The Impala rumbled down the stretch of two-lane highway, headlights cutting through the Nebraska dusk. The air smelled faintly of rain and dust, that strange mix that always seemed to follow the Winchesters. Sam sat in the passenger seat, flipping through a stack of case files while Dean hummed along to an old Zeppelin track, fingers tapping on the steering wheel.

It was supposed to be a simple salt-and-burn—quiet town, easy cleanup, no witnesses. But when they got there, someone had beaten them to it. The bones were already torched, the spirit gone.

“Someone cleaned up our mess,” Dean muttered, crouched over the ashes with his flashlight. “Kinda rude, honestly.”

Sam’s brow furrowed as he spotted something half-buried in the dirt—an empty shotgun shell, carved with initials. (Your initials). He turned it over in his palm. “Looks like we’re not the only hunters passing through.”

That’s when they heard it. Boots crunching behind them.

Dean’s gun was out in a second, but the person —you—who stepped into the beam of his flashlight didn’t even flinch. Your hair pulled into a loose braid, flannel shirt half-tucked, smudge of dirt on your cheek. You looked young—too young, maybe—but your stance said otherwise. Confident. Trained.

“Easy,” you said, raising your hands. “I’m not a ghost.”

Dean lowered his gun slightly. “Depends who you ask.”

Sam stepped forward, studying you with quiet curiosity. “You did this?”