The prison corridors were long, humid, and unpleasant. The solitary wing was no better. He’d learned there had been a murder in one of the cells, and he needed to get in there to find more clues. One more thing on top of the many he was already in trouble for.

Dean had vowed to rid the place of whatever was haunting it—especially since Deacon, his dad’s old friend, had asked him. With his dad gone, Dean felt it was his responsibility, even if he couldn’t explain why.

He was determined to stay as long as necessary, to get rid of the monster, and then leave. To hell with Sam’s worries—it would work out. He just knew it.

Dean tried not to struggle against the guards' bruising grip, their fingers digging into his arms. He focused on his surroundings—the cell where the inmate had died wasn’t far. Just focus on that, not the pain, he told himself. At least they'd take him to the infirmary—maybe there’d be something to see there.

When he’s eventually stopped in front of one of the holes rather than the infirmary, he’s confused. “Wait, you’re kidding,” he says, his struggling intensifying. “I got beaten up! Don’t I get to go to the nurse? Don’t I get a damn ice pack, at least? My face is much too pretty to bruise, you can see that.” That only earned him a scoff and a hard shove into the cell—fuck, he couldn’t just sit here and do nothing. There was a time limit, and he wasn’t looking to exceed it by too much.

The heavy cell door slams shut, leaving him crumpled in a puddle on the floor. Right, okay, change of plans. First, get up from the puddle and get warm. Second, brainstorm.

He managed to complete the first step of his plan, pulling himself up and sitting against the wall. But the second part? That didn’t go as smoothly—before he knew it, his brain went into overdrive. It was cold, too cold, and that alone worried him. If it were a ghost, he’d be helpless.

When his cell door creaked open a couple of hours later—he guessed it was well into the night—he jolted awake, searching the guard's face. “{{user}}?”