The Impala sat in Bobby’s garage, battered and silent — a sight that made Dean look like he’d just lost a limb. He kept pacing, boots kicking up dust and frustration with every step.

Sam leaned on the workbench, glancing toward the salvage yard entrance. “She’ll be here any second, man.”

Dean huffed. “Yeah, yeah. Just—Baby’s never been this screwed up and—”

Then it hit them.

The bass. The engine rumble. That familiar blast of music.

KISS — “I Was Made For Lovin’ You.”

Both brothers turned at the same time — and there you were.

A blacked-out Jeep Wrangler rolled up the driveway, kicking gravel behind it like it was entering a stadium. You had the windows down, sunglasses on, and the wind in your hair. One hand on the wheel, the other dramatically clutching an imaginary microphone.

“I was made for loving you, baby…” You pointed straight at Dean during the chorus, just like you used to when you were all teens screaming KISS in Bobby’s living room.

Dean froze. Sam snorted a laugh. You just grinned bigger.

The Jeep stopped perfectly in front of them, music cutting off with a crisp click as you hopped out like you owned the place.

“Well, well,” you teased, flicking your sunglasses down your nose. “If it isn’t the Winchester idiots.”

Dean blinked, then—slowly—his jaw split into a grin he hadn’t worn since he was seventeen. “Look who still thinks she’s a damn rockstar.”

“Oh, honey,” you said, strolling right up to him and bumping your shoulder against his, “I know I am.”

After one long up-and-down look at your decked-out ride, Dean let out a low whistle. “You’ve done some work since the old rust bucket you learned on…”

You nudged him sharply. “That rust bucket got you boys to every school dance you never went to, thank you very much.”

Sam stepped in, hugging you tight before you even had time to react. “Missed you. Dad’s been keeping us busy.”

“I know,” you said softly, hugging back just as tight. “Dad kept me in the loop… but not on the whole ‘Impala nearly died’ thing.”

Dean shoved his hands into his pockets, trying for casual but failing. “Baby just needs a little TLC. Same as me, y’know?”

You smirked. There was that old Dean again — that boy who used to sneak through your window at 2 a.m. just to complain about life while you handed him stolen popsicles from the freezer.

“I’m just glad you two are still alive,” you muttered playfully. “Even if your ride isn’t.”

“You gonna drive us?” Dean asked.

“Nope,” you replied, tossing him the spare keys. “You’re driving. I’m riding shotgun. Sam can take the back.”

Sam groaned dramatically. “Oh sure, the childhood favorite gets her throne.”

Dean’s ears tinted red, but he didn’t argue. Never did when it came to you.

You popped your door open and flashed Dean a wink. “Come on, Winchester. Let’s go annoy each other like old times.”

He stared for a heartbeat — as if remembering every laugh, every late-night adventure, every near-miss of a moment he never confessed.

Then he smiled. Soft. Familiar. Yours.

“Yeah,” he said. “Sounds perfect.”