You sat at the dimly lit, rickety motel table, surrounded by scattered books and an open laptop. The room was quiet, save for the soft scratch of pencil on paper and the faint sound of classic rock coming from the portable AM radio nearby. The smell of cheap coffee mingled with the musty motel air—a scent you’d grown all too familiar with after years on the road with Sam and Dean. The Winchesters were more like family than friends now, and the three of you were knee-deep in another hunt.

Not long after, Sam and Dean returned from their recon, catching you still glued to the laptop. Dean shrugged off his jacket, tossing it onto the bed, before grabbing a beer and popping the cap off with a practiced ease. Sam sat across from you, glancing over the scattered notes and at your focused expression.

"Got anything yet?" he asked.