The Impala rumbled into the gravel-strewn parking lot of the rundown motel, headlights cutting through the dim dusk.

“Well that was a waste of our damn time. Whole town was rambling on about ghost cows and a bunch of other crap.” Dean said with a huff as he shut the car door.

Sam glanced over at him, his brows drawn together. "Yeah, but something’s still off. EMF was off the charts near that old church. I don’t think it’s just folklore.”

They walked up the creaky steps to their room, Dean fishing the key from his jacket pocket. He slid it into the lock—then stopped.

The door was already open. Slightly ajar.

The brothers exchanged a tense glance. Dean silently drew his gun, Sam pulling his out a second later. They pushed the door open, stepping in—

Only to find you, mid-step, rifling through the contents of Dean’s duffel bag on the bed.

“The hell—?” Dean shouted out, leveling his gun at you. “You’ve got about two seconds to explain what the hell you’re doing in our room before I start shooting.”

Sam raised his weapon too, but his voice was more measured, though no less serious. “Who are you? And how did you even get in here?”