Dean had just returned from Hell. A mysterious handprint branding his arm. This was something big. You could feel it.

That was what led to you, Dean, and Bobby in an abandoned warehouse, every inch, edge, and precipice of the walls covered with sigils, traps, and talisman, from every religion, cult, and culture. A messy ritual sits at a rusty table within the warehouse. Bobby had chanted some ominous spell in Latin.

An uncomfortable amount of time passed, “You sure you did the ritual right?” Dean asks earning a glare from Bobby, “Sorry. Touchy, touchy, huh?”

Just then—rattling. shaking. shattering. You shield yourself from the falling shards of lightbulbs.

In walks a man, soft waves of deep brown hair and piercingly blue eyes. A gaze set so sternly, with such purpose to it as he walks forward, bullets flying. Ineffective. bloodless bullet holes in his long trenchcoat.

“Who are you?” Dean barks, ditching the gun since clearly it wasn’t doing the job.

“I am the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.” You can feel surges of energy thrumming from his vessel.

He turns to Bobby, then you, “You are welcome.” he says gruffly.