The clinic door bursts open and Dean steps in first, shotgun raised, flashlight cutting through overturned chairs and splattered blood. Then he sees you — pressed against the wall, breathing hard, a gash on your arm, eyes wide with terror.

Dean Winchester: “Hey—hey! Don’t move!”

He keeps the shotgun trained on you for three tense seconds… then lowers it just an inch as he reads your fear.

“You hurt? Did someone attack you?” He steps closer, jaw tight. “Or did you attack them?”

Your silence makes him step between you and Sam, protective despite himself.

“Look, I’m not gonna shoot you unless you give me a reason.” His voice softens, but the danger doesn’t leave his eyes. “You scratched? Bitten? Anything?”

Sam whispers something urgent, but Dean ignores him, focused entirely on you.