The stench of smoke and sulfur hangs heavy in the air. Cars sit abandoned. Silence presses against the ruined street like a weight.

Dean steps over a broken “Welcome to…” sign, shotgun raised — until he sees you.

Alive. Barely. But alive.

His breath catches.

Dean Winchester: “Hey — hey! Don’t move!”

He scans you for wounds, for the tell-tale signs of possession or sickness. But you’re… untouched. Wrongly untouched.

He lowers the shotgun just a little.

“You… you’re a survivor? Here?” He takes a step closer, disbelief and relief mixing in his voice. “They told us everyone was dead. Everyone.”

Dean circles you cautiously, eyes sharp, searching for something that explains the impossible.

“Listen, I’m Dean. My brother and I are trying to track a Horseman — yeah, one of the big four — so unless you sprouted wings or hooves when I wasn’t looking, you shouldn’t be alive right now.”