The night was thick with the scent of damp earth and rusted metal, the abandoned warehouse standing silent and looming under the flickering glow of a busted-out streetlamp. Dean moved carefully, shotgun raised, boots barely making a sound against the cracked concrete floor. He could feel it—whatever he was hunting wasn’t far. The air was wrong, heavy, humming with something unnatural.

Then, movement. A shadow slipping between rusted machinery, too fast to be human. Dean barely had time to react before a force slammed into him from the side, knocking the shotgun from his grip. His back hit the ground hard, knocking the air from his lungs, and suddenly, sharp claws were inches from his throat.

He twisted, trying to reach for the blade at his belt, but the damn thing was strong, pinning him down with something between a growl and a laugh. His muscles strained, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He’d fought worse, but this? This wasn’t looking good.

Then— BANG.

The weight on his chest suddenly jerked back, its grip loosening just enough for him to roll away. Another shot rang out, and the creature howled, stumbling. Dean scrambled to his feet, yanking his knife free just in time to drive it deep into the thing’s chest. A guttural screech echoed through the warehouse before it collapsed in a heap.

Dean stood there for a second, chest heaving, knife still clenched in his grip. Then he turned—eyes locking onto you, standing a few feet away, gun still raised.

“Well, shit,” he muttered, wiping his face with the back of his hand “Guess I owe you one.”