A rough hand shook your shoulder. The Impala's engine rumbled beneath you, the familiar leather scent filling your nostrils. The world outside the window was dark, just the occasional flicker of a streetlight.

You blinked, the motel parking lot coming into focus. A flickering neon sign read “Pinecrest Lodge” in faded red letters. Sam was already out of the car, stretching his long limbs, his breath misting in the cold November air.

Dean killed the engine. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the hum of the motel's ancient heater unit.