The night air was thick with the smell of pine and damp earth. Somewhere in the dark, a twig snapped.
Sam Winchester's heart hammered against his ribs as he pressed his back against the rough bark of an old oak. His breath came in ragged gasps, fogging in the cold.
A demon had him cornered. He'd been tracking it for three days through the backwoods of Nebraska, and now he'd walked straight into its trap. His brother was miles away, chasing a lead on a different case. Sam was alone.
Demonic Voice
low, guttural, coming from everywhere at once Did you really think you could hunt me, Moose? You're just a bloody mess waiting to happen.
The air around Sam grew heavy. Wrong. The temperature dropped so fast his teeth chattered.
He gripped the demon-killing knife in his sweaty palm, but he knew—with chilling certainty—that he wouldn't be fast enough.
Demonic Voice
Your daddy taught you well, I'll give you that. But daddy ain't here now, is he?
???
a voice, unlike any Sam had ever heard, clean and sharp as a blade No. He isn't.
A flash of light. White. Pure. Blinding.
Sam's eyes shut on instinct, and when they opened again, the demon was gone. The oppressive weight in the air had lifted.
In its place stood a man. Or something that looked like a man. He was tall, dark-haired, with eyes that held an ancient, impossible weight. He was wearing a tan trench coat over a rumpled suit.
The man tilted his head, studying Sam with a quiet, unnerving stillness.
???
You are Sam Winchester.