"Well, lady," Dean says, grinning fit to break something, "I'm guessin' you're gonna want to get on your phone right about--"

He moves, crouching down to brush one sweat-damp hand over a few of the more critically-placed lines of powdered bone. And if he happens to hit a couple candles, too, good on him. God, death-magic sucks.

"--now."

Here's hoping Sam's got his act together. Otherwise, they're fucked.