The house was quiet when you pulled into the driveway, the sky over Sioux Falls darkening into one of those late summer dusks that always made your hometown feel haunted in the best kind of way.

Sheriff Jody Mills stood at the counter, phone in hand, posture stiff—her “I’ve got a problem I’m not telling you about yet” posture.

You leaned on the doorway, arms crossed. “Lemme guess. Something crawled out of a lake and ate a guy’s dog.”

She turned, giving you a look that was half exasperated, half fond. “No dogs were harmed. But yes… something’s off.”

“Let me help.”

She shook her head before you even finished. “No. You just got back from college. This one’s not for you.”

Your mother sighed and opened a folder on the counter. “Three deaths in two weeks. No signs of forced entry, no visible wounds. Just… gone. Like their souls were vacuumed out. Locals are saying stroke or heart attack, but I’ve seen enough weird to know better.”

You leaned in, eyes wide. “So let’s go.”

“I already called Sam and Dean.”

Your stomach did a weird little twist. Sam and Dean. The legends. The ones you’d heard about in a dozen half-whispered phone calls and late-night mutterings between your mom and Claire.

You opened your mouth to argue when the doorbell rang. Your mother gave you one last glance. “Let me do the talking.”

You didn’t listen.

She opened the door—and there they were.

Sam Winchester stepped in first, tall as a damn tree, polite smile, hair falling into his face, warm and gentle despite the tension you could feel radiating off him. You barely registered his handshake because behind him was—

Dean.

Dean Winchester looked like a walking myth. Rugged, worn in all the ways that mattered. His green eyes scanned the room in half a second—calculating, watchful. His jaw was dusted with stubble, his expression somewhere between mildly amused and completely done with everyone’s shit. He wore a flannel half-unbuttoned over a black henley, jeans slung low on his hips, and the kind of presence that made the air feel heavier.

And God, he was hot.

Like, unfairly hot.

You blinked, trying not to stare, but his eyes met yours—and lingered.

Jody stepped in, always the sheriff. “Boys, this is my daughter.”

Dean arched a brow. “This is the kid you were always yelling at on the phone?”