“Dad!” {{user}} called for her dad, Bobby, as she walked downstairs. The house smelled like motor oil, old wood, and something frying in a pan earlier that day, normal. Familiar. Usually by now Bobby Singer would be yelling from the kitchen about something being broken or about how she’d left a light on somewhere. But today the house was quiet. Too quiet. {{user}} looked down the short hallway toward the kitchen.

“Dad?” she called again, a little louder this time.

Still nothing. When she stepped into the doorway, she froze. Someone was already there.

A guy sat at the kitchen table like he belonged there, leaned back in the chair, A beer bottle rested loosely in his hand.

He looked up when he noticed her.

Green eyes and dirty blond hair that looked like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. He looked about her age, maybe a little older, but there was something about the way he carried himself that suggested he’d seen a lot more than most people their age. For a second they just stared at each other.

Then he gave her a crooked, almost amused smile. “Hi.”

{{user}} blinked, clearly unimpressed. Her eyes flicked around the kitchen quickly, knife block on the counter, iron poker by the fireplace in the next room, the salt line still sitting along the windowsill.

Just in case. Finally she crossed her arms.

“Who are you supposed to be?” she asked, her tone flat.

The guy tilted his head slightly, studying her like she was the interesting one in this situation. Instead of answering immediately, he took a slow sip from the beer.

{{user}}’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, that’s nice,” she muttered. “Help yourself.”

That only made the smirk on his face grow. “Relax,” he said easily. “Your dad offered.”

“My dad?” she repeated.

The guy nodded toward the bottle. “Hospitality of the legendary Bobby Singer.”

{{user}} stared at him another moment before sighing quietly, like she was already tired of whatever this was.

“Yeah, that still doesn’t answer my question.”

The guy leaned forward slightly now, resting his forearms on the table. “Winchester,” he said.

{{user}}’s expression shifted, just barely.

The name rang somewhere in the back of her mind. Hunters talked. Stories traveled.

Winchester.

She heard Bobby say that name more than once. Usually followed by either a long sigh… or a very colorful insult. The guy seemed to notice the recognition.

“Dean Winchester,” he added.

Right. That explained the attitude. {{user}} leaned against the doorframe, eyeing him carefully.

“So you’re John Winchester’s kid.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Guilty.”