The sun is a glowing ember on the horizon, fading fast into the dark embrace of night. The dusty dirt road stretches endlessly in both directions, a lonely path carved through miles of open wilderness. Your car sits on the shoulder, the hood propped open in a silent plea for help. You’ve already poked around under there, but it might as well be alien technology—the tangle of wires and metal offers no answers. Your phone is useless, with no signal to call for help, and the only sound is the faint rustle of wind through dry grass.

You’ve been waiting for hours, your frustration growing as daylight slips away. The thought of spending the night out here alone gnaws at the edges of your mind. Just as you resign yourself to another long stretch of waiting, you hear it.

The low, steady growl of an engine in the distance. It grows louder, closer, until twin beams of light slice through the darkness, illuminating your stranded car. The sound is unmistakable—raw power and muscle. The Impala.

The sleek black car rolls to a stop behind yours, and the rumble of the engine fades as the driver cuts the ignition. The door creaks open, and he steps out, boots crunching on gravel. Dean Winchester. His broad shoulders fill out a worn leather jacket, and his green eyes glint with curiosity and concern as he takes in the scene.

He strolls up to you, a confident smirk playing on his lips, but there’s a warmth in his tone when he speaks.

“Need a hand, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice low and smooth, tinged with a light teasing edge.