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scribbly-squid · 2 days ago

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Sympathy for the Devil

Lucifer x F!Hunter Reader

SPN x Hazbin Hotel Crossover

You have been hunting alongside the Winchester brothers for a while, your life consumed by the hunt. But for the past few months, you have been tormented by vivid, unsettling visions. As you start to uncover the truth behind these haunting vision, you’re driven to find the mysterious woman from them. But what will happen when you cross paths with a certain fallen angel who has taken an interest in you?

🌻Hey yall so sorry for the long disappearance a lot has happened in my life. So I hope yall understand - here’s that next chapter :)

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Chapter 4

The wet, metallic sound of your machete slicing clean through the vampire’s neck echoed in your ears, louder than it should’ve been. The severed head hit the ground with a sickening thud, and the body followed a moment later—limp, lifeless, twitching one last time before stillness claimed it.

Youp stood there for a beat, breathing heavily, hand still clenched around the hilt of your blade. The coppery scent of blood clung to the air, sharp and cloying. But your mind wasn’t in the alley anymore. It had drifted back to a few days ago.

To Castiel.

[ . . . ]

“Y/N… I need to talk to you about your visions.”

The calm in his voice didn’t match the severity in his eyes. There was something sharp in his stare, something that made your stomach twist. You tilted your head, feigning ease even as anxiety crawled beneath your skin. “How did you know about them?”

Castiel took a slow breath, like the very question annoyed him. He stepped in closer, closer than you liked, urgency radiating from him like heat. “How I know is not of importance,” he said, his voice edged with quiet authority. “I need to know what happens in these visions.”

The weight of his gaze was suffocating, pressing against your chest like a vice. You took a reflexive step back, but he only followed, relentless.

“Why?” you asked. “What exactly are you expecting to find?”

For a moment, something shifted in him. His shoulders relaxed just enough to show weariness, maybe even concern. “These visions… they may be warnings,” he said, his voice low and deliberate. “Warnings we can’t afford to ignore.”

You stared at him, heart hammering. “What are you talking about?”

“Because Heaven is at war,” Castiel said flatly, like it was just another Tuesday.

The words knocked the wind from you. War? In Heaven? The concept felt alien, absurd—until you saw the grim sincerity in his eyes.

“What do you mean?” Your voice was barely a whisper, laced with disbelief.

His eyes drifted away, lost in memory or regret, and he crossed his arms. “Sam and Dean stopped the Apocalypse. They saved the world… but not without consequences. Heaven has no direction. The chain of command is broken. Angels are fractured, turning against one another. Some are trying to claim power. Others want revenge.”

“And my visions?” you pressed. “What do they have to do with this civil war in the sky?”

“They may be more than just glimpses of possible futures,” Castiel replied, eyes locking with yours once more. “They could be messages. Not from Heaven’s hierarchy… but from something older. Something... watching. Or worse—trying to guide you.”

You swallowed hard. “My visions don’t show angels. At least, not directly. Just… destruction. I always wake up in this battlefield. It’s—horrible. Corpses everywhere. Smoke. Fire. And always… always a woman buried beneath them all.”

Castiel leaned in, now fully locked onto your words. “A woman?”

You nodded slowly, the image flashing behind your eyes like a nightmare on repeat. “Her skin was so pale it was almost blue. And she had long, tangled blonde hair. But her face… there were these marks. Red. Like warpaint or… maybe blood?”

He stilled.

“Did she have any red markings,” he asked, “specifically around her cheeks?”

You blinked. “Yeah. I thought they were from the fight… from the bodies around her.”

“No,” Castiel said firmly, shaking his head. “If it’s who I think it is, those aren’t bloodstains. It’s just how she looks.”

A cold shiver ran down your spine, your breath catching in your throat. “Who is she, Castiel?”

His eyes didn’t waver, his voice grave and quiet. “Her name is Charlotte. She’s Lucifer’s daughter. Princess of Hell.”

You gaped at him.

You stared at him, stunned. “Lucifer has a daughter?”

Castiel nodded. “Yes. And if she’s in your visions, it means something is coming. Something worse than anything we’ve seen before.”

He glanced away for just a second, as if considering the weight of what he was about to say.

“I need to find Sam and Dean,” he muttered. Then he turned back to you, lowering his voice. “But for now… don’t tell them anything else. Not until we know what this means. Promise me, Y/N.”

