Nadia Turner welcomed the wind blowing through her window as she drove down the sun-scorched highway in Pontiac, Illinois—the heart of Route 66. Though it was September, summer clung stubbornly to the air, unwilling to relinquish its hold as fall waited in the wings.

The sun beat down relentlessly, making the air thick and heavy with humidity. Nadia kept swiping at the sweat collecting on her forehead, trying to find any reprieve. The wind coming through the window was a small mercy, the only thing that prevented her from sweating through her clothes. But it wasn't enough to stop her body from rebelling against the oppressive heat.

It always seemed to be a hot day when the job involved digging up an unmarked grave. As much as she loved fall, this wasn't the season for it—yet a job was a job, and she couldn't avoid it.

One hand on the wheel, Nadia traced a route on the Pontiac map, eyes scanning for her destination. Four more miles, and she'd reach the edge of the city, where a patch of untamed forest sat waiting, untouched and thick with mystery. The unmarked grave, the reason for her trip, lay just on the outskirts.

She parked her car on the shoulder of the road, cursing the sun and the heat as she got out. The air clung to her, hot and sticky, as she grabbed her duffle bag full of supplies and a shotgun loaded with rock salt. A twinge of annoyance sparked inside her. For as long as she could remember, she'd hated cases like this. Spirit hunting, vengeful spirits... she never understood the appeal. It wasn't the work that bothered her; it was the victims. There was always something about them that felt deserved.

Who kills someone, then buries their body where no one will ever think to look? Someone who deserves to be hunted, she thought bitterly.

Her boots crunched against the dry ground with every step as she ventured into the forest. The sticks snapped underfoot, and her palm began to sweat around the shotgun handle. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, her fingers slick with perspiration.

Her destination wasn't far now. She'd been given specific details: the grave would be just a few feet away from a long-abandoned campsite beneath a tree with a crude cross carved into its trunk.

She walked for what felt like forever, the dense woods feeling more claustrophobic by the second. The heat wasn't letting up, but Nadia pushed on, determination in every step. When she finally spotted the campsite, her instincts kicked in. Animal tracks marred the dirt, leading in and out of the area. The remnants of a torn tent, a tarnished fire pit, and abandoned cans littered the ground. It felt wrong. Deserted places always put her on edge.

Gripping the shotgun tighter, she performed a quick 360-degree scan, looking for any sign of life. Nothing. The only thing she saw was the weathered tree with the cross carved into its trunk—the spot.

"Bingo," she muttered under her breath, dropping the duffle bag and getting to work.

The digging was harder than she expected. The dirt was thick, packed down by time, and it took her longer than she cared to admit to break through the layers. Sweat dripped down her face, but Nadia didn't stop. She was too close to finish now.

Two hours later, she hit paydirt. Her shovel clanged against bone. She stopped, panting for breath, her body shaking from exhaustion. Covered in dirt from head to toe, she felt a wave of satisfaction—until she remembered she'd worn shorts. What an idiot.

Tossing the shovel aside, she dug with her hands, tearing away dirt in handfuls, until she uncovered every bone, every part of the body buried here. She climbed out of the grave, her muscles protesting, and drenched the corpse in salt and gasoline.

"Well," she muttered, pulling out a match, "it's been fun."

Just as she was about to strike the match, the air around her grew colder. A presence materialized, and she didn't have to look to know what it was. She could feel it, like a dark cloud rolling in over her skin.

The spirit was exactly as her murderer had described: a woman covered in dirt, her throat marked by bruises, evidence of a violent, final struggle. Her eyes locked with Nadia's, fury and desperation swirling in the depths of her gaze.

The two stared at each other for a heartbeat, and then the spirit moved. Nadia barely had time to react before she was flung backward, her body crashing against a tree with a sickening thud.

The matchbox slipped from her fingers and tumbled to the ground. She groaned as she pushed herself up, vision swimming, only to see the matches a mere few feet away. She crawled toward them, but the spirit was faster.

In a blur of motion, the ghost flipped her onto her back, straddling her and choking her just as her murderer had done. Nadia's fingers dug into the spirit's wrists, her nails scraping desperately against the cold, ethereal skin.

A rush of panic flooded her chest. She couldn't breathe. The world was going black around the edges. But just as everything started to blur, a bright white light streaked across the sky.

A sonic boom followed, shaking the ground beneath her, throwing the spirit off balance. The distraction was enough for Nadia to grab the matches, light one, and throw it into the grave. The spirit screamed as the flames ignited the body, its fiery wail echoing in the air as the ghost was consumed by fire, vanishing in a puff of smoke.

"Too close," Nadia gasped, coughing as she fought to catch her breath. She rubbed at her throat, trying to ease the pressure, grateful that there wasn't a mark left behind. As her head cleared, she stood shakily and brushed the dirt from her clothes and knees, the exhaustion weighing down on her.

But then her gaze lifted, drawn to the sky.

What she had assumed to be a shooting star seemed different. It was too loud, too sudden to be just another falling star, but it was so high in the sky that it didn't make sense. Her gut twisted with unease.

