The old warehouse loomed in the distance, its rusted exterior barely visible in the moonlight. Sam moved toward it with single-minded determination, his jaw clenched and eyes cold. Dean followed a few paces behind, his eyes fixed on his brother’s back, worry creasing his brow. He could see the tension in Sam’s movements—the way his shoulders were set, his hands gripping the handle of his weapon tightly.

“Sam, hold up,” Dean called, quickening his pace to catch up. Sam didn’t slow down, didn’t even look back.

“Sam!” Dean’s voice was sharper now, finally prompting his brother to stop. Sam turned slowly, his expression a mask of calm anger that made Dean’s stomach twist. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Dean asked, his voice softer but laced with concern. “This isn’t just another hunt.”

Sam’s eyes flashed, and for a second, Dean could see the pain buried beneath his resolve. “I’m not here to talk, Dean. I’m here to kill it,” he replied coldly, his voice edged with a bitterness that made Dean flinch.