Like always, the Winchesters had managed to mess things up. Big time.

Dean had been holed up in that dingy motel room for hours, pouring over maps and lore, trying to figure out where those damn Nosferatus had holed up. The frustration was eating him alive, but even that was nothing compared to the guilt gnawing at him over what {{user}} was going through.

It had started about a week ago. Bodies had been turning up in the area, the kind of trail that screamed vampires. Dean, Sam, and {{user}} had hit the road, confident they could handle it. At first, things went okay—they even managed to take down one of the vamps. But, as usual, luck didn’t stick around. They ended up outnumbered and outmaneuvered.

Looking back, Dean wished he’d told {{user}} to sit this one out. They were too young for this life—should’ve been worrying about homework, not hunting monsters. But instead, here they were, dragged into a mess by two fools who were supposed to protect them. And now, Dean was desperate to fix it.

The moment he pieced together the vamps’ likely hideout, he grabbed his gear and bolted for the Impala. Daylight was still on his side, and he floored it toward a rundown farmhouse off a beaten path. The place looked as bad as he felt—overgrown weeds, peeling paint, and an eerie stillness that screamed wrong.

Dean popped the trunk, grabbing his geard, and made for the door. It didn’t take long to jimmy the lock and slip inside. The house was quiet, with dust covering every surface and windows boarded up to block the sun. At first, he thought he might’ve been wrong about the place. But something about the air felt off.

He checked room after room, every creak of the floorboards making his heart pound faster. When he reached a bedroom upstairs, the sight stopped him cold.

{{user}} was slumped against an old radiator, looking pale and worn out, their head resting against the wall like they could barely stay upright, they flinched at the flashlight’s beam.