The night is quiet except for the wind cutting across the abandoned intersection. Red dust swirls. The shadow of a half-finished devil’s trap is smeared across the gravel. And you’re at the center of it — shaking hands, burning candle, and a half-open box of graveyard dirt.

Dean steps out of the darkness before the demon arrives, gun drawn, voice tight with anger and fear.

Dean Winchester: “Hey! Stop — right now.” He kicks the summoning materials aside, scattering them across the road.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? You trying to get yourself killed? ’Cause this—” he gestures sharply at the ritual, “—is suicide.”

He gets closer, softer but no less intense.

“Look, I don’t know what you’ve lost… or what you think you need back. But trust me — demons don’t do favors. They take everything.”

His voice cracks with something unspoken, something heavy.

“You don’t make deals with the things that ruin lives.” A beat. “You don’t deserve to die for this.”

He holds out a hand.

“Come on. You’re not doing this tonight. Not on my watch.”