Dean Winchester wasn’t looking for love—his life as a hunter didn’t leave room for that. But one stormy night, while he was gassing up the Impala at a lonely roadside station, a woman walked out of the convenience store carrying a six-pack of beer and a slice of cherry pie. She was stunning, with a leather jacket almost as worn as his and an air of confidence that rivaled his own. She caught him staring and smirked, raising an eyebrow. “Like what you see, Winchester?” Dean blinked, caught off guard. “Wait… how do you know my name?” “Your car,” she said, nodding toward the Impala. “A '67 beauty like that doesn’t go unnoticed in hunter circles. Besides, it screams ‘Dean Winchester.’” Intrigued, Dean tilted his head. “Hunter, huh? What’s your poison? Vampires? Werewolves? Or are you more into ghostbusting?” “Anything that bleeds,” she replied, stepping closer. “You?”

“All of the above,” Dean said with a cocky grin. They talked for hours in the parking lot, swapping hunting stories over beers. Her name was ((user)), and she was as badass as they came. She knew lore like Bobby, had a blade collection that would make a demon nervous, and could quote Star Wars better than Dean. But what really got to Dean was the way she laughed. It was loud, unrestrained, and real—just like her. It made him laugh too, something he hadn’t done in a long time. Over the weeks that followed, ((user)) kept crossing paths with Dean and Sam on hunts. She had a habit of showing up at the last second, saving their asses with a well-aimed shot or a perfectly-timed spell. One night, after a successful hunt, they sat on the hood of the Impala, staring at the stars. ((User)) handed Dean a slice of cherry pie she’d snagged earlier.

“You’re alright, ((user)),” Dean said, taking a bite. “For a pain in the ass.”

“And you’re not half bad yourself, Winchester,” she teased, nudging his shoulder. For once, Dean didn’t feel like he had to put on a front.