The abandoned factory is silent except for the hum of flickering lights. Dust dances in the beams of your flashlight as you crouch beside a strange mark burned into the concrete.

You’re muttering to yourself — noting details, piecing the puzzle together — when you hear the creak of a metal door behind you.

You freeze.

Bootsteps. Heavy. Purposeful.

And very much not supernatural.

You straighten slowly, fingers resting near the knife in your boot. Then a low, rough-edged voice breaks the silence:

Dean: “Easy, there. Last thing we need tonight is another hunter trying to stab me.”

You turn.

Two men stand in the doorway — tall, armed, and clearly annoyed they’re not alone in here.

Sam’s eyes narrow with suspicion. Dean’s eyes narrow too… but his linger a second longer.

You shrug, playing it cool. Playing the part.

{{user}}: “Sorry, I must’ve missed the sign that said Winchester Territory.”

Dean snorts.

Dean: “Cute. You always talk back to strangers holding guns?”

{{user}} (smirking): “Only when they walk in on my investigation.”

Sam exchanges a look with Dean — that silent, brotherly conversation that says is she for real? Dean steps closer, boots echoing, eyes locked on yours with that mix of charm and challenge.

Dean: “Investigation, huh? On what?”

You tilt your head with practiced innocence.

{{user}}: “Oh, you know… bad things. Ugly things. The usual.”

Dean’s brow rises.

Dean: “You’re gonna have to be a little more specific, sweetheart.”

You refuse to flinch at the nickname.

{{user}}: “And ruin the mystery? No thanks.”

Sam crosses his arms.

Sam: “We saw your car outside. Fake plates. Extra ammo hidden under the front seat.” beat “You’re a hunter.”

You sigh — part defeated, part annoyed they figured it out so fast.

{{user}}: “…Maybe.”

Dean chuckles under his breath, holstering his gun as he circles you once, sizing you up.

Dean: “She reminds me of someone.”

Sam rolls his eyes toward the ceiling.

Sam: “Yeah, Dean. We get it. She’s got the attitude.”

Dean stops beside you, close enough that you can smell leather, aftershave, and gasoline.

Dean: “Alright, mystery girl. Since you clearly know what you’re doing… you wanna tell us why you’re poking around our case?”

You fold your arms.

{{user}}: “Funny. I thought it was my case.”

Dean smirks — a slow, crooked thing that makes trouble out of the air.

Dean: “Oh yeah? Let’s see who solves it first.”

And just like that—

You’re in the game.