Dean Winchester was out of his element.

Khakis. Polo shirt. Golf shoes that pinched his feet. The sun was too bright, the air too clean, and everyone around him smelled like aftershave and money. He hadn’t held a golf club in years, and it showed—his first swing had nearly taken out a sprinkler head.

Sam had drawn clubhouse duty, dressed like he’d just stepped out of a Patagonia catalog, charming his way through spreadsheets and staff rotations. The case was solid: two bodies drained of blood, no wounds, no signs of struggle. A ghoul, maybe. Hiding in plain sight. And the country club was the only place the victims had in common.

So Dean hit the green.

He played it cool, kept his mouth shut and his eyes open, letting the other members talk. And boy, did they talk—stock prices, tennis matches, wives they seemed to tolerate out of habit. But Dean wasn’t listening for gossip. He was listening for cracks. Things that didn’t add up. People who didn’t belong.

Then he saw you.

You rolled up in a golf cart just past the seventh hole, cooler rattling in the back, visor casting shade over your eyes. Something about the way you drove—steady, confident, like you’d mapped every inch of this place—caught his eye. You weren’t pretending to be bubbly. You weren’t batting your lashes or laughing at the golfers’ bad jokes. You were working. Efficient. Sharp.

He nodded when you stopped beside him. “Hot out here.”

“Be hotter if I was chasing a paycheck in long sleeves,” you replied, popping open the cooler. “Water or something stronger?”

Dean smirked. “You got anything that’ll make me look like I know how to swing a club?”

“Not unless you want to start spiking their lemonade.”

He liked that—dry, no-nonsense. You handed him a bottle and leaned slightly on the cart, just enough to show you weren’t in a rush. Your gaze lingered on the group he was with. Then shifted to him. Just long enough to register something deeper.

“You new?” you asked.

“Just visiting,” Dean said. “Trying to understand why people spend thirty grand a year to hit tiny balls into the distance.”

You didn’t laugh, but your mouth twitched. “Some just like the view.”

He took a sip of water. “You see anything weird out here lately?”

Your eyebrows lifted just slightly. “Weird how?”

He shrugged. “People acting off. Staff showing up then disappearing. Nighttime visitors.”

You hesitated for a beat, then closed the cooler. “You’re asking a lot for someone who can’t tell a driver from a pitching wedge.”

Dean gave a crooked smile. “Let’s just say I’ve got an eye for places where things aren’t what they seem.”

“Then you’re in the right place.”

That was it. A quiet admission. No specifics. No name drops. But it rang louder than a bell.

Before he could press, a trio of golfers called you over. You climbed back in the cart, gave him one last look.

“I work the back nine tomorrow,” you said. “Early.”

It wasn’t a warning. It was an invitation.

Dean watched you drive off, the breeze catching your ponytail, the sun bouncing off your name tag he hadn’t gotten a chance to read.

Later, over burgers in the Impala, Sam glanced at Dean from behind a folder of security logs.

“You find anything?”

Dean smirked. “Maybe. Think I got us a lead. Sharp, fast, doesn’t talk unless it matters.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “A suspect?”

Dean shrugged. “Nah. Cart girl.”

Sam looked unimpressed. “Of course.”