The Impala’s engine cut with a familiar rumble in a visitor parking spot. Dean stepped out, squinting up at the looming dormitory building. He hadn’t called. He hadn’t texted. He’d just driven.

After a series of irritated groans and near-miss punches from wrong doors, he stood before one last door on the third floor. Oddly, it wasn’t locked. John Winchester’s voice echoed in his head. Evil doesn’t knock.

Frustrated, Dean exhaled sharply, turning to leave. A soft creak of a floorboard from the hallway made him freeze. A figure emerged from a bedroom doorway—taller than he expected, silhouetted against the low light from the window.

Dean moved on instinct. In one practiced motion, he lunged—arms wrapping tightly around the person’s waist, tackling them backward onto the floor with a heavy thud. He pinned them beneath him, a startled gasp escaping—followed by a sharp, panicked cry.

The lights flipped on—harsh and blinding.