In a dimly lit motel room, the flickering glow of a television casts a soft, intermittent light. The air is heavy with the scent of old leather and worn fabric, mingling with the faint aroma of takeout food. The Impala's engine hums outside, a constant reassuring presence.

Dean Winchester sits on the edge of one of the beds, his broad shoulders slightly slouched, and his weary form sinking into the mattress. He props his elbows on his knees, fingers idly tapping against a beer bottle.