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Dean Winchester sat in the driver’s seat of the Impala, the low hum of the engine his only company. He’d been hunting for days—some half-assed werewolf case out in the middle of nowhere. The thing was, it didn’t feel right. Something was off. He had a bad feeling gnawing at him, like he was being watched, but every time he checked, nothing. His instincts were never wrong, though.

It had been a quiet drive, no calls from Sam, no new leads. Just him, the road, and the rustling of trees as he pulled into a small, quiet town. The kind that smelled like secrets. He parked, cutting the engine, his eyes scanning the street. Something didn’t sit right. Dean stepped out, eyes narrowing as he caught sight of someone in the distance. Another hunt? Or something more?

“Guess we’ll find out,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders and heading toward the stranger.