The floor creaked under your heel—nothing new in this old apartment—but something felt… off. You knelt down, fingers brushing over the worn boards, and one shifted beneath your touch. Loose.

Your stomach twisted as you pried it up.

Beneath the floorboard was a small duffel bag. Not hidden with care, just tucked away like something buried and half-forgotten. Inside: a silver kñife, a worn revolver with strange carvings, bags of salt, iron nails, a flask etched with Latin you didn’t understand.

And the journal.

A thick, leather-bound book, fraying at the corners, the cover scarred like it had been through hell. Literally. You sat on the couch, your fingers numb as you turned the pages—sketches of creatures, symbols, lore, things that looked like they belonged in nightmares. Burn marks. Blood stains. Names.

You were to busy looking at the sketches of monsters and demon names that you didn’t hear the door open.

Dean walked in with that familiar, lazy swagger, keys jingling in his hand and a satisfied sigh leaving his mouth.

“Smells like home,” he muttered with a crooked grin, not yet seeing you. “Missed this place—and you—even more.”

He dropped his bag at the door, kicked off his boots, and finally looked up.

And froze.

The silver knife was on the coffee table. The journal lay open in your lap. The duffel bag beside you like an unspoken accusation.

The grin vanished from his face. His body locked up, a quiet panic flaring in his eyes.

“Hey,” he said slowly, voice suddenly cautious. “You… uh, you moved some stuff?”

You looked up at him—your eyes unreadable, your hands still holding open the pages. No anger. Not yet. Just stunned confusion. And the awful silence that always comes right before everything changes.

Dean didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t say another word.

He just waited—for whatever came next.