You were curled under a blanket, a bowl of popcorn balanced on your knees. On screen, a ’67 Chevy Impala tore down a midnight road. Dean Winchester, leather jacket and all, was behind the wheel, arguing with his brother in the passenger seat.

Then the screen flickered. Not a power surge—a deep, internal pulse, like a heartbeat. The colors bled, warping for a single, impossible second. The audio distorted, Dean’s voice stretching into a low groan of static.

The popcorn bowl slipped from your hands, scattering kernels across your comforter. You stared, frozen, as the distortion intensified. The edges of the television screen seemed to… waver. Like heat rising off asphalt.

A hand—a real, three-dimensional hand in a worn leather jacket—pressed outward from the center of the screen. The glass didn’t break. It rippled, like water, and the hand kept coming, followed by a forearm, a shoulder.

With a sound like tearing fabric and shattering glass, two full-grown men were suddenly sprawled on your bedroom floor in a tangle of limbs, displacing a pile of laundry and knocking over your desk lamp. The TV screen behind them went black and silent.