"This is why I drive straight through dry counties," he says, looking back at his brother, holding the empty bottles. He drops them down with a start, collecting himself before coming back around the bar. He's aware of how hungry he is, which isn't something he thought he'd be able to feel.

"With our luck, the food'll be maggot-covered," he says under his breath, grumbling. At least that would indicate a friggin witch. Or, just poorly stored food.

"Kitchen, first," he says, looking around them. Cellar if they don't find anything or need to take cover. He clocks the stairs up, too.

"Maybe there's another bar in this place," he says, leaving Sam to inspect the kitchen as Dean leaps several stairs at a time upstairs. There's not. There is only disappointment. Empty chairs at empty tables. Dean stomps back down, taking each stair this time.

"Sam?"