Sam and Dean stepped into the mirrored workout studio, the door clicking softly shut behind them. The room smelled like coconut body spray, eucalyptus, and effort. Around fifteen women in matching yoga sets turned to glance at the newcomers, most raising their eyebrows—some smirking.

Dean froze in the doorway, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a look of pure horror on his face.

“Sammy,” he muttered, voice low, “this class is full of white women. Do you know how embarrassing this is gonna be?”

Sam didn’t look half as concerned. He adjusted the sleeves of his hoodie, scanning the room with a calm, investigative gaze. A few of the women had definitely noticed them, whispering behind their mats. One even winked.

“Dean,” Sam said flatly, “it’s just for a day. We need to be inside the building long enough to check for bad omens, EMF spikes, reaper energy—anything that explains those deaths.”

Dean scowled, lowering his voice even more. “Yeah, and what exactly are we hunting, a vengeful spin instructor? ‘Cause if I have to do squats for intel, I swear to God—”

“Just blend in,” Sam cut in, his tone all big-brother energy despite being the younger one. Still smarter. Still taller.

One of the instructors—a peppy woman with a blinding smile and an aggressively positive aura—clapped her hands. “You two joining today? Love the flannel vibe. Very… rustic.”

Dean gave her a tight smile. “Yeah, sure. Love… cardio.” Then under his breath: “This is how I die.”

Sam sighed, handing Dean a yoga mat from the pile. “Come on. We’ve faced werewolves, witches, actual Lucifer. You’ll survive spin class.”

Dean grumbled as he followed Sam to the back of the room, trying—and failing—to ignore the upbeat pop music and pastel-colored dumbbells.

This hunt was definitely testing his limits.