Samara stretched, her arms rising over her head, the movement accompanied by a jaw-popping yawn. Her hair was tousled even a little more than usual, and if she looked bleary, well, it was three in the thrice-cursed morning. She rolled a shoulder, still sore from that fight with that plant thing with all the mouths last month, and realized what had been bothering her the whole ride out here. Sam looked down at her shirt and sighed - yes, this was already going to be one of [i]those[/i] kinds of nights. The fabric was right, and the cut was right - which actually was rather the problem, because the shirt itself was about a size smaller than Sam usually wore. She let out a curse in five-hundred-year-old Persian, and tried to pull the seams into something a little more comfortable. That was the problem with being woken up in the middle of the night; you could never be entirely sure whose shirt you were grabbing off the floor. Or the nightstand. Or, if she was being honest, from the living room couch - waiting to get to the bedroom had, at the time, seemed like an awful idea.

Zipping up her jacket, Sam made her way from the truck to look closer at the...well, the whatever-this-was. Millar and Clint were right, the place was, for something the Sentinels got themselves involved in, spic-and-span. Hardly anything that might make the average person even think of the heebie-jeebies, and certainly nothing like the last time they'd been out this way. Still, Millar hadn't seemed like a fool, and if he'd made the call, she'd doubted their time was going to waste - but at the same time, there certainly didn't seem to be much here.

With another yawn, Sam made her way to the crashed SUV. She leaned in through a shattered side window, careful not to disturb anything she didn't have to. Glass pebbles crunched under her boots while she pulled a flashlight from a pocket, playing the beam across the inside of the vehicle. She looked at the headliner, the seats, checked if the seat belt had been cut or if it had been released manually. Leaning a little further forward, she tried to get a look at the driver's side footwell, in case there were anything nefarious there - the vehicle may as well have been remote controlled, given how empty it seemed. Maybe it had been. Not likely, but there was likely no harm in seeing which primrose path to be led down.

The smell of coffee wafted past her nose, and Sam breathed in, her brain sizzling at the scent. She stood up, making sure not to touch anything, and turned to face Clint and Millar.

"Tell me you've got more of that," Sam said, her lips curled into a smirk while she pointed the beam of her flashlight at the cup. She sniffed again, "...Wait, this time of day, out here..." She shook her head, "Never mind. That's cop coffee, right? Worse for you than the rest of this job put together." 

Sam nodded to Clint, watching the older man pick up his go-back from the rover, and made her way a little further down the road, following the SUV's tracks before the truck had lost its fight with physics. Not out of any real idea that she'd find anything, but she needed a moment of comparative quiet.

Away from the growing bustle of equipment and people, Sam took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and let the breath out. She felt something in her chest, almost like the fluttering of anticipation before a kiss, almost like an electric shock. This never got any less strange, but then again, perhaps that really was the point. The Sentinels lived beyond the veil, in the world of magic and monsters, but seeing past even that layer of reality and into the one beneath, well. That held its own special take on the strange and wondrous. Sam finished letting her breath out and with air filling her lungs again, she turned, her attention now on that liminal space between this world and the next, searching for spirits, ghosts, or evidence of the recently departed.