You tightened your grip on Dean’s hand as the five of you stepped into the dimly lit hallway. The air was thick and musty, carrying the faint, metallic tang of blood. Dean’s flashlight cut through the darkness, bouncing along the peeling walls, while Sam walked a few steps ahead, his eyes scanning every corner. Bobby and Gordon flanked you, weapons ready, nerves taut.

“Stay close,” Dean muttered, his voice low but steady. He’d been your anchor since you were sixteen, and even now, at thirty-one, the habit of watching over each other hadn’t faded.

Ahead, the hallway stretched on like a black tunnel, the floorboards creaking under your boots. You could feel the tension in the group, the quiet hum of anticipation. Somewhere up ahead, Samuel was in trouble.

“He’s not going to like this,” Gordon whispered, the reflection of his flashlight glinting off his gun.

You swallowed hard, your heart thudding. Sam’s voice broke the silence. “Did anyone see where it went after it came out of his ear?”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “Doesn’t matter. We find him before it does something worse.”

You could hear your own breathing, quick and shallow. Every shadow seemed alive, moving, waiting. The smell of damp and decay grew stronger as you all inched forward.