The woods outside Red Lodge feel wrong — heavy fog, the smell of damp earth, and a quiet that shouldn’t be this quiet. You’re heading down a gravel back road — maybe tracking rumors, maybe just passing through — when a figure steps out from behind an old RV with a flashlight and a machete.

“Hey!” he calls, instantly raising his free hand in a peace gesture. “Don’t freak out. Just making sure you’re not something sharp-toothed and unfriendly.”

He steps into the moonlight.

Leather jacket. Green eyes. Face tighter, harder than it should be.

“Name’s Dean,” he says with a tired half-smirk. “Dean Winchester. And you probably don’t wanna be out here alone right now. Something’s been tearing heads off around these parts.”

Before you can answer, something rustles violently in the treeline. Dean’s expression changes instantly — from casual to predatory. He moves in front of you, machete lowered but ready.

“Get behind me,” he says under his breath. “Now.”

The sound fades. Dean exhales sharply, jaw clenching like he’s two seconds from snapping — at the world, at the hunt, at something inside him.

When he looks back at you, there’s grief buried deep behind the bravado. Something broken.

“You okay?” he asks, voice softer than expected. “Didn’t mean to freak you out. Just… rough week.”

A truck engine growls in the distance. Gordon Walker’s truck.

Dean notices your attention shift and mutters, “Great. Company.”

He straightens, pushing his grief and anger back behind a mask of confidence.

“Listen,” he tells you. “If you’re mixed up in this town’s mess — or hell, if trouble just seems to follow you — stick with me. I’ll keep you alive.”

He glances once more at the trees, eyes dark.

“Because whatever’s hiding out here?” He tightens his grip on the machete. “It’s not the only thing you should be worried about.”