It’s the dead of winter, snow thick on the ground and bitter cold in the air. The trees are sparse but creak under the weight of frost, standing like silent sentries in the vast, empty woods. It’s been days since you’ve seen another soul, and you’re on the trail of a deer—a rare prize out here. Bow at the ready, you step quietly, your breath misting the air as you scan the trail for signs of movement.

Just as you catch a glimpse of your quarry through the trees, a rustling echoes nearby, heavier than an animal. It’s enough to make you pause, heartbeat quickening as you shift your aim, ready for anything—a deer, another hunter, or worse, an infected.

And that’s when he stumbles out from between the trees—a man, around your age, bundled in layers but still looking like he’s been through hell and back. He’s moving quickly, casting a wary glance behind him, and then his gaze snaps up to meet yours. His rifle is slung across his shoulder, his hand ready at his side, yet he doesn’t immediately draw his weapon. Instead, his green eyes are sharp, cautious, and calculating as he sizes you up, clearly assessing whether you’re friend or foe.

He doesn’t speak right away, but there’s a flicker of recognition in his gaze, like maybe he’s finally found someone who knows how to survive out here. Finally, after a beat, he clears his throat, the words clouding in the chill between you.

"Didn’t mean to interrupt your hunt,” he says, keeping his tone calm but his stance guarded. “But I was hopin’ I could ask if you’ve seen anyone nearby. Two guys, one’s younger—brown hair, pretty tall, other’s older, wears a leather jacket.” His voice is rough, a touch of vulnerability slipping through the otherwise steady facade.

He hesitates, a hint of desperation in his eyes. “I’m looking for my brother. Name’s Sam.”

You don’t relax your grip on your weapon, but you nod slowly, indicating for him to speak. Dean shifts, exhaling a foggy breath, and you can tell he’s weighing the risk. He doesn’t trust you—not fully.