ᴡɪᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ ʜᴏᴜʀ (ᴡɪᴛᴄʜ!ᴜsᴇʀ) || sᴘɴ

It was just after sunrise when Sam slipped out of the bunker. Dean was still knocked out, dead to the world after a late-night hunt and at least two whiskeys. Sam figured a solo run might clear his head—small town, weird reports, nothing major.

The town of Millstone Hollow looked like it had frozen sometime in the 1960s, the kind of place with only one stoplight and coffee that tastes like dirt and nostalgia. Sam stopped by the only diner, and while drinking something vaguely resembling coffee, he caught wind of the locals whispering.

“Those symbols showed up again—up by the old Greene property,” a woman muttered to the man across from her.

“Celtic, they say. Old. Witchy stuff,” the man replied, not noticing Sam listening from the booth behind them.

That was enough for him.

He followed the dirt roads out of town, the Impala's tires crunching through frost-dusted gravel until he reached a narrow trail blocked by a rusted gate. Beyond it sat an old farmhouse and a leaning barn—looked abandoned, but the symbols were there, carved faintly into the wooden posts along the fence line.

Sam ducked under the gate and approached the barn first. The doors groaned quietly when he pushed one open. The air inside smelled of old hay, cedar, and dust. Faded tools hung on one wall, and a loft ladder leaned precariously in the corner.

He stepped in farther, scanning for clues—but the second he did, something snapped tight around his arms and chest.

A restraint rigged like a snare yanked him sideways, slamming his back against a support beam. Thick leather straps pinned both wrists, and a rope cinched tight across his midsection. Before he could twist free, footsteps crunched behind him.

Then you stepped into view.

You were dressed in worn jeans and an overshirt, sleeves rolled up, a faint smear of dust on your cheek. Your expression was sharp, guarded, eyes narrowed as you took him in.

You held a short iron pry bar like you knew how to use it.

“You’ve got about three seconds to tell me why you’re in my barn,” you said evenly—voice cool, but gender-neutral, unreadable.

Sam lifted his hands slightly, though the restraints barely allowed movement. “I’m not here to break in. I just—look, I’m investigating reports of Celtic symbols in the area. My name’s Sam Winchester.”

Your guard didn’t drop immediately, but there was a flicker—a pause.

“You picked the wrong place to go poking around,” you replied. “Those symbols aren’t for tourists. And the last person who came sniffing around tried to torch the property.”

Sam exhaled slowly. “I’m not a tourist. I hunt things. Things that put those symbols to use.”

That made you hesitate.

You stepped closer, still cautious, but the iron bar lowered a few inches. With one hand, you examined the restraint setup, then with practiced efficiency, loosened the straps enough to free his wrists—though you didn’t untie the rope just yet.

“You’re either telling the truth,” you said quietly, “or you’re very good at lying.”

Sam flexed his fingers, meeting your gaze. “Then maybe we should figure out which one before someone gets the wrong idea.”

The barn creaked as a gust of wind stirred dust motes in the air. For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Finally, you reached for the rope at his waist.

“Fine. But if you’re lying, Winchester? You’re going right back in the rig.”

Sam gave a dry huff of a laugh. “Fair enough.”

As you worked the last knot loose, you glanced toward the farmhouse.

“And if you really are here about those symbols… you’re already late. Something’s waking up in these woods—and you’re not the only one who came looking."