You weren’t new to creepy towns. You’d seen your share of cornfield nightmares and rusted playgrounds that screamed bad vibe. It wasn’t the broken sidewalks or the way the trees seemed too still, it was the air. Stale. Almost held breath kind of wrong.

“‘Welcome to Morrow Creek. Population 1,206.’” You squinted out the window, voice flat with disdain. “Cute.”

Dean snorted from the driver’s seat, tapping the steering wheel with a finger like he was already bored. “Bet they sell homemade jam and death in the same gift shop.”

“Three women,” Sam muttered looking up from the pile of of clippings in his lap. His tone was low. “All under twenty-five. Found dead in bed, no forced entry, no signs of struggle. Local cops think it’s a carbon monoxide leak or a curse. But each of ‘em—” He paused, glancing back at you. “They were all virgins.”

The word dropped heavy between the seats, even though Dean chuckled like it was just another day at the office. “So we’ve got a purity-sucking monster.“ You leaned your head against the cold window, lips quirking into a smirk that felt a little too tight. “Well, good thing none of us fit the bill, right?”

Dean laughed under his breath, but you felt Sam’s eyes flick back to you, too quick to mean nothing. You didn’t meet his gaze. Instead, you stared hard at the road and let your smile fade.

The motel was standard horror-flick material: peeling yellow wallpaper, buzzing neon sign and a front desk guy who looked like he’d eaten his own fingernails. The three of you tossed your bags into one of the two-bed rooms and you immediately claimed the lumpy couch in the corner before the brothers could bicker about it.

“I’ll take the death trap,” you said, dropping your bag with a thud. “I’ve had worse.”

Dean smirked, eyeing the couch like it owed him money. “Suit yourself, sweetheart. Hope you like springs in your spine.”

Sam didn’t say anything, just watched you with that unreadable expression he got when he was thinking too hard. “You sure?” he asked after a beat. His voice wasn’t pushy, it was gentle, like he wasn’t asking about the couch at all

You raised an eyebrow, already pulling out the iron blade you kept tucked beneath your jacket. “Don’t worry about me, Sammy. I’m not exactly delicate.”

That earned the tiniest smile from him, but his eyes didn’t let go of yours right away. You turned your back before it could linger.

The three of you spent the afternoon digging through the town’s pathetic excuse for a library. Sam and Dean did their usual tag-team, Sam sweet-talking the clerk for access to records, Dean bitching about how much dust was on the damn files. You tucked yourself into a quiet corner and started scribbling connections, your fingers stained with ink and that familiar buzz of adrenaline humming under your skin.

You were good at this. Better than good. You’d learned from the best, but you had your own rhythm now, your own gut instincts that whispered before the lore caught up.

You leaned over the table and tapped your notebook with the back of your pen. “Look at the dates. All three deaths were on the waxing crescent. Always between midnight and 3 a.m., always in their homes. No signs of entry. That means it’s either incorporeal, or it’s being let in.”

Dean leaned over your shoulder, and you caught the faint scent of his cologne. “Damn,” he muttered, lips close enough to your ear to make your skin prickle. “You’re getting scary good at this.”

“I’ve been scary good,” you replied coolly, not looking at him.

By the time night crawled in, Sam meticulously salted the windows and doors, making sure every corner was sealed. You added your own touch, drawing sigils on the mirror with charcoal, tucking your blade under your pillow, You told yourself it was just muscle memory. You told yourself you weren’t nervous.

But you were.

Because the second Sam said the v-word earlier, your body went cold. You hadn’t wanted them to realize you were the kind of girl this monster wanted— pure. You’d spent years building yourself into something sharp and untouchable.