought Sam out of his trance of reading.
"Man, today sucks," Dean complained, shrugging off his jacket. "There was this chick at the-"
"Dean, check this out." Sam, interrupted distractedly, beckoning his brother. Interest sparked, Dean strode to Sam's side. The younger hunter pointed to an account in Bobby's worn journal, written in a messy scrawl. Dean carefully picked up the leather book, making sure none of the pages fell out, and began to read.
"01/10/2007
Wyoming
Reported murders near a college in Laramie, Wyoming for the past month. Three attacks, all vics with hearts missing. Arrived Laramie on the 9th. Werewolf attacks all within 3 mile radius of Cromwell College. Searched the street the following night, ran into Keira (contact no. 31) and the werewolf. Eyes with grey light, increased strength and reflexes (shadow?)..."
Dean paused, his eyes flickering to Sam, who looked up from another document as if to say 'I know'. Shaking his head, Dean continued.
"Werewolf unconscious within two hits, finished the job myself. Police report states the death was the work of a serial killer that then went off the grid. Maintained contact with Keira about Grey Eyes, still no progress."
Dean looked over at Sam who looked deep in thought.
"Could be something," Sam said, rising. "I looked through his contacts, too." Sam motioned to the other leather bound book he had been poring over. "Whoever Keira is, Bobby's got her number. I figure we call her and get her account of that night."
"Bobby's not usually so unclear. Do you think he left out something on purpose?" Dean said, reading over the page again.
Sam grabbed his mobile from his pocket and waved it at Dean.
"I guess there's only one way to find out."
Sam tapped in the number as Dean leaned in with anticipation, eager to hear if they finally had a lead. After a few moments of silence, his hope was shattered by the sound of a monotone voice informing the brothers that the phone was disconnected. Sam hung up disappointedly, stuffing his phone back into his pocket.
"Can you trace it?" Dean said, still wanting to get somewhere.
"It's a landline," Sam replied, nodding absently. "I could probably track it down to an address. I'm pretty sure the area code is for Colorado, so we wouldn't have far to go. And we've gone farther for less," he noted, remembering how they'd drive through states on hunches and rumors. Dean nodded, obviously relieved that they were done with research for the time being.
"Let's get to it then, Sammy, we can finally emerge from the Batcave."