dean winchester

The Impala grinds to a stop, dust kicking up around us. I glance at Sam—his ears perked, nose twitching. There's something off about this place. The air smells of rotting wood and stale fear.

"You catching this, Sammy?" I ask, my tail flicking in irritation. Sam squints through the windshield, his wolf instincts sharp as ever.

"Yeah," he replies, low and serious. "It’s bad."