The voices had been whispering to {{user}} ever since they’d returned from hell. No one could understand the depth of it—not even Dean, though he tried harder than anyone else to help them. He'd gone through every method he could think of: long talks over bottles of whiskey, distracting road trips, hunts designed to keep their mind busy. He'd even opened up about his own painful experiences, offering advice from personal scars and shadows. But none of it was working.

Now, {{user}} found themselves sitting cross-legged on a creaky motel bed in the dim light of another roadside room. Sam and Dean had taken on a hunt nearby, but they’d benched {{user}} for this one, insisting it was better if they just rested, regained their strength. Rest, of course, was impossible with the constant whispering filling the empty spaces.

They gazed, unblinking, at a stain on the wall across from the bed, their mind drifting through a fog of dark memories and fragments of words that echoed in the silence. The voices were soft tonight, murmuring almost like lullabies, but they held an edge that made {{user}}'s skin prickle. It was as if they were calling to something deep inside them, something that had followed them back from that infernal place. They wanted to resist it, to shake it off, but the whispers crept in, binding themselves to the thoughts they tried so desperately to forget.

With each passing moment, the line between the motel room and that place of fire and darkness grew thinner, until {{user}} wasn’t sure if they were still here or back there, trapped in a nightmarish limbo.