You and Dean had been partners for years — well, online partners. He hunted, you researched. While he kicked down doors and shot rock salt, you combed through archives, translated dead languages, and tracked omens from your laptop. It worked. It worked so well that you’d saved each other’s asses more times than either of you could count.

It wasn’t always smooth — Dean was cocky, stubborn, quick to argue over tactics. You were sharp, snarky, and not afraid to call him an idiot when his plans didn’t add up. But under all that friction was trust. Dean trusted your info more than half the hunters he’d actually met.

Still, he never had seen your face. No photos, no calls. Just a handle, words on a screen, and the occasional late-night rant. He pieced together an image in his head: some nerdy, rough-around-the-edges guy, maybe older, maybe glasses. Definitely not someone who could keep up with him in the field.

Then came the case too close to your home to ignore — a string of mysterious deaths, right in your county. For the first time, it wasn’t enough to trade info through a screen. Dean needed backup. Real backup. You agreed to meet.

So there he was, leaning against the gleaming black hood of his Impala in a gas station lot, coffee in hand, eyes scanning for some middle-aged lore-junkie. Tires crunched gravel behind him, and he turned lazily—only to freeze.

A car door slammed. You stepped out, gear bag slung over your shoulder like you’d been born to it. Confident, sharp-eyed, younger than he thought. Not a man. Not even close.

Dean’s jaw actually went slack before he blurted, “You’re—wait. You’re you?”