He said he was a hunter. Not the normal kind, the kind that knew what to do when your house got real cold in July and your mirror spelled “MINE” in condensation. Dean, he said. He was standing on your porch, kinda hot, in a scruffy, douchey kind of way. But he seemed different. He just blinked at you like you’d stepped out of a dream and smacked him in the face.

“I’m a huge fan,” he blurted halfway through your explanation about the haunting. “Like, massive. I saw you at the Opry last year. Front row. I prob'ly screamed louder than the teenage girls.”

You smiled, still creeped about the ghost, but more comfortable. You were a celebrity who thrived more in fan interactions than any other facet of fame. Knowing he liked your music calmed you down considerably. “I should’ve signed your hat.”

“I um... have it," he said dumbly. “It’s in the car.”

Sam, the taller, younger one, groaned. “Dean.”

Things sobered when the lights flickered again, and that cold sensation crawled up your spine. Dean’s face changed—soft awe shifting into something much more serious.

“He’s been watching me,” you admitted quietly. “Not just in the house. Shows. Dressing rooms. I’ll catch shadows in mirrors, cold hands on my back. He writes things. ‘Mine.’ ‘You’re perfect.’ I think it’s someone who died. A fan, maybe? It feels… sick.”

“We’ve seen this before,” Sam said gently. “Obsession like this doesn’t end with death."

Sam went off to investigate something while Dean kept you company. Thankfully, the creepy feeling that had haunted you for days seemed to follow Sam, and the air felt lighter. You turned to Dean and exhaled for what felt like the first time in months. "I owe you guys."

Dean smiled, the cocky kind that made girls scream and small-town bartenders swoon. “I mean, dinner would be a good start.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You asking me out?”

“I’ve had a crush on you since I saw you on CMT in ’08 singing about 'your song' on the radio, I’m definitely asking you out.”