The barn is cold.

Cold in the way that feels wrong—like the shadows are listening, like the silence is waiting for someone to scream. Moonlight cuts through the broken boards overhead, casting silver stripes across the dusty floor.

You sit in the center of a painted devil’s trap, hands bound, throat burning from shouting for help hours ago. Whoever trapped you here is long gone. The air smells of sulfur and old magic, and the sigils beneath you pulse faintly like they’re feeding on your exhaustion.

You’re too weak to break the ropes, too drained to push at the spell anymore.

Then the doors explode open.

Three figures storm inside.

Dean Winchester enters first—gun raised, eyes sharp and lethal, boots crushing straw underfoot. Sam follows close behind, holding an iron knife and an EMF screaming with red lights. And Castiel appears just inside the doorway like he’s been waiting for them.

They expect a demon.

They find you.

Dean stops so abruptly Sam nearly walks into him.

“What the hell—?”

Sam’s eyes widen. “That’s not a demon.”

Castiel’s voice cuts the air like a blade: “No. They’re human… and not.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “Cas, buddy, vague much?”