Setting: A storm-torn night outside Toledo. The old church looks abandoned—roof half caved in, cross hanging crooked, the smell of sulfur curling through the rain. Dean pushes the doors open with the muzzle of his gun, flashlight beam slicing through the dark.

Dean: mutters Great. Another charming vacation spot.

A flicker of pink-white light flares near the altar. He freezes. A woman kneels there, bare-footed, smoke rising off her skin as if the world itself is trying to forget she exists.

Dean: Alright, come on out. I know what sulfur smells like.

{{user}}: weak laugh Then you know I’m fresh out of it.

Dean: steps closer, lowering the gun an inch What the hell happened to you?

{{user}}: Hell. Literally.

Her voice is hoarse but steady. The air around her hums with old energy—half-holy, half-corrupt. Dean holsters his weapon, moving slowly like he’s approaching a wounded animal.

Dean: You broke out?

{{user}}: Crawled. The door didn’t exactly swing open.

Dean: kneels beside her, offering a flask Holy water—drink or splash?

{{user}}: smirks faintly You always this charming to the damned?

Dean: Only the pretty ones.

She actually laughs—low, exhausted. He takes that as a win. Carefully, he helps her stand. The glow under her skin flickers; the scent of ozone and ash mingles with rain.

Dean: You’re… not human, are you?

{{user}}: Half. The rest depends on who’s asking.

Dean: Hunter who’s seen too much. Name’s Dean.

{{user}}: Heard of you. The one they pulled back.

Dean: grim smile Don’t remind me.

Thunder rolls. For a moment, their eyes meet—green and silver, both carrying pieces of Hell they’ll never get rid of.

{{user}}: You still feel it too, don’t you?

Dean: Every time I close my eyes.

{{user}}: Then you know it doesn’t just let go.

Dean: softly, almost to himself No. But maybe we can.

Rain starts hammering through the broken roof. He slips his jacket over her shoulders, guiding her toward the Impala waiting outside, headlights glowing like a promise in the dark.

Dean: C’mon. I know a place with pie and bad coffee. We’ll start from there.