You barely nodded before he vanished with a flutter of wings, leaving only the echo of his warning in the air

[ . . . ]

Now, standing over the headless vampire, your pulse still racing, you reached into your back pocket at the sound of your phone vibrating. You glanced at the screen. Dean.

You forced a breath and brought it to your ear, managing a faint smile. “Anything come up yet?”

A low groan rumbled through the phone speaker before Dean's voice followed, gravelly and laced with fatigue. “None whatsoever. We might keep this on the radar in case something similar happens again.” There was a pause, then the sound of him clearing his throat. “So uh… how’s the vamp nest going? Need any backup?”

You couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at the corner of your mouth. “Backup? Listen here, Deano,” you said with a scoff, half-joking. “I could take out a vamp nest in my sleep. You’re a little late though—I just finished cleaning up the mess. About to head back now.”

Dean hummed thoughtfully, the static on the line giving away the motel’s poor reception. “Alright. Once you get back here, we’ll pack up and move on. Feels like we’ve been in this town too long anyway.”

“Agreed,” you replied, your hand already on the door of the beat-up old car you’d hotwired earlier. It creaked as you pulled it open. “I’ll be there in a few hours.”

The call ended with a soft click, and silence reclaimed the interior of the car. You started the engine—the old thing coughing and sputtering to life—and pulled out onto the empty road, headlights casting thin beams through the night mist. The radio flicked on softly, a classic rock station barely holding a signal. You left it playing—just enough sound to keep the loneliness at bay.

But it didn’t stop the thoughts from swarming.

Why you?

Of all people… why the hell did you get these visions?

You tightened your grip on the steering wheel, knuckles going white. You weren’t some chosen one. Not a prophet. Not even particularly special in the grand scheme of things. You were a hunter. One of few.

You could still remember the coppery smell of blood in your childhood home. The grotesque image of your parents—what was left of them—when the rugaru tore through your house like nothing. You were eleven. Just old enough to understand that monsters were real, and far too young to process the raw trauma that followed.

Bobby had found you two days later, cold, hungry, and hiding in a closet with a kitchen knife clutched in your trembling hands. You never forgot the way he looked at you—more tired than surprised. Like he’d seen this before. Like he already knew the damage that had been done.

You never asked why he took you in. Whether it was out of obligation, guilt, or some old promise he made to himself. You just… accepted it. He fed you. Taught you. Trained you. Gave you the kind of stability you’d never admit you needed. Sure, it wasn’t exactly a normal childhood—unless target practice, holy water drills, and silver rounds under your pillow counted.

But it was better than the alternative.

Now here you were—an adult, a hunter, and apparently the vessel for visions involving celestial war and Lucifer’s secret daughter. No pressure.

As the miles blurred past and the darkness thickened around you, you tried not to think about Charlotte. About her pale skin. Her haunting red-streaked cheeks. The dead around her like discarded dolls. She wasn’t just a message. She meant something. And you could feel it in your bones—the way her eyes called out to you in the vision.

Your ears caught the familiar riff just as it filtered through the soft static of the radio. You reached over and turned the volume knob until the speakers rattled slightly, the lyrics filling the car like an old friend sliding into the passenger seat beside you.

“I lived my life like there’s no tomorrow…”

Outside, the rain had started up again—gentle at first, then slowly building into a steady rhythm against the windshield. The wipers dragged across the glass in time with the music, and for a moment, everything felt peaceful. The storm outside, the war inside your head—both blurred into something distant, something manageable.

“I found the simple life ain’t so simple, when I jumped out on that road…”

You hadn’t even realized you were singing until your voice echoed above the hum of the engine. Loud, unpolished, a little off-key, but completely unfiltered. There was no one around to hear. No Sam or Dean to poke fun, no angel watching from the shadows. Just you and the open stretch of highway, the Van Halen track blaring like a battle cry.

Grinning, you leaned forward slightly, fingers tightening on the wheel as your foot pressed down on the gas. The old car responded with a growl, picking up speed as the rain streaked past like silver wires. The speedometer climbed. So did the volume of your voice.

You rolled the window down halfway, letting the cold night air rush in, mixing with the scent of wet asphalt and old leather. For the first time in days, maybe weeks, your chest didn’t feel so tight. Your pulse didn’t race from fear or adrenaline. Just… freedom. And a little recklessness. The kind you used to chase when you were younger and didn’t know any better.

