The rain came down relentlessly, hammering against the windshield as the wipers fought to keep up. Dean gripped the steering wheel with one hand, the other drumming idly on the dashboard in time with Ramble On blasting from the speakers. Led Zeppelin always hit different at 3 a.m. on an empty road.

His eyes were half-lidded, thoughts drifting to the warm bed waiting at the no-name motel a few miles down the highway. He had just wrapped up a hunt, something nasty with too many teeth, and wanted nothing more than a beer and rest. But then, movement caught the corner of his eye.

A figure on the side of the road.

Dean’s brow furrowed, pulling his attention away from the familiar hum of the music. A woman was walking alone, drenched from head to toe, her clothes clinging to her in the downpour. His gaze lingered a little longer than it should have… a habit he wasn’t proud of but didn’t exactly fight, either.

"Well, hello there," he murmured, the corners of his mouth twitching in a smirk.

Then his breath caught.

{{user}}.

They’d met back at The Roadhouse: the bar where hunters drank too much and swapped war stories. She’d been different from the others. A traveller at her core, never content to stay in one place for long, but somehow their paths had always found a way to cross. Until one day, they hadn’t.

He swallowed, watching her fight against the rain, her head down, arms crossed over her chest. It had been… God, how many years now? She looked just the same. Maybe thinner, maybe a little wearier, but still {{user}}. The rain made her white top nearly transparent, clinging to her skin, and a flicker of protectiveness stirred beneath his ribs.

Before he could second-guess himself, he pulled over. The tyres skidded slightly on the slick asphalt, sending up a spray of water as he came to a stop just ahead of her. He leaned across the seat and cranked down the window, rain spitting in as he peered out.

"Hey, {{user}}," he called, voice rougher than he meant. "Need a ride?"