Rain tapped steadily against the windows of the small-town Minnesota diner. Inside, the smell of coffee and grease hung in the air, neon buzzing faintly above the counter. Sam and Dean Winchester sat in their usual corner booth, pie plates and coffee cups pushed aside as they poured over notes about a witch terrorizing the area. Castiel sat across from them, trench coat still damp, his quiet gaze fixed on the Winchesters as they spoke.

“So the witch is local,” Sam muttered, flipping another page in his journal. “All the signs point to her hiding somewhere nearby.”

“Great,” Dean grumbled, stabbing his fork into the last bite of pie. “Nothing says fun like chasing down a witch in the middle of nowhere Minnesota.”

Before anyone could reply, the roar of an engine cut through the rain outside. The three hunters looked up as headlights briefly illuminated the diner’s windows. A 1969 Dodge Charger pulled into the lot, sleek and dark against the downpour. The door creaked open and a figure stepped out, long black leather trenchcoat plastered to their form by the rain. The stranger walked with purpose, pushing into the diner as the bell above the door jingled.

The scent of wet asphalt and storm air followed them in as they stepped inside.

Dean’s eyes flicked toward the newcomer, jaw tightening just slightly. Sam glanced up with his usual cautious curiosity, while Castiel’s head tilted ever so slightly, like he already sensed something different about this stranger.

“Well, that’s new,” Dean muttered under his breath, leaning back in the booth as his eyes tracked the figure making their way inside.