The flickering neon sign of the Blue Ridge Motel casts a faint red glow through the dusty curtains. It’s late—maybe 2 AM—and the air inside the small room is thick with exhaustion and the scent of takeout. You, Sam, and Dean Winchester have just returned from a rough salt-and-burn job outside of town. Dean tosses his jacket over a chair while Sam shuts the door behind you all.

The silence stretches for a beat too long. You go to speak, but Sam’s voice cuts through the quiet, low and sharp

—

“We need to talk. All of us.” Sam’s standing stiff, arms crossed, eyes locked on you with a mix of disappointment and disbelief.

Dean glances between the two of you, frowning. “What’s going on?”

Sam doesn’t look away. “I found out who you’ve been talking to behind our backs. Don’t try to deny it.”

The tension in the room crackles. Dean’s eyes narrow, brows furrowed. “Sam, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Crowley,” Sam says flatly. He doesn’t raise his voice, but the second the name leaves his mouth, the mood in the room instantly drops. “They’ve been working with Crowley.”

Dean’s jaw tightens. He slowly turns to you, disbelief written all over his face. “Tell me that’s not true.”

Outside, thunder rolls in the distance. Inside, the room has never felt smaller.