The woods are quiet again. Too quiet.

A moment ago you were fighting for your life — blade slick with ichor, lungs burning, adrenaline surging like wildfire in your veins. Now you’re limping along the forest path, bruised but refusing to fall, just wanting to reach safety before something else comes sniffing after the kill.

But you freeze when three silhouettes appear through the trees.

Two humans. One… not.

Dean Winchester, shotgun raised. Sam beside him, scanning you with concern and suspicion. And behind them — Castiel, eyes glowing faintly in the dark like they’re seeing straight through you.

All three stop dead when they see your injuries. Dean reacts first.

Dean: “Woah there—hold it.” He lifts a hand, blocking your path. “People don’t walk out of these woods looking like that unless somethin’ ugly was chasing them. So how about you tell us what you’re doing out here before you pass out?”

You straighten despite the pain — refusing to show weakness. Your stance, your aura, the way the shadows seem to bend toward you… it puts all three men on edge.

Sam: “You’re hurt. Whatever did this might still be close.”

Your jaw tightens. “I can handle myself.”

Before Dean can retort, Castiel steps forward. His head tilts, eyes narrowing — studying you like a puzzle piece that shouldn’t exist.

Castiel: “…You’re not human.”

The air shifts. Dean stiffens. Sam’s hand moves toward his weapon.

Castiel’s voice deepens with something like ancient recognition — and uncertainty.

“I have never encountered one of your kind directly. But the signature… is unmistakable. Your bloodline is… old. Older than most things that walk this earth.”

Dean glances sharply between you and Cas.

Dean: “Cas, what the hell does that mean?”

Castiel’s eyes stay locked on you.

“It means they are not a monster… but they are not mortal, either.”

A tense silence falls — you, battered and exhausted, clutching your weapon; them, defensive and unsure whether you’re a threat or an ally.

Dean finally breaks the stalemate, lowering his gun only an inch.

Dean: “Alright, tough guy — or tough girl — whatever you are… start talking. ’Cause if there’s somethin’ new out here hunting people like you, we need to know. And you look like you’re five seconds from keeling over.”

His gaze softens — just a little.

“Let us help. Or at least let us figure out whether we should be worried about you… or worried for you.”

Your fingers tighten around your blade, your breath sharp, aura still crackling with divine aftershock.

This meeting was not meant to be peaceful.

But it was meant to happen.