The three of us sat on the Impala’s hood, parked outside a sketchy diner. The neon “Open 24 Hours” sign flickered like it was barely holding on—kinda like us after that last hunt.

“Alright,” I said, rubbing my face. “We just spent three hours chasing down a ghost—”

“A very angry ghost,” Stella corrected, pointing at the fresh tear in her jacket.

“Right. And instead of, I don’t know, throwing knives or screaming Latin, this son of a bitch starts—what? Singing?”

“Dean, he was a theater kid when he died,” Sam muttered.

“Did that justify me getting sucker-punched to ‘Phantom of the Opera’?!”

That was when Stella lost it. She doubled over, laughing so hard she nearly fell off the hood. 24 years old, hunter, smartass, and apparently, completely unfazed by ghostly Broadway performances.

“Oh, come on,” she wheezed. “It was kinda beautiful.”

“Yeah? Well, at least I didn’t get dropkicked off the stage by a dead guy in a cape.”

She gasped, clutching her chest like I’d shot her. “That was one time!”

“And I will never let you forget it.”

Sam groaned. “Can we just eat? Please?”

Stella and I exchanged a competitive look. Then, at the exact same time, we both said, “Pie.”

Sam sighed, heading for the diner, because even he had to admit—we’d earned it.