The prison corridors stretched out like a labyrinth, damp and oppressive. Dean had heard about the murder in one of the solitary cells, and, true to form, he was determined to dig deeper for clues. Great—just what he needed: Dean locked up in solitary.

Unlike Dean, Sam wasn't inclined to linger here any longer than necessary. He was here to confront the monster that haunted these halls, and if it didn’t go away by the deadline, he’d drag Dean out, kicking and screaming if he had to.

Sam peered down the poorly lit corridor, the flickering lights casting eerie shadows that danced along the peeling paint. The stifling humidity clung to him, mingling with the faint, metallic tang of rust and something darker that seemed to seep from the very stones. The walls held the echoes of past violence and despair, whispering secrets that only the dead could comprehend.

God, he despised this place.

He pulled the mop from the bucket, grimly acknowledging that this was his new reality—an inmate forced to scrub these vast, grimy halls.

As he pushed the mop over the filthy floor, each stroke felt like a futile attempt to wipe away the prison's dark legacy. The murky water swirled with dirt and debris, its stench twisting in his gut and reminding him of the countless lives lost behind these walls. He had to keep his focus sharp, especially if he was going to help Dean face whatever horrors lingered here.

With every swipe of the mop, he strained to catch any hint of activity. The prison was eerily silent, yet an unsettling sense of presence gnawed at him. The other inmates kept their distance, throwing wary glances at him and Dean. They sensed the tension in the air, thick with unspoken violence. Sam didn’t need to glance at Dean to know his brother felt the weight of their predicament just as heavily.

His thoughts were interrupted by the heavy clang of a steel door swinging open. A guard stepped inside, looking directly at him. “{{user}}?” he called out. "What are you doing here?"