Forget it, she thought. She was just happy to be alive. A shower was definitely in order. But before she could turn back, a voice, soft and distorted, whispered in her mind, making her stop dead in her tracks.

"𝙁𝙤 . . 𝙩𝙝 . . 𝙤𝙠𝙚 . . ." The voice crackled, the signal nearly lost.

Nadia shook her head, trying to dismiss it. Probably just her mind playing tricks on her. Her medications had been wearing off lately. But then, the voice spoke again, clearer this time, with an odd headache-inducing pulse that echoed in her skull.

"𝙏 . . .𝙪𝙧𝙣 . . . 𝙖𝙧 . . ."

She stilled, the words finally piecing together in her mind.

"𝙏𝙪𝙧𝙣 𝙖𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙."

"𝙁𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙤𝙬 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙢𝙤𝙠𝙚."

The words settled over her like a weight. Hesitantly, Nadia turned around. In the distance, smoke rose from above the treetops, blackening the sky. Something was burning. Something... important.

Her heart skipped a beat, a twinge of unease creeping through her. This wasn't a normal job. But her gut told her she needed to follow it.

Nadia hesitated for a moment. Her instincts screamed at her to run, to get out of the woods before whatever was waiting out there found her. But she didn't. Something kept her grounded. She needed to know.

With one hand on her silver-gold Beretta 92 FS, ready for anything, she began to walk. The closer she got to the edge of the forest, the more her skin prickled with dread.

And then she saw it. The clearing in the distance.

The fire had left its mark, trees knocked over, their trunks blackened and scorched. In the center of the destruction, there was a grave. A simple wooden cross poked out of the dirt, standing stark against the ruined landscape.

As she climbed over the fallen tree trunks, her boots crunching through the debris, a sense of dread crawled over her skin. A grave. In the middle of nowhere. In Pontiac, Illinois?

This couldn't be good.

Hunter's instinct told her to turn around and leave before she got too close. But something else—the same pull that had kept her grounded—kept her moving. She couldn't explain it. She just knew.

And then, just as she reached the edge of the grave, a hand shot up from the earth like a scene out of a horror movie.

Nadia's breath hitched in her throat. She took a step back, raising her gun, eyes narrowed.

"𝘿𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙩!"

The voice was weak, almost a whisper, so soft she almost missed it.

She froze, her finger still on the trigger, but her instincts told her to listen.

Another hand burst out, followed by the head. A man, his face caked in dirt, gasping for breath, his body contorting as though struggling to find its way back into the world.

And Nadia knew him, even before he looked up at her, wide-eyed. The dirt didn't matter, the disheveled hair didn't matter.

"Dean Winchester?" she whispered, her voice thick with disbelief.

Dean blinked up at her, equally confused. He was supposed to be dead.

Nadia couldn't stop looking at him. She, like everyone else, had heard that Dean Winchester had been torn to shreds by Hellhounds. Yet here he was, sitting next to her, alive—riding shotgun and looking good for someone who had been in Hell.

Dean gazed out the window, his button-down shirt tossed casually across his lap, enjoying the rush of fresh air blowing through his sandy brown hair. His gaze flickered over to Nadia, and their eyes locked for the first time since he had gotten into the car. He seemed equally unsettled by the situation, his mind racing to process everything.

"How long has it been?" His voice was still hoarse, as if he hadn't spoken in ages.

"Four months since I last heard you went under. It's September," Nadia replied, her voice steady but filled with a quiet disbelief.

"September," Dean muttered, rubbing his forehead broodingly, the weight of everything still pressing down on him.

"Dean, how the hell are you here?" Nadia's question felt heavy in the air, her eyes searching him for answers.

He was too calm, too composed for someone who had just clawed his way out of Hell.

"I don't know," he answered honestly, his voice thick with confusion. "I don't know."

Nadia propped her arm on the door, twirling a dread around her finger as her mind whirled. The voice, the strange pull, had led her to Dean Winchester of all people.

How? Why? What was going on?

She was so deep in thought that she didn't even notice Dean staring at her. He had never expected to see her again, yet here she was, like a missing piece to a puzzle neither of them knew how to solve.

"How did you find my... grave?" Dean finally broke the silence, his brow furrowing in curiosity.

"I was in the woods," she replied, glancing out the window.

"By yourself?"

"For a case," she answered with a pointed look, unimpressed by his raised eyebrow. "Guy killed his wife, and she didn't take it too well in the afterlife. She almost had me when something flew past the sky and landed right where you were buried."

Dean's lips twitched as he processed that. "Were you able to burn the bones?"

"Yes, dad," she rolled her eyes playfully, giving him a smirk. "I can handle myself, thank you very much."

Dean held his hands up in mock surrender. "Fair enough."

His gaze flickered to a gas station ahead. "Pull over."

The gas station was as lifeless as the abandoned stretch of Pontiac they were in. The door was locked.

Nadia cuffed her hands on the window, peering inside. "Hello?"

No answer.

