The rain hadn’t let up for hours, sheets of cold slicing sideways in the wind, biting through fabric and skin like tiny knives. The boy, barely more than sixteen, maybe seventeen, moved with the weary drag of someone twice his age. His boots were soaked through, each step squelching painfully against the mud. His legs ached, screaming for rest, but the fear of stopping had kept him going for days now. Town after town, backroad after backroad, nothing but his worn backpack and stubborn will keeping him upright.

The scrapyard loomed ahead, rusted metal shapes silhouetted against the stormy dusk like forgotten skeletons. He didn’t mean to trespass, not really. But when he spotted that old car with door cracked open, interior just dry enough to be bearable, {{user}} didn’t hesitate. Shelter was shelter. He ducked inside with a shiver and a groan, curling into the backseat like a stray animal seeking a break from the storm.

A quiet sigh escaped his lips as he clutched his bag tighter, as if it could protect him. The car was cold, but not cruel like the outside world. He didn’t remember closing his eyes, but when he did, he fell hard and fast into a pitch-black sleep.

It felt like hours passed or maybe just minutes, before a knock rapped against the fogged window. Hard enough to startle, soft enough not to threaten. His eyes snapped open, groggy and alarmed. A tall man stood outside, arms folded across a paint-splattered jacket, dark hair tucked behind his ears and a goatee framing his unimpressed frown. He didn’t look angry, exactly more like a guy who wasn’t sure if he should call the cops or just lecture you into guilt.

The boy hesitated, then pushed open the door and stepped out, his clothes heavy with rainwater, jaw tight with tension.

Dean didn’t say anything at first. Just looked him over, like he was trying to figure out what kind of mess he was dealing with. “You know this isn’t a motel, right?” he said dryly, jerking his thumb at the car.

“You look like hell,” Dean muttered after. Then, after a pause, he added, “C’mon. I’ve got coffee on the burner. And I think there’s half a can of beef stew somewhere with your name on it.”