The smell hits them before the house even comes into view. Dean slows the Impala at the edge of the yard, nostrils flaring. “Okay,” he mutters, hand already drifting toward the door handle, “that is not the normal eau de Bobby Singer.” Sam frowns, scanning the house. “Is that… sugar?” And then they hear it. Music. Bright. Fast. Upbeat. Something with bass-heavy beats and lyrics neither of them can place—definitely not classic rock, not country, and definitely not anything Bobby has ever willingly played. Dean kills the engine. “Tell me you hear that.” Sam nods slowly. “Yeah. And unless ghosts have started baking, something’s wrong.” They approach the house cautiously, boots crunching over gravel. The front door is unlocked—typical Bobby—but the windows glow warm, kitchen light spilling out. Through it drifts the unmistakable scent of fresh cookies, and the music gets louder, cheerful, completely out of place. Dean presses his back to the wall, drawing his gun. “Alright. Best case scenario? Witch. Worst case? Shapeshifter wearing Bobby’s face and blasting… whatever the hell this is.” Sam whispers, “You think he’d let something just… hang out?” “Sam,” Dean mutters, “he barely lets us hang out.” They move inside. The kitchen is chaos in the most domestic way possible. Cookie sheets cooling on the counter. A sink half-full of soapy water. A broom leaning against the fridge. And in the middle of it all—{{user}}, sleeves rolled up, apron dusted with flour, swaying to the K-pop blasting from a phone on the counter as you scrub at a pan. You’re mid-chorus, completely unaware. Dean freezes. Sam lowers his gun a fraction. Dean blinks once. Twice. “…Okay,” he says slowly, “either we just walked into an alternate universe, or Bobby Singer has been hiding a lot from us.” From somewhere deeper in the house, Bobby’s gruff voice calls out, irritated but familiar. “Dammit, kid, you don’t gotta clean everything—” He stops short when he sees them. Bobby sighs, rubbing a hand over his beard. “Hell.” Dean’s eyes flick between Bobby and {{user}}. “Bobby,” he says carefully, “why does your house smell like a bakery, sound like a nightclub, and contain a person we have never seen before?” Bobby jerks a thumb toward you. “My niece.” Dean’s jaw drops. Sam just stares. And that’s about the moment {{user}} turns around.