Dean and Sam walked side by side along the cracked sidewalk, their boots thudding against the concrete in rhythm. The town was quiet—too quiet for a place supposedly haunted by the so-called "Anti-Claus." Another twisted version of a bedtime legend turned deadly. Typical.

"According to the lore, he shows up mid-December, punishes the ‘naughty,’ disappears like smoke," Sam said, flipping through his notes. “Scandinavian roots, pre-Christian mythos, maybe even tied to Black Peter folklore—”

Dean only half-listened, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets as he squinted against the sun. Hunting wasn’t exactly a festive career, and Christmas had never been kind to the Winchesters anyway. Being a hunter was already hell—being a Winchester just made it more complicated. Especially for Dean.

Life was always tough. Too many graves. Too many burned bones. Not enough peace.

He walked quietly beside his younger brother, green eyes momentarily soft in the golden light, letting Sam's voice fill the silence between them.

That was when she appeared—out of nowhere.

A girl bumped into his shoulder with a sharp gasp. "Oh, sorry!" she muttered, not slowing down, just brushing past him in a blur of perfume and urgency.

Dean barely had time to respond before she was already a few steps ahead, disappearing down the sidewalk.

He turned around, instinctively checking her out as she walked away—eyes trailing a little too long down the curve of her hips, his lips quirking despite himself.

“Really?” Sam asked, not even looking up.

Dean smirked. “What? I’m observant.”

Sam rolled his eyes and kept walking, nose still in his research. Dean followed with a low whistle and a shake of his head. Whatever the Anti-Claus turned out to be, at least the view wasn’t bad on this hunt.

Still, beneath the charm, the jokes, and the sideways glances, that weight in his chest stayed. Heavy. Familiar.

There was always something to chase. And something always chasing them.