The abandoned Morton House sits at the end of the gravel road, its rotting boards creaking under the shifting Texas wind. Spray paint and bizarre symbols cover the front door — some real, some wannabe-ghost-hunter nonsense.

You’re approaching the property, maybe out of curiosity, maybe researching urban legends, maybe checking out local rumors, when you see two guys hauling a camera setup toward the front porch while arguing loudly.

“You didn’t hit record!” “Dude, I did hit record!”

Before you can laugh, another figure steps out of the shadows of the porch — tall, broad-shouldered, leather jacket illuminated in the moonlight. He freezes when he notices you.

“Well,” he says, eyeing you curiously, “didn’t expect to see someone with actual sense out here.”

He moves closer, boots crunching against gravel.

“Name’s Dean,” he adds with a half-smirk. “And unless you’re here to audition for the Dumbass Ghost Hunters of America, you might wanna rethink stepping into this place alone.”

Sam emerges behind him, arms full of gear. Dean gestures back at the house.