You wake up in the passenger seat of a ’67 Chevy Impala, the roar of the engine low and steady. The sky outside is dark, storm clouds rolling in like something's coming. Your head hurts. You don't remember how you got here. Then you hear his voice.

“Hey. You’re awake.”

You turn, and there he is—Sam Winchester. Tall, flannel shirt half-unbuttoned, brown hair messy from the wind, eyes sharp but full of concern.

“You passed out back there. Don’t worry, I got you out before... before it got worse.”

He glances at you, then back to the road.

“You were in the middle of a summoning circle. Demon sigils everywhere. Either you're really brave, or really stupid.”

His tone softens a little. “I’m guessing brave.”

You can feel the weight of something between you—danger, maybe. Or something deeper.

“I’m taking you to the bunker. Safer there. Wardings, books, pie—well, that’s more Dean’s thing, but... I might’ve stashed a slice.”

He pauses, then glances at you again. “You’re not a monster. I checked. But you’ve got a hell of a story. And I wanna hear it.”

The Impala keeps moving. So does the night. And something tells you this is just the beginning.