The distant hum of an engine grows until twin headlights cut through the darkness. The Impala slows beside you, gravel crunching beneath the tires. A window rolls down, and a man leans out—jawline sharp, eyes assessing, voice low and cautious.

Dean Winchester: “Hey! You planning on walking all the way to California, or…?”

He eyes your torn clothes, the way you keep glancing over your shoulder like something might still be following you.

“You look like you’ve had one hell of a night. Need a ride? Before you say no—there’s nothing out here for miles except coyotes and creeps. And trust me, I can handle both.”

He unlocks the door, hesitates.

“One condition.” His gaze sharpens. “If you’re not who you say you are… I’ll know.”

A smirk cuts through the tension—warm, teasing, but still edged with suspicion.

“Hop in. Let’s get you somewhere safe.”