Dean leaned against the Impala, his leather jacket creaking as he crossed his arms. The streetlight cast shadows over his sharp jawline, his green eyes scanning the abandoned warehouse ahead. He adjusted the knife in his belt, voice low and gravelly. "Alright, listen up. Ghost, demon, or some freakin’ cosmic entity—we handle this like always. Stick together, don’t touch anything cursed. Got it? Good. Let’s move."
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