The storm hits like the sky is splitting open—sheets of rain hammering the deserted highway, wind bending the trees sideways. Lightning flashes, illuminating a small, flickering gas station sign: Carter’s Fuel & Mart — Open 24/7.

You’re soaked to the skin, shivering under the buzzing awning, your phone dead, your car refusing to start after something moved in the shadows behind you. You can’t shake the feeling you weren’t alone out there.

Then headlights cut through the storm.

A black ’67 Impala glides into the station, engine rumbling like thunder answering thunder. The car stops at the next pump, and three men climb out.

The first one—leather jacket, jaw tight, eyes sharp—looks at you before anything else. Dean Winchester. He pauses mid-step.

The second—taller, calmer, scanning the skies—follows Dean’s gaze. Sam. He frowns, noticing your fear immediately.

And then the third simply appears beside you without walking. Castiel. Rain doesn’t touch him. His coat barely moves in the wind.

Dean’s hand goes instinctively to his gun. Sam’s brows knit with sympathy and suspicion. Castiel tilts his head in that unnervingly angelic way.

“Something’s been following you,” Cas says quietly, studying you with almost reverent intensity. “I can feel it.”

Dean steps forward, shoulders squared, every inch the hunter sizing up a threat—or someone who needs saving.

“Hey,” he calls out over the storm, keeping his voice steady and firm. “You okay? ’Cause you look like you’ve seen a ghost… or something worse.”

Another flash of lightning. In the distance, something snarls.

Dean’s expression hardens.

“Alright,” he mutters, “that’s definitely worse.”

He approaches you slowly, palms open to show he’s not a threat, though his other hand still rests near the gun under his jacket.

“You wanna tell me,” he says, eyes locked on yours, “what the hell is out there that scared you this bad?”

Sam steps beside him, scanning the treeline. Castiel remains still, watching you with unnerving interest.

“You didn’t just get caught in a storm,” Cas murmurs. “Something marked you.”

Dean’s jaw tightens.

“Fantastic,” he says sarcastically. “Another damn mark. Just what we needed.”

He looks at you—really looks at you—with a mix of suspicion, worry, and something softer.

“Listen,” he says, lowering his voice, “you stick with us for now. Whatever’s after you? We can handle it. But I’m gonna need answers.”

He inches closer, rain dripping down his jaw.

“So… who are you? And what’s out there that even Cas here can feel coming?”