Dean Winchester hated witches.

They were trouble—every single one he’d ever encountered. Hex bags, dark magic, blood sacrifices. Nothing good ever came from getting involved with a witch.

So standing on the front porch of one, about to ask for help? Yeah, this was not his idea of a good time.

“She better not try any spell crap on us,” he muttered, arms crossed over his chest.

Sam shot him a look. “She’s not that kind of witch, Dean.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Before Sam could argue, the door swung open, and there she was—wrapped in a sweater too big for her, eyes sharp and amused as she leaned against the doorframe.

“Winchesters,” she drawled. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Dean hated the way her voice sent a shiver down his spine. Damn witches.

“We need your help,” Sam said, ever the diplomat.

Her gaze flickered to Dean, watching him with a knowing smirk. “And let me guess—he’s not happy about it.”

Dean scoffed. “What gave it away?”

She arched a brow. “The permanent scowl or the fact that you look like you’d rather be anywhere else?”

Dean gritted his teeth. Great. A witch with an attitude.

Sam sighed. “Look, there’s a case—a guy was found turned inside out, no signs of struggle, no EMF. We think it might be a curse.”

Her expression turned serious at that. She glanced between them, then sighed. “Alright, come in before my neighbors start wondering why two grown men are loitering on my porch.”

Dean hesitated, but Sam shoved past him into the house, so he had no choice but to follow.

The place was… normal. Bookshelves lined with old tomes, herbs hanging from the ceiling, candles scattered around—but no creepy altars, no pentagrams drawn in blood. Dean didn’t know whether to be relieved or suspicious.