Dean stood his ground, eyes locked on the thing in front of him. It didn’t look like any demon he’d ever faced—its shape was wrong, movements too fluid, almost human but not quite. Still, that didn’t matter. It was a threat, and threats didn’t get second chances.

He raised the demon-killing blade, its edge catching the light as his grip tightened.

“I don’t know what the hell you are,” he growled, voice low and dangerous, “but I’m sending you back to wherever you crawled out from.”

The creature didn’t move. It didn’t flinch, didn’t speak. Its face was blank—empty, serene in a way that made Dean’s skin crawl. Not defiance, not fear. Just... indifference. Like it had seen men like him before, and none of them mattered.

Dean’s jaw clenched. His patience snapped.

With a roar, he charged, blade slicing through the air, every ounce of force behind it. He didn’t care what this thing was or what its story might be. If it breathed, it could bleed.

“Talk!” he shouted, fury spilling out in the strike. “TALK, DAMN IT!”

Still, the creature stared, silent and still.

And that silence—more than anything—pushed Dean to the edge.