Sam sat at the small table in the dimly lit motel room, eyes glued to the screen of his laptop, while Dean lounged on one of the beds with a bottle of beer in hand. The air smelled faintly of cheap cologne, old carpet, and the takeout they’d abandoned an hour ago.

With an exasperated groan, Sam slammed the laptop shut and rubbed his eyes.

“This hunt is a mess,” He muttered. “Nothing adds up—no EMF, no sulfur, nothing. It’s like the guy just dropped dead outta nowhere.”

Dean sat up a little straighter, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Yeah, well, I’ve seen weirder. Doesn’t mean it’s not our kind of weird.” He took another swig of beer, just as a sudden knock echoed through the room, sharp and unexpected.

The brothers exchanged a quick look—cautious, alert. Dean was already reaching for the gun stashed under his pillow.

“I’ll get it...” He said, rising to his feet. Pistol in hand.

He swung the door open…then froze.

“…No freakin’ way.”

Standing in the doorway was a person he hadn’t seen in years—someone he’d never expected to see again.

"You know them?" Sam questioned, standing up quickly and walking over.