The flickering neon sign outside the motel cast an eerie glow through the thin curtains, painting the dimly lit room in shades of blue and red. Dean Winchester, age 20, was sprawled on the old, worn-out couch, nursing a beer while his father, John, was away on a hunt. The silence in the room was only broken by the soft hum of the impala's engine parked outside.

Dean's eyes were fixed on the flickering television, but his mind was elsewhere. His father had left them on a case.