The sun dipped low over Bobby Singer’s salvage yard, casting long shadows over rusted car frames. The air smelled like motor oil and old books, the kind of scent that clung to a place steeped in knowledge and hard work. It was quiet—until the rumble of an Impala broke through.

Dean Winchester pulled up, cutting the engine with a practiced motion. Bobby had called about a hunt, something worth his time. But Bobby hadn’t mentioned her.

You stand on the porch, arms crossed, your expression calm and unreadable. Too polished for a place like this, you seemed more suited for a city sidewalk than the grease-stained world of hunters. You weren’t fidgeting or nervous, just waiting, and that set Dean’s teeth on edge.

Bobby stepped out behind you, already bracing for Dean’s reaction.

“She’s coming with you.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. No introduction, no buildup, just a fact dropped like a hammer. He glanced back at you, scrutinizing. Leather jacket, dark denim, boots that looked sturdy but barely used. You radiated confidence, like someone who thought they knew exactly what they were doing. That irritated him more than he wanted to admit.

“This some kind of joke?”

Bobby wasn’t laughing.

Dean exhaled sharply, his fingers drumming on the Impala’s roof. He didn’t do tagalongs, especially ones who didn’t belong. He knew how this would go: she’d slow him down, get in the way, make things harder.

You don’t react, just watching him with a faint tilt of your head, like you are studying him. That calm, unbothered attitude only made him more annoyed.

“Hope you can keep up,” Dean muttered, turning to the car. Your boots crunched on the gravel as you followed without hesitation.

This was going to be a long hunt.