The neon VACANCY sign outside the Rusty Lantern Motel sputtered like it was on its last breath, buzzing against the quiet hum of the night. Dean Winchester pushed open the office door, snagged a key with a peeling number seven on it, and trudged down the row of chipped pastel doors. It had been a long hunt. Too long. He just wanted a shower, a beer, and five uninterrupted hours of pretending the world wasn’t going to hell.

He unlocked the door, shouldered it open—

And froze.

Someone was already inside.

Not just any someone. A figure stood in the middle of the dimly lit room, tense, posture defensive, eyes flicking instantly to his. Their bag was dropped beside the far bed, weapons half-concealed but unmistakable. They looked like they belonged here—like they’d claimed the space first.

Dean didn’t move for a beat.

Then he lifted his brows, scoffing lightly. “Well,” he muttered, “this is awkward.”

The stranger didn’t lower their guard.

Dean’s fingers hovered near the edge of his jacket, inches from the knife he always kept close, but he didn’t draw it. Not yet.

“This is my room,” he said, flashing the motel key as if that settled everything. “Paid cash. Got the key. Was kinda hoping for a night off, but—”