Your mind drifted to simpler times. Hunting salt-and-burn jobs with Bobby. Late-night diner runs with Sam and Dean, still covered in bruises and monster gunk. Nights like this—driving under the stars, no destination in sight, no one to answer to.

You let yourself laugh. Just once. A real one.

Because even with visions, vampires, and Heaven tearing itself apart… you were still you. A hunter. A survivor. A woman who sang along to ‘Van Halen’ in the rain and drove like the devil wasn’t already trying to catch her.

The song faded into the next track, but at this point, you didn’t care how loud you were singing. There was something freeing about the open road at night—just you, the beat-up Audi, and the music echoing into the void.

“He was brutally handsome, and she was terminally pretty…”

You grinned as you belted out the lyrics, your voice carrying with the music as rain drummed steadily against the windshield. The sight of distant headlights pierced the darkness up ahead, and for a moment, your heart sank. So much for the solo concert.

“He had a nasty reputation as a cruel dude…”

And then it happened.

A jolt—sudden, sharp. The car shuddered violently as something struck the undercarriage, sending your heart into your throat. You slammed the brakes, the tires screeching across slick pavement until the vehicle groaned to a stop.

“Shit—shit—shit!”

You slapped off the radio, adrenaline kicking in fast. In one swift motion, you reached into the backseat, yanked open your duffel, and grabbed your flashlight and handgun. You weren’t about to step into the dark without being ready.

The air was cold as you stepped out, flashlight beam slicing through the rain as you scanned the road. Your boots splashed through shallow puddles as you moved, eyes narrowed.

“Please be a deer… or a raccoon… or anything normal,” you muttered under your breath.

But the beam caught on something human.

You froze.

Lying there, sprawled awkwardly in the middle of the road, was a man. Motionless. Drenched.

Your pulse quickened. Slowly, cautiously, you approached, keeping your weapon trained on him just in case. Kneeling beside him, you pressed two fingers to his neck.

A pulse. Steady.

Frowning, you swept your light over him, checking for wounds. No blood. No broken bones. No obvious injuries—just a few scuffs along his hands and jaw from the landing.

“What the hell…” you muttered, standing slowly.

He was fine. For someone who just got hit by a car, he looked remarkably intact.

You stared down at him, mind racing. You couldn’t just leave him here—unconscious in the middle of nowhere, soaked to the bone. But you also couldn’t exactly bring him back with you.

You clapped your hands together once, rubbing your palms briskly as you eyed the man with a groan of resignation.

“Okay. Guess we’re doing this.”

You braced yourself and bent down to hoist him up. Surprisingly, he wasn’t as heavy as you expected. Still awkward, but manageable. With some creative maneuvering, you managed to get him into the back seat, adjusting him into something that vaguely resembled a comfortable position.

Was this… kidnapping?

You winced.

“Awesome. Just added felony to the night’s bingo card.”

As you shut the back door, something caught your eye—lying a few feet away near the edge of the road.

A cane.

Your stomach dropped.

“Oh my God, I hit a disabled man…”

You picked up the cane and tossed it gently into the passenger seat. The radio stayed off this time as you slid back behind the wheel, the weight of the situation settling hard on your chest.

Should you call Sam and Dean? Would they understand?

You dug your phone from the center console, screen lighting up as you opened your GPS. Nearest hospital? Nothing. You were in the middle of nowhere. Go figure.

Closest motel: 24 miles out. Great. About half an hour.

You exhaled a frustrated breath and switched to your messages, thumbs moving quickly over the screen as you typed a text to Dean.

“Summit Motel. Meet me there when you can.”

You hit send, glancing up into the rearview mirror at the unconscious man stretched out across your backseat. The rhythmic thump of rain against the roof was the only sound in the car now. It filled the silence like a ticking clock.

Dean’s reply came almost immediately.

“We’ll hit the road ASAP.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. Good. They were coming. Maybe they’d know what to do—because right now, you sure as hell didn’t.

You looked back again, studying the stranger’s peaceful face in the dim glow from the dash lights. Who was he? Why wasn’t he hurt? Why was he just… there?

And why did you feel like this wasn’t just an accident?

You turned your eyes back to the dark highway ahead and pressed your foot on the gas. You just hoped to God you hadn’t brought something worse with you.

