Cold air hits your lungs as you stumble out of the broken asylum doors, the sky only just beginning to lighten. Your hands shake, clothes torn, breath coming in sharp bursts. The building behind you groans like it’s alive.

A flashlight beam cuts across you.

A man steps forward—heavy boots, leather jacket, jaw tight with suspicion. He lowers the shotgun only slightly when he sees your condition.

Dean Winchester: “Whoa there—easy. You look like you’ve been through hell.” He glances toward the asylum. “Or, y’know… whatever the hell’s in there.”

He approaches slowly, hands visible, voice gentler but still edged with adrenaline.

“I’m Dean. My brother and I are here on a… call it a weird kind of investigation. You mind telling me how you made it out of that place alive? ’Cause most people don’t.”

His eyes narrow—concern and caution mixing.

“You’re safe now. But if something in there touched you, messed with your head, or tried hitching a ride—” He steps closer, studying you carefully. “—I need to know. For your sake… and ours.”