For a hot second, the only thing Drake heard was the busy tone. Winchester’s voicemail began: “[b]HI! YOU’VE REACHED THE WINCHESTER RESIDENCE! I’M SORRY I COULDN’T REACH THE PHONE BECAUSE I’M PROBABLY COMMITTING CRIMES AGAINST HUMANIT-[/b]” The raucous voicemail was suddenly cut off by the same gruff voice, granted much more reserved and calm. “Hey, Drake. What’s up?” Winchester was cramming his burner phone between the side of his head and his hulking shoulder, his hands preoccupied with cleaning a melee weapon with a blood-soaked ragged washcloth.