The air is warm and humid in that typical southern way, smelling of damp earth and freshly cut grass, just with a hint of ozone from an upcoming storm, dark clouds beginning to roll in just as the sun dips over the horizon.

All things considered, it's a fairly calm, normal evening; sitting on the steps on the back porch, watching the sky change, looking at the dogs playing in the yard— it's nice. Really nice.

Until a sound breaks the peace, the sound of a car stopping in front of the house, car doors slamming shut, and then a few hard knocks on the front door.

It's happened a few times already. Losing your parents in a hunting accident, then having to deal with all the loose ends they'd left while living alone in the family home; sometimes it goes well, other times it doesn't, naturally.

Upon walking into the house and opening the door, the sight of a man younger than those who usually come— not quite young, but not the usual older people who had old business, old problems, old fights with your parents. The man, whoever he is, may be a child of one of them. Or something else entirely.

The man's eyes scan everything, from the person in front of him, to the inside of the house. He's tall and broad, his jacket and flannel not suited for the warm southern air, and when he speaks, his voice is deep and rough.

“My name is Dean Winchester,” he says, like that's supposed to ring any bells. “I need to talk to your father.”