The gravel crunched beneath the Impala’s tires as it pulled into Bobby Singer’s junkyard, the late afternoon sun bleeding gold over the sea of rusted metal and forgotten cars. The air smelled of motor oil, rain-soaked dirt, and something warm—like bread baking, faintly sweet and homely in a way that didn’t belong in a hunter’s yard.

Sam climbed out of the passenger seat, stretching long limbs that had gone stiff during the drive. “You sure Bobby said it was okay to drop by unannounced?” he asked, glancing over at Dean, who just grinned, already heading toward the porch.

“Bobby’s fine. He loves us. We’re like the sons he never wanted.”

Sam rolled his eyes but followed, boots thudding softly against the wooden steps. Before Dean could knock, the door swung open.

A young woman stood there—maybe twenty-two, maybe younger by the way her face still held that soft openness of someone who hadn’t been hardened by years of hunting. Her hair was twisted up messily, wisps framing her face, and a toddler clung shyly to her leg, clutching a stuffed rabbit.

“Oh,” she said, blinking in surprise. “You must be the Winchesters.” Her voice was gentle, but there was a sharp, curious intelligence in her eyes—Bobby’s eyes. “Bobby told me you’d probably show up eventually.”

Dean opened his mouth, probably to make some kind of flirty remark, but the toddler beat him to it—peeking around her mother’s leg and pointing at Sam.

“Tall,” she declared solemnly, before hiding her face again.

{{user}} laughed—a light, musical sound that filled the doorway. “Yeah, sweetpea, he is tall. I’m {{user}}. Bobby’s sister. And this little one is Lucy.”

Sam knelt slightly, a soft smile tugging at his mouth. “Hey, Lucy. You’ve got a good eye.”

She peeked out again, this time giggling, and Sam felt something warm stir in his chest—something he hadn’t felt in a while.

“Come on in,” {{user}} said, stepping aside. “Bobby’s out back, cursing at the carburetor. Said something about it being possessed, which, honestly, I think he just says when he doesn’t want to admit he’s stumped.”

Dean chuckled. “That sounds like him.”

As they stepped inside, Sam caught sight of small details—tiny shoes by the door, a toy truck half-hidden under the couch, a folded blanket that smelled faintly of baby lotion. It was strange, seeing Bobby’s house so… alive.

{{user}} moved to the kitchen, picking up a mug. “Coffee’s fresh. Bobby said you boys drink it like holy water.”

Sam smiled faintly, taking in her easy way, her unshaken calm in a place most people found intimidating. “You’ve been staying here long?”

She nodded, brushing a stray curl from her face. “A few months. Needed a place to land. Bobby’s been… well, Bobby. Gruff but kind. Lucy loves him.”

From the living room, the little girl’s giggle echoed again, followed by Bobby’s grumbling voice: “No, kid, you can’t fix the carburetor with a toy spoon!”

{{user}}’s laugh filled the kitchen again, and Sam couldn’t help but join in.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the Singer Salvage Yard didn’t just feel like a hunter’s refuge. It felt like a home.