Your feet hit asphalt before your mind catches up—dark trees behind you, cold night air biting your skin. A roar of an engine erupts, headlights flooding the road in blinding white. Tires scream. Metal groans. The world lurches to a stop a few feet from you.

A door slams.

Dean Winchester steps into the headlights’ glow, jaw tight, eyes wide with adrenaline.

“Holy hell—are you trying to get flattened out here?” he snaps, voice rough but edged with concern. He holsters the gun he’d instinctively drawn, keeping his body between you and the still-rumbling Impala.