[ . . . ]

You pulled into the cracked parking lot of the Summit Motel, letting the engine hum for a few seconds before finally turning the key. The headlights dimmed, leaving the rain-spattered windshield streaked with reflections from a dying neon sign above the office door. You sat back in the driver's seat, staring ahead for a long moment, heart still tapping a restless rhythm in your chest.

The man in the backseat hadn’t moved. Not even a twitch.

You cast a glance over your shoulder, eyes narrowing. You weren’t sure what you were expecting—clawed hands lunging toward your throat, glowing eyes snapping open—but all he did was breathe. Shallow, even. Human. Or so he appeared.

Still, your fingers stayed curled around the grip of the handgun resting on your lap.

The rain had thinned to a mist by the time you stepped out of the car, pulling your jacket tighter against the night chill. The motel office sat under a flickering porch light, the bulb straining like it was just as tired of this place as the man inside.

You pushed open the door to a wave of stale cigarette smoke and cheap carpet cleaner. The wallpaper peeled at the corners, faded with age and nicotine stains. An old television murmured in the background, half-muted and playing static more than show. Behind the counter sat an elderly man with sunken eyes and a permanent frown carved into his face, like this job had long since chewed him up.

“Evening,” you greeted, masking your nerves with a tight smile. “Uh… two queen beds, please.”

He barely looked at you as his fingers clacked against the dusty keyboard. You stood in silence, the only sounds being the click of keys and the rain ticking against the windows.

When he named the price, you nodded and reached into your wallet, pulling out a fake credit card with a name you barely remembered using. Rebecca Bonham. It slid across the counter without hesitation. The man didn’t ask questions. He didn’t care.

Hunters didn’t get paid—but you learned how to work the system.

A minute later, he handed you a key on a faded plastic tag, room number scrawled in pen on the back. You nodded your thanks and turned away, the scent of old ashtray smoke following you out the door.

Back at the car, you glanced around the empty lot before slipping back into the driver’s seat. Carefully, you started the engine again and eased the Audi around the building, parking as close to your assigned room as possible. You didn’t want to risk dragging an unconscious man across open pavement where anyone might catch sight.

Because, yeah… this was definitely starting to feel like kidnapping.

You turned off the engine and stared out into the dark for a second.

What the hell were you even doing?

Then you looked back at him again—motionless, pale, barely scuffed up despite being struck by a car. No blood. No broken bones.

You tightened your grip on the steering wheel, let out a quiet curse under your breath. As you pulled open the back door of the car, your breath caught in your throat.

He had moved.

Not much—just shifted onto his side, one arm tucked slightly beneath him—but it was enough to make your pulse quicken. He’d been flat on his back when you left. You were sure of it.

You let out a slow sigh, forcing yourself to shake off the nerves. Whatever he was, he wasn’t awake. Not yet.

“Alright, Sleeping Beauty,” you muttered under your breath as you leaned in and slid your arms under his shoulders. He was lighter than you’d expected, though awkward to carry, and your muscles strained as you hauled him out of the car and across the lot. The gravel crunched under your boots, and the motel’s buzzing neon sign cast flickering shadows as you dragged him inside.

The room was dim, its single overhead light buzzing faintly. The air was musty with the scent of mildew and long-forgotten cleaning supplies. With effort, you guided him to the nearest bed and lowered him gently onto the worn mattress, taking a moment to adjust his position so he wouldn’t wake up with a twisted neck.

You stood over him for a second, watching for any sudden movements—but he remained still, breathing slow and steady.

After a quick glance around, you stepped back outside and returned to the car to grab your gear. Duffel bag over your shoulder, weapons secured, you made your way back to the room and dropped everything onto the small table by the window with a quiet thud.

Finally, you sat down in the rickety wooden chair beside the bed and studied the stranger.

He didn’t look threatening, at least not right now. Maybe late thirties. Blonde hair, tousled from either the wind or whatever hit he took on the road. His clothes were soaked but clean, intact—not the sort of thing you'd expect from someone wandering the highways in the middle of the night.

You leaned back, arms crossed, still watching him sleep. Whoever he was, he hadn’t stirred once since you brought him in. That should’ve brought some comfort. It didn’t.

With a sigh, you stood and crossed to the door, stepping outside into the cool night air. The breeze rolled across your skin like a silent warning. You didn’t like being alone with the unknown—but you liked the idea of leaving him out there even less.

You stared up at the sky, clouds thick and moonless above, and tried not to think about how quiet everything was.

“I need a drink,” you muttered to yourself, rubbing a hand over your face.

