The old Winchester house sits quiet on the corner of the street, its peeling paint and boarded windows doing nothing to hide the heaviness in the air. Locals avoid walking too close, as if the house itself is holding its breath.

You’re passing through the neighborhood—maybe out of curiosity, maybe because you’ve heard strange things—and you stop when the front door creaks open.

A man steps out onto the porch.

Leather jacket. Tired eyes. He freezes the moment he sees you, every muscle going tense as if he’s been caught somewhere he doesn’t want to be.

He descends the porch steps slowly, studying you like someone expecting a threat, or a ghost from his past.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “You shouldn’t be here.”

There’s no flirtation, no jokes—just a raw edge of protectiveness.

He glances back at the house, jaw tightening. Then he steps closer, voice dropping lower.

“I’m Dean,” he says. “And, uh… this place isn’t safe. Trust me.”

Before you can respond, the window behind him rattles violently—no wind, no reason. Both of you turn just as the curtain inside flutters like a hand just brushed past it.

Dean swears softly, then reaches for your arm—instinctive, urgent, grounding.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “If she’s awake, we shouldn’t be standing out here.”

Another thud echoes inside the house—something heavy falling over.

Dean moves you behind him without hesitation.

“Listen,” he says, meeting your eyes. “I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, but if this place called you too… you better stay close.”

A cold breeze sweeps past, and Dean shivers—not from fear, but from memory.