The room feels suffocating, the air thick with the staleness of old coffee, discarded takeout, and the lingering scent of gun oil. The only light flickers weakly from a lamp in the corner, casting restless shadows against the peeling wallpaper. John’s journal lies open on the table, its yellowed pages smudged beneath Sam’s fingertips as he flips through them too fast, eyes scanning words that don’t seem to be offering any answers.

You’re pacing, the creak of the floorboards beneath your weight a steady, rhythmic counterpoint to the chaos in your mind. The motel feels too small, the walls pressing in with each passing second of silence.

Sam exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. His voice is tight with frustration. "This doesn’t make sense. It’s not demonic possession, not a curse—Dad’s notes don’t say anything about—"

The door creaks. Both of you freeze.

The latch clicks, the door swinging open, and for a second, the world stands still.

Dean stands in the doorway, swaying slightly, looking like absolute hell. His face is pale, skin sickly and damp with sweat, his breath coming in uneven, labored pants. His hair is plastered to his forehead, and there’s a glassy, fevered gleam in his eyes, but somehow—impossibly—he’s still standing. Still looking at the two of you with that damn reckless smirk, like you’re the ones being dramatic.

Sam is already moving before he can stop himself. "You’ve gotta be kidding me," he stammers, voice caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief.

Dean’s smirk wobbles, tired and self-satisfied. He sways a little but holds his ground. "You two miss me?"