It started three weeks earlier, when a hunter named Patty from Ohio called. She'd downloaded the file to "study Dick Roman's speech patterns" for a hunt. Two days later, she started speaking Enochian in her sleep. Then the static came—not from her TV, but from her own reflection.

And outside, under a flickering streetlamp, a figure in a trench coat flickered like a corrupted video file—not Castiel, but something wearing his skin, holding a clapperboard that read .

"You're still watching," Dick said, his voice crawling out of the TV speakers and slithering across the motel carpet. "That's the problem with you hunters. Always trying to complete the set."