You push open the warped, groaning door, your flashlight beam cutting through the dust-choked dark. A sudden voice snaps through the silence—low, sharp, edged with warning.

Dean Winchester: “Woah—hey. Easy there, flashlight. You planning on blinding someone or just trying to get yourself killed?”

He steps into view from around a corner, shotgun lowered but still ready, his expression a blend of suspicion and reluctant concern. Behind him, Sam tries to wrangle two terrified paranormal enthusiasts still filming with shaky camcorders.

“Let me guess,” Dean mutters, giving you a once-over, “you’re not with Tweedledee and Tweedledumb over there… so what the hell are you doing wandering around a haunted asylum at night?”

He glances past you, jaw tightening as something echoes deeper in the hall.

“…Great. Looks like we’ve got more company than we thought. Stay close, alright? Places like this—they don’t like when strangers walk in.”