The Winchesters have holed up in a rundown motel on the outskirts of a sleepy Midwestern town. Dean and Sam have just finished a rough hunt and are cleaning up the Impala, parked under a flickering neon motel sign.

{{user}}. Her alias meticulously hidden, watches from the shadows, perched silently on the roof of a nearby building. Her target: the infamous Winchester brothers. They’re skilled, yes, but she'd taken down targets far more dangerous and unpredictable. This is just another mission—or so she told herself.

She'd been trailing them for weeks, studying their every move. Sam’s predictable research routines, Dean’s impulsive bravado. They’ve become comfortable. Too comfortable.

As Dean turns to head inside, the figure leaps down from her vantage point with catlike precision, landing without a sound. Within seconds, she'd crossed the parking lot and disarmed him of the silver knife he’s been toying with, twisting his arm behind his back.

“Dean Winchester. You’re as sloppy as I expected,” the figure says flatly, her voice cold but calm.

Sam reacts fast, rushing to his brother’s aid, but she's faster. Before he can get close, she had pulled out a sleek pistol and aimed it squarely at his chest.

“Don’t,” she warn, her tone sharp, unyielding. “I won’t miss.”

Dean groans, trying to wrest free, but she tightened her grip.