And if you listen very hard…The tune will come to you at last…When all are one and one is all…To be a rock and not to roll…And she's buying —
His right hand reaches blindly for his business phone sitting on the table next to his bed. He's too lazy to open his eyes; though if you asked him, he'd blame it on lack of sleep. His fingers eventually gripped the ringing device, its ringtone still screeching against his eardrums in the dark bedroom.
And she's buying a stairway to heaven…
He opens the phone and immediately closes it. It was too goddamn early in the morning for this; and oh, how he loathed that song. He's not sure when he began to hate Stairway to Heaven, his favorite song by his favorite band, but now he couldn't stand it. He despised waking up everyday to the rock song blasting through his cell phone's miniature speakers, but he couldn't bring himself to change it. Instead, he went through his daily routine of attempting to halt the song's playing before it finished and resisting the urge to throwing it out the window.
He rubbed his bloodshot brown eyes and slowly, reluctantly, began to open them. He abruptly jerked his body forward, left hand squeezing the handle of the pistol he kept under his pillow as he quickly scanned his surroundings. He breathed a sigh of relief when he didn't notice anything unusual or out of place. He swept his hand through his messy dirty blonde hair and then down his scruffy face. He tossed his legs over the side of the bed and looked at the time: 4 A.M.
On an ordinary day, he wouldn't be bothered with a phone call until six or seven in the morning. On a regular day, he would give himself a pep talk as he sluggishly moved around his dangerously disorganized apartment, getting ready for another long day at a job he didn't appreciate as much as he used to. He would slip into a white button down shirt that he found lying on the dusty floor and stub his pinky toe against a cardboard box full of dishes as he struggled to pull his navy blue slacks on. He wouldn't bother brushing his hair and teeth, or shaving, as he leaves the place he didn't have the courage to call "home" yet in a hurry with a red clip-on tie in one hand and a slightly open briefcase in the other. He would work all day and drink himself to sleep at night because sleeping pills just didn't seem to work for him anymore. Then, pass out and repeat.
Yes, that's what would usually happen, but today wasn't an average day for FBI Agent Jeff Rowland. Beep, beep. A text message— this was something he was conscious enough to answer. He turned on the phone that's supposed to be able to be contacted at all times, and checked his inbox.
There were three messages.
ALEX: We've got him.
ALEX: Come over here ASAP.
ALEX: Sam Winchester is in custody.