The night air was crisp against your skin as you stepped further out into the motel parking lot, the gravel crunching softly underfoot. Off in the distance, you spotted the faint glow of a vending machine humming beside the main office, its flickering light casting a sickly hue across the cracked pavement.

You turned back, eyes lingering on the motel room door.

He hadn’t moved. Probably wouldn’t. You wouldn’t be gone long.

With a sigh, you headed for the vending machine, the soft buzz growing louder the closer you got. Your fingers hovered over the buttons as you scanned the options. Nothing screamed appealing. Just the usual lineup of too-sweet sodas and suspiciously off-brand energy drinks. You finally settled on something tolerable and fed in a few crumpled bills.

The can dropped with a mechanical clunk.

You cracked it open, the fizz breaking the silence, and took a long sip. The cold bubbles hit the back of your throat like a jolt—but it wasn’t enough to wash away the knot of unease sitting in your gut.

Leaning against the machine, you stared out at the empty lot, illuminated only by flickering neon and the occasional passing headlights far off on the highway.

You could leave him.

That thought had been nudging at the back of your mind since you first saw him lying on the road. You didn’t owe him anything. He wasn’t bleeding out. No visible wounds. No broken bones. Just unconscious and mysteriously unharmed.

You could walk back in, grab your gear, and vanish before he even woke up.

But you didn’t.

You took another sip, the taste suddenly more bitter than before.

You were pulled from your thoughts by the low, unmistakable rumble of the Impala as it rolled into the dimly lit parking lot. The sound struck something in your chest—comfort, familiarity, and dread all tangled together.

Tossing the warm soda aside, you brushed your hands off on your jeans and stepped toward the room. The headlights cut through the gloom, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement as the car came to a stop. Gravel crunched beneath boots as Dean stepped out from the driver’s side, squinting toward you, while Sam exited from the passenger seat, his stride long and purposeful.

“Y/N,” Sam called out, already reading the tension in your stance. “You alright?”

You offered a weak nod, but your voice wavered as you replied, “Yeah… I’m okay, just…”

You hesitated. Your mouth felt dry. The words tasted like guilt on your tongue.

Dean came around the front of the car, watching you closely now. You glanced at the room behind you, then back to the brothers. The fluorescent light buzzing from the motel sign above seemed to grow louder as the silence dragged.

“I hit someone,” you finally said, the words sharp and bitter.

Dean blinked. “Like… hit someone hit someone?”

You nodded, your voice a whisper. “With the car. He came out of nowhere.”

Sam let out a sigh that sounded more like a groan, dragging a hand over his face. “Please tell me it wasn’t a vampire or—”

“He wasn’t a monster,” you interrupted. “He was a person. I mean—he looked like one. And…” you glanced around the parking lot, then stepped in close, lowering your voice. “He had a cane. I think he might be disabled.”

Dean’s expression twisted in disbelief, somewhere between concern and a brewing headache. Sam turned away, pressing his hands to his hips like he was trying to center himself.

Dean opened his mouth to ask the next obvious question, but you reached up quickly, pressing your hand against his lips before he could speak.

“He’s fine,” you said firmly. “He’s breathing. Pulse steady. No blood, no breaks. Just out cold.”

Dean stared at you over your hand for a beat before slowly pointing past you, toward the motel room door.

You gave a single nod.

Dean walked toward the room, pushing the door open without hesitation. You stood still, rooted to the pavement, unable to follow. The cool night air brushed against your skin, but it did nothing to calm the heat crawling up your neck.

Seconds passed, then a minute. A moth circled the neon motel light above you in lazy spirals. Inside the room, there was no noise. No reaction. Nothing.

Then Dean reappeared, stepping out slowly, his brows low and his jaw tight. He looked at you, then pointed a thumb back over his shoulder.

“There’s no one in there.”

You scoffed at Dean, shaking your head with a half-laugh, convinced he was messing with you. But the second you stepped into the room, the humor drained from your face.

The bed was empty.

The rumpled blanket and dent in the mattress were the only evidence that someone had ever been there. You rushed across the room, heart pounding in your ears, and swung the bathroom door open—nothing. Just a dingy mirror and cracked tile. No blood. No sign of a struggle. No man.

Your stomach twisted as you turned back toward the brothers, who had followed you inside. The room suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier.

