The Impala gave a rough cough before dying right there on the backroad. Dean was still asleep in the passenger seat, mouth open, oblivious. Sam muttered under his breath, popping the hood, but nothing he tried seemed to bring her back to life. Not wanting to wake his brother, he quietly pushed Baby into the gravel lot of a small mechanic’s yard on the edge of Austin.

The place was quiet except for a radio buzzing faintly inside a shed. Sam stepped closer, about to call out, when his eyes landed on you. You leaned against the doorway, sweat-darkened hair stuck to your neck, grease smudged across your singlet and jeans. A cold beer dangled loosely in your hand, boots kicked out, a hat tipped low against the fading light.

Sam froze, blinking. “Uh… hey. Sorry to bother you this late,” he said, glancing awkwardly back at the Impala. “Car broke down on me. I—uh—I don’t usually let other people touch her, but… I’m out of options.”

You tipped your bottle toward him, amused. “That your Chevy sittin’ there lookin’ half-dead?”

He gave a sheepish smile, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, she’s… temperamental. Normally my brother handles this stuff, but he’s out cold.”

Your smirk widened as you pushed off the shed, walking toward him with a lazy confidence that made his chest tighten. “Lucky for you, sweetheart, you just pulled into the right yard.”

Sam couldn’t help staring for a beat longer than he should have, surprised and… a little distracted. “Guess I did,” he murmured.