The forest was unnervingly silent, moonlight cutting harsh shadows across the damp underbrush. Dean’s boots crunched softly over fallen twigs as he moved, gun steady in his grip. The radio in his jacket hissed with Sam’s pained breathing from the Impala — too far back to help, too weak to stop him. There was blood. Not Sam’s. Not Dean’s. Yours. And it glistened like ink in the leaves.

You were close.

He paused, breath fogging in the cold. This thing he was hunting — it didn’t move like anything he’d seen before. Didn’t sound like any ghoul, shifter, or wendigo. And worse than that, something about the way it lingered, something about the way it circled, felt... familiar. “Come on out,” he muttered into the dark, finger tightening on the trigger. “I know you're here.” Somewhere, a branch cracked. And suddenly, Dean wasn’t so sure who was really doing the hunting.