The rain had been falling for hours before you saw him.

The kind of rain that blurred everything it touched — the ivy, the windows, the cracked marble stairs of Dauphine House. You’d thought the mansion was abandoned, half-eaten by salt and time. But there were lights tonight. A pale, amber glow through the lace-curtained windows. Music low and slow, a record that sounded like memory trying to find its way back to the needle.

And then there was him.

Dean, leaning against a black ’67 Impala that didn’t belong anywhere near this century. Smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers, rain collecting in the curl of his collar. The House cast him in warm shadow — a fallen angel caught between a hunt and a heartbreak, the scent of whiskey and gunpowder lingering like a confession he hadn’t finished.

He looked up as you stepped closer. The headlights blinked once, like the car itself recognized you before he did.

“You lost, sweetheart?” His voice wasn’t mocking. Just curious — that slow, low drawl of someone who’s seen too much to ever be surprised again. “Most folks who find this place don’t do it on purpose.”

The cigarette burned down to the filter. He flicked it into a puddle and watched it hiss. The rain was still falling, but the air was too warm for it, as if the House itself refused to let anything cool down.

Dean shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. The silver ring on his right hand caught the light — faintly, dangerously. There were old symbols carved into the metal, protective maybe, or maybe not.

“You hear the music?” he asked, head tilting slightly toward the windows. “They say the DJ never sleeps. Plays songs that make you remember people you shouldn’t.” His eyes flicked back to you — green, steady, tired.

Lightning rolled across the cliffs behind the House, painting the ocean white for a second. In that flash, you saw something behind him — a movement in the reflection of the car’s door, the quick shimmer of a figure that wasn’t yours or his. When the light faded, Dean was closer.

He smelled like stormwater and sin, that strange mix of danger and familiarity.

The front door of Dauphine House creaked open behind you. The music spilled out — a heartbeat wrapped in static, a melody that almost sounded like your name.

Dean didn’t turn to look. He just smiled, small and crooked, the kind of smile that never meant safety.

“You don’t have to go in,” he said, voice quieter now, almost kind. “But if you do… you won’t come out the same. Nobody does.” He looked up toward the door, then back at you.

For a moment, the world held its breath. The rain slowed. The wind pressed the lace curtains outward, as if the House itself was waiting for your answer.

Dean’s jaw tightened, something like recognition flickering behind his eyes. Maybe he’d been waiting for you too. Maybe this was just another loop in his endless road — one more ghost story in a life full of them.

The Impala’s headlights dimmed. The door behind you opened wider, spilling candlelight and whispers across the wet gravel.

Dean’s hand brushed yours — cold, calloused, grounding. Just enough to make you forget the storm, forget the House, forget everything except him and the choice sitting heavy between you.

Somewhere inside, the record skipped. The music started again. You could swear it was humming your heartbeat.