“Y/N…” Sam started, his voice soft but laced with that careful tone he used when he was worried you might snap. “Are you sure you’re okay? Because we—we understand these visions can mess with your sense of reality. Sometimes you can’t tell what’s real and what isn’t.”

You turned toward him slowly, your jaw tightening as you tried to keep the frustration from spilling over.

“No,” you said, shaking your head firmly. “I know what I saw. What I did. He was right there!” You pointed toward the bed, your voice rising with panic and certainty. “I hit him with my car. I carried him in here. He was unconscious!”

Sam and Dean exchanged a look behind you, the kind that said they were weighing whether you needed rest or something stronger.

You stepped forward, fists clenched, adrenaline making your skin buzz. “I’m not losing it. I know the difference between a dream and reality.”

Dean’s voice came low and measured. “Then where the hell did he go?”

Dean stepped closer, his boots thudding softly against the worn motel carpet. His eyes narrowed slightly, the way they always did when his gut told him something was off.

“Are you sure what you hit was human?” he asked, his voice calm but edged with concern.

You blinked at him, startled by the question. “I—I… Yes!” you said, though your voice lacked the conviction you wished it had. The image of the man’s body lying on the road flashed again in your mind—intact, breathing, but eerily still.

Sam was already moving around the room, scanning the space with practiced eyes, lifting the edge of the curtain, checking corners for any signs of supernatural residue.

“Did you do the basic tests?” Sam asked, glancing back at you. “Silver? Holy water?”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out for a second. You realized too late that in your panic and rush, you had skipped all the steps Bobby drilled into your head when you were barely old enough to drive.

You shook your head, guilt curling low in your gut. “I-I guess not. I was just so focused on the fact that I hit someone… I didn’t stop to think…” Your voice trailed off, your arms crossing over your chest as the weight of the situation settled.

Sam sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’re not blaming you, Y/N. But if that guy wasn’t just some poor bastard crossing the road…” He paused, glancing toward the empty bed. “Then we’ve got a bigger problem on our hands.”

Dean’s eyes flicked to yours. “Okay. Next time, full test kit first. No exceptions.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy and cold, like a thick fog you couldn’t shake off. Your pulse quickened, and for a moment, you swore the walls of the motel room were closing in around you.

"I know what I saw," you whispered, more to yourself than to Dean or Sam. "I didn't imagine this."

Sam gave you a sympathetic glance but said nothing, sensing the deep tension in the room. Dean stood up, his expression unreadable as his fingers hovered over the window latch. He didn’t seem convinced, but he wasn’t dismissing it either.

“You’re sure he didn’t get up and leave?” Sam asked quietly, though it was clear he was entertaining the idea.

“No, Sam," you snapped, trying to keep the edge from your voice. "He was out cold. I checked. He wasn’t moving.”

You turned in a slow circle, your eyes scanning every corner of the room, but nothing was out of place. The dim light from the flickering motel lamp barely reached the edges of the room, but you were sure it hadn’t been enough time for him to vanish like this.

Sam pushed off the dresser, walking toward the small desk. “So what now? We wait for him to come back?”

Dean began gathering your gear, his movements brisk and tense, eyes darting to the empty bed every so often like it might suddenly refill with the stranger's body. “Now,” he muttered, slinging your duffel over his shoulder, “we get the hell out of here. Whatever it was—we can’t stay here.”

You nodded silently, the unease still sitting heavy in your gut. Sam didn’t argue either. He was already halfway to the front office to check out, shoulders squared, jaw tight with focus.

You stepped outside, the cool night air brushing against your skin like a quiet warning. The hum of the vending machine buzzed behind you, a lone flickering light in an otherwise still parking lot.

The Impala waited under a broken overhead lamp, her black paint reflecting the pale moonlight. You popped the trunk and started rearranging your gear with quick, practiced hands—salt rounds, holy water, iron blades, the basics. Each item felt like a little reassurance, a tiny anchor in the chaos. Still, none of it explained what had just happened.

The motel behind you stood silent, its shadow stretching long behind the car. You couldn't shake the feeling that you were being watched—not from a distance, but from somewhere just outside your peripheral vision. Like something had followed you out... and was simply waiting.

Sam reappeared a moment later, his boots crunching across the gravel. “Let’s hit the road. I don’t want to be around when whatever that was decides to come back.”

You gave one last glance toward the empty motel room window before slamming the trunk shut.

“Yeah,” you murmured, sliding into the back seat, eyes scanning the darkness. “Me neither.”

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