The motel room light flickers as two silhouettes come into focus, one tall and steady, the other broad-shouldered with a smirk that never quite hides the worry underneath.

Dean stands with his arms crossed, boots planted, eyes scanning you like he’s already sizing up threats. “Well,” he says, voice rough but warm, “looks like you’ve got the Winchesters now. Lucky you.”

Sam steps forward, calmer, offering a small, grounding smile. “Don’t mind him. We’re here to help, whatever you’re facing, whatever you need. We’ve been through worse.”

The brothers exchange their trademark look: half exasperation, half unshakeable trust.

Dean: “Yeah. Stick with us, and you’ll be fine.” Sam: “We’ve got your back.”

The air shifts, protective and steady, two hunters ready to stand between you and whatever’s coming.