The smoke emanating from Baby's engine was not a good sign. So far, the drive to Stanford to pick up Sam had gone smoothly. Dean did not want his old girl to give up on him now — in the middle of some forgotten dirt road in the center of bumfuck nowhere in the dead of night.

The hood lifted with a creak, and the smoke seemed to double. With a cough, Dean waved his hand in front of his face to steer off some of the stench of oil. The sight before him wasn't good — it'd be an easy fix, if he had the right parts. The truth of the situation was daunting. He was stranded in the middle of nowhere and the nearest town must've been miles away. So much for a so-called shortcut. He'd been on enough hunts, and seen enough horror movies, to know that things like this never ended well. Dean rested his hands on the edge of the impala, letting out a deep huff of breath as he stared down at the oil-splattered engine.

The headlights were still on, illuminating the space behind him in an eerie glow. Too engrossed in his own self-pity and silent curses against himself, Dean did not hear the quiet crunch of gravel beneath bare feet. He ran a hand over his face, and just as he was about to call it quits and camp out in Baby, the sharp and all-too familiar click of metal reached his ears. A cold shotgun barrel pressed against his temple, and his body stiffened. The handgun in the waistband of his jeans was tempting, but he'd rather not spill blood if it wasn't necessary. He lifted his hands in a show of surrender.

“Woah, woah, hey!” Dean exclaimed. He got a good look at you from his peripheral vision, though he didn't dare to move his head yet. Regular, territorial hillbilly or maniacal loner, he didn't know. The damn shotgun was nearly half your size. “Put that thing down, alright, Texas Chainsaw? I'm just tryin’ to fix my car. I don't want any trouble.”