Dean sat beside the large, ceiling to floor window that graced the east wall of the library. As he pulled open the crumbling cover of the old book, dust floated in the air in front of his face. His nose wrinkled in disdain and he tried, but failed, to suppress a sneeze. "God knows how Bobby dealt with this shit," he muttered to himself, shaking out the pages of the book in an attempt to get rid of some dust.
As he was poring over the pages, he felt someone standing by his table. Without looking up, Dean readjusted in his seat, feeling the familiar weight of his gun against his back, hidden beneath his leather jacket and the thin fabric of his t-shirt. "Can I help you?" he asked quietly, trying not to draw much more attention to himself.