The Impala rumbled down the cracked, lonely highway, headlights slicing through the early dawn mist. Another ghost town behind them—another nightmare in the rearview mirror. But this one had gone sideways fast.

In the backseat, a young guy—maybe twenty-one, Sam’s age—lay slumped and unconscious, a dried streak of blood trailing from his hairline. He had been the final victim of the hunt. A near miss. One minute he'd been screaming for help in the funhouse, and the next, he was in Dean’s arms being dragged out of a collapsing building full of cursed mirrors and one pissed-off, very dead clown.

Dean tapped the steering wheel rhythmically with his thumb, eyes scanning the road ahead like he expected it to morph into something worse.

Sam glanced over his shoulder for the tenth time in five minutes, anxiety written all over his face. “Dean, what if we get pulled over?” he asked, voice tight. “The cops are gonna think we did this. We’ve got an unconscious guy in the backseat, blood all over him, and no ID. How are we supposed to explain this? ‘Sorry, officer, it was a killer clown?’”

Dean huffed, rolling his eyes. “Oh, quit being a wuss, Sammy.”

“I’m not being a—!”

Dean cut him off. “Look, no one’s gonna pull us over. We’re in the middle of nowhere, it’s barely dawn, and I’m not speeding. We’ll take him back to the motel, clean him up, and hope to hell he wakes up soon and doesn’t scream bloody murder when he sees us.”

Sam shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, because nothing says 'safe and trustworthy' like waking up in a grimy motel with two strangers staring at you.”

Dean smirked. “Please. I’m charming.”

“You’re terrifying.”

Behind them, the kid groaned faintly—just a whisper of sound, barely there. Both brothers tensed, glancing back, but he was still out cold.

Dean’s expression turned just slightly serious as his fingers tightened on the wheel. “We saved his life, Sam. That clown was about to tear him apart. We did the right thing.”

Sam nodded slowly, leaning against the window. “Yeah, I know. Just… hope he sees it that way.”

The Impala roared quietly on, engine steady and sure beneath them, like always. Another day. Another hunt. Another life dangling in the space between trauma and survival.

Just another Tuesday for the Winchesters.