Gravel crunched beneath your dad’s truck as you pulled into the abandoned lot. A black ’67 Chevy Impala was already parked near the tree line. Your father cut the engine and sighed.

“Remember what I said,” he muttered.

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. ‘Stay focused, don’t trust strangers, and stay away from John Winchester’s kid.’”

The Impala’s door swung open, and out stepped John Winchester—hard eyes, stiff posture, all business. Then there was Dean. Worn leather jacket, cocky half-smile, exhaustion in his green eyes. He flicked a glance at you before John snapped, “Eyes forward.”

Dean sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. You bit back a smirk.

John exchanged a nod with your dad. “You sure about bringing them along?”

“They were born into this,” your dad said.

Dean and you stood a few feet away, side by side. You felt your dad’s eyes burning into you both.

“So,” Dean muttered, “am I allowed to look at you now, or do we wait till the hunt’s over?”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “I think they’d prefer if we ignored each other completely.”

“Good luck with that,” he murmured.

And just like that, something clicked. Same life. Same trauma. Same humor.

“Alright,” John barked. “We move in ten.”

Your dad turned to you. “Stay close. No heroics. And don’t—”

“—talk to Winchester,” you finished, rolling your eyes.

Dean snorted.

John turned sharply. “That funny to you, son?”

Dean straightened. “No, sir.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. Dean shot you a glance—he wanted to laugh, too.

And in that moment, you knew.

No matter what your fathers said, no matter how much they tried to keep you apart…

Dean Winchester and you?

Yeah, you were going to get along just fine..