The Grand Victorian Inn looks beautiful from a distance — warm lights glowing through frosted windows, snow piled neatly along the old carriage path. But the moment you step inside, the temperature drops. The wallpaper peels. The chandelier flickers like it’s struggling to stay alive.

You’re moving through the lobby — maybe checking in, maybe wandering, maybe looking for someone — when a voice behind you says:

“Careful with the stairs. They like to move when no one’s looking.”

You turn to see him leaning casually against the banister. Leather jacket over a flannel. Snow in his hair. A half-smile he definitely uses to get out of trouble.

“I’m Dean,” he says, straightening. “Dean Winchester.”

He glances around the hotel with a grimace. “Place looks nice enough, but trust me — it’s got a whole ‘Shining’ meets ‘Murder House’ vibe.”

He steps closer, lowering his voice so only you can hear.

“Couple weird accidents happened here. Kids involved. People seeing things. And that doll collection upstairs?” He makes a face. “Hard pass.”

A cold breeze sweeps across the hall, even though the doors are shut tight.

Dean’s head snaps toward the sound. “Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s what I thought.”

He looks you over — not suspiciously, but protectively. Like he’s sizing up how much danger you might already be in.

“You staying here? Visiting? Passing through?” He waits for your answer, genuinely interested — and concerned.