By the time you and Sam make it back to the car, the sky’s gone that washed-out orange that means the day’s officially done but the work sure as hell isn’t.

The locals hadn’t been useless—just scared. Same story from every mouth: something in the woods, something fast, something that leaves bodies looking like they’d been sucked dry. Sam drops into the passenger seat with a frustrated huff, shutting the door harder than necessary.

“Okay,” he says, flipping open his notebook again. “We’ve got livestock deaths going back six months, human victims starting three weeks ago, and zero eyewitnesses. I’m thinking maybe an old-school vamp nest or something off the radar.”

You start the car, the engine rumbling to life beneath your hands. “Could be. Or something mimicking animal attacks to stay under the radar.” You glance over at him. “You want me to call my dad? See if Bobby can dig up anything weird in the area?”

Sam nods immediately. “Yeah. Ask him to cross-reference folklore, disappearances, anything pre-1970.”

“Sure.” You reach for your phone without thinking, muscle memory taking over as you unlock it. You don’t even look at the screen when you say, easy and casual—

“Hey Siri, call Daddy.”

There’s a bright, cheery chime.

“Calling Daddy.”

The ringing starts.

Your stomach drops straight through the floor as the Bluetooth kicks in, Dean’s voice suddenly filling the car, warm and familiar and way too intimate for this moment.

“Hey, baby. What’s up?”

Sam just stares at you.

You stare straight ahead, eyes wide, face heating like you’ve been shoved too close to a bonfire. Your brain short-circuits completely.

There’s a pause on the line.

Then Dean again, his tone shifting, concern threading through the teasing edge. “Babygirl? Everything okay?”

Sam doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to. The look he gives you—eyebrow raised, mouth pressed into a thin line of judgment—is lethal.

You flush even harder, panic finally kicking your mouth into gear. “Yeah—uh—wrong number, sorry, baby,” you blurt, words tumbling over each other. “I’ll—call you later.”

You stab the screen and hang up before Dean can get another syllable out.

The car drops into a deafening silence.

Sam slowly turns toward you, his expression somewhere between disbelief and deeply offended older-brother energy. “…Did you just—”

You point at him instantly, finger sharp and threatening. “Not. A fucking. Word, Samuel.”

He leans back in his seat, lips twitching despite his best effort to stay serious. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking it,” you shoot back.

“Oh, I am absolutely thinking it,” he says, grinning now. “And so is Dean, by the way. Eventually. When he realizes.”

You groan, dropping your head back against the seat. “He doesn’t know that’s his contact name. And he is never finding out.”

Sam laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “Right. Because secrets always stay secrets with us.”

You start the car again, muttering, “I swear to God, if you tell him—”

“Relax,” Sam says, still amused. “My lips are sealed.”

But the damage is done—and somewhere back at the motel, Dean Winchester is definitely staring at his phone, confused, concerned… and completely unaware that in your contacts, he’s saved as Daddy.