The motel is the kind of place where the neon sign buzzes louder than the front desk clerk. Cheap wallpaper, flickering hallway lights, paper-thin walls. You only came here because everything else in town was booked… and you needed somewhere to sleep.

You’re halfway through unlocking your room door when a deafening thud comes from the room beside yours.

Then another.

Then a voice— “Sam! Salt the damn windows before that thing slips out!”

You freeze.

Another crash. A grunt. Someone swearing creatively.

You take a cautious step back, debating whether you should go find the manager— when your door suddenly bursts inward.

A man barrels through it, gun drawn, eyes blazing with adrenaline and suspicion.

He stops inches from you.

Leather jacket. Jaw clenched. Green eyes that scan you like a threat profile.

Dean Winchester.

He blinks, thrown for half a second.

“…Huh.” His gun lowers a fraction. “You’re… not a ghost.”

From behind him, Sam Winchester sticks his head in the doorway, breathless.

“Dean, that’s a civilian!”

Dean shoots him a look. “Yeah, no kidding, Sammy. Thanks for the heads-up.”