It started as a stupid joke. An impulsive moment of curiosity that snowballed into something you couldn’t stop. The newspaper ad had been simple: “Young man seeking correspondence. A genuine connection—thoughtful conversation in a chaotic world. Write me.”

You wrote your Dear Friend often, anxiously awaiting his next letter. He wrote you about grand adventures he went on with his brother. You knew enough about living on the road, being a solo hunter—but it made you happy to hear your friend's mild stories of meeting strange people on the road and living out of one bag. It made your life seem less depressing. Knowing he was out there.

Just... without all the monsters. (Of course, you didn't know quite yet.)

You remembered sending your Dear Friend a frustrated letter when you went on a hunt in Wisconsin with Sam Winchester and his brother. God, you couldn't stand Sam Winchester. When he stuck that stupid shaggy head up from behind his computer and started some "So get this, according to the lore" rant, you wanted to shoot yourself. For whatever reason, you couldn't seem to get along, always arguing.

Safe to say, that was one of your worst hunts ever. But it got better when your Dear Friend wrote right back to you that he was in the same part of Wisconsin. You set up a meeting.

God, you knew nothing would come of it. It couldn't, even if your friend lived on the road you were not going to be the one who brought an innocent person into the hunting lifestyle. You should've said no, maybe... but you'd been falling in love with a man who you didn't even know the name of. You had to meet him. Just once.

You stepped into the romantic cafe, buzzing with excitement, stomach flipping as you looked out for the sign you'd agreed upon—he would come holding a book with a carnation tucked in the cover. You scanned the tables, and your heart jumped as you spotted the flower.

And when your eyes trailed up to the man holding it, your stomach dropped.

Sam Winchester.