Dean grunted in annoyance. "Back up." With a casual flick of his wrist, he rolled up his shirt sleeve, his hand finding the nearest window. He punched right through the glass, and with a twist of the doorknob, the door creaked open.

The first thing he did was head straight for the fridges, grabbing a bottle of water and chugging it down in a few greedy gulps.

"Bathroom's in the back," Nadia said, eyeing the snacks lining the aisles. She caught sight of the sign as they entered: the "restroom" sign hanging crookedly above the back door.

"Thanks," Dean tossed the crumpled water bottle aside, heading to the back.

Nadia hummed contentedly, rummaging through the candy aisle, snacking on a lollipop, her thoughts a little clearer now.

Dean splashed cold water onto his face, watching his reflection as the shock of his situation finally started to settle in. The memories of his horrific death, the teeth of the Hellhounds tearing into him, flashed vividly in his mind. He lifted his shirt, half-expecting to find some sign of the damage—but his chest was in perfect condition. His faint six-pack could use a little work, but no wounds, no scars.

No trace of the Hellhounds' attack.

Then his eyes drifted to his left arm. As he lifted his sleeve, his breath hitched in his throat. There, burned into his skin like a brand, was a large, raw handprint—too clean to be from a mere burn, too precise to be anything normal.

Confusion crept into his mind as he stared at it.

Something was happening. Something big.

"You alright in there?" Nadia's voice startled him, making him flinch as she knocked on the door.

"Y-yeah," Dean muttered, quickly pulling his sleeve down and putting on his shirt before stepping out of the bathroom. His mind was still racing, trying to make sense of the handprint and what it meant.

Nadia was behind the counter, packing snacks into a bag. She was humming to herself, carefree, almost as if she didn't have a care in the world. Dean couldn't help but smile—though he wasn't one to believe in fate, it was hard not to think it was a bit more than coincidence that she found him.

Before he went to Hell, she had been a recurring thought in his mind. He wasn't sure what it meant, but for now, he pushed it aside, focusing on what was in front of him. He grabbed some energy bars and water, tossing them into his own bag.

"Jackpot," Nadia muttered as she pressed a button to open the cash register.

Dean joined her behind the counter, obnoxiously chewing on an energy bar. "How much?"

"A little over two hundred bucks," she said, handing him the cash.

"Thanks." Dean raised an eyebrow, surprised she was so generous with the money.

"Well, don't seem so shocked," she teased, nudging him lightly. "You need it more than me, 'dead man.'"

"Good point," Dean replied, flashing her a grin.

Just then, Nadia winced, rubbing her forehead. "Ugh," she muttered. "Headache."

"You good?" Dean asked, his brow furrowing with concern as he pocketed the cash.

"Yeah, yeah," she said, but her voice trailed off, and something seemed off. Her gaze flickered to the room around them, her senses prickling.

Then she felt it—an unearthly presence, like something or someone was nearby. It didn't feel like a threat, though. It felt... familiar. Like she had sensed it before.

"Do you feel that?" she asked, her voice low, almost a whisper.

"Feel what?" Dean responded, his eyes scanning the room. He was starting to get that familiar sense of dread.

Suddenly, the TV flickered to life, static filling the room. Nadia frowned and quickly turned it off.

Then the radio blared to life, white noise cutting through the silence. Both of them turned toward each other, their hunter instincts kicking in as the air around them seemed to grow heavier.

They quickly grabbed cartons of salt and began drawing protective lines along the window sills. The feeling in the room was growing stronger.

Dean barely managed to finish the salt line when a high-pitched tone screamed through his eardrums, so sharp and painful it nearly made him drop the salt. His hands shook with the intensity of the noise, but he couldn't hear anything else.

Nadia, however, didn't notice the change until she heard him groan in agony.

"Dean? Hey, Dean, what's wrong?" Nadia rushed to his side, her concern rising as he doubled over, clutching his head.

The pain was so excruciating, he could barely form words to explain. Nadia held onto him, her arms wrapping around his torso as she tried to steady him.

Then, the glass. It started breaking—one by one, the windows, the fridges, the door, the mirrors—all shattered in a single, cacophonous wave. The sound was deafening.

Dean instinctively pulled Nadia to the ground, covering her with his body as the destruction rained down around them. They lay there, panting, the glass crunching beneath them as the world seemed to calm for a moment.

The presence she had felt earlier was gone now, replaced by an unsettling silence.

"What the hell was that?" Nadia whispered, still shaken.

Dean carefully stood, his eyes scanning the room. "You didn't hear that?" he asked, helping her to her feet.

"Hear what? The windows shattering?" Nadia asked, her voice confused.

Dean opened his mouth to explain, but the words wouldn't come. How could he explain what he had heard, what he had felt, when he himself didn't understand it?

"Let's get out of here," Nadia said, her voice tight. She stepped carefully over the broken glass, heading for the door.

Dean grabbed their snacks and followed behind, his thoughts racing.

"𝙋𝙧 . . . 𝙤 . . 𝘿 . . . 𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧."

The voice spoke again, this time more clearly, and Nadia froze in her tracks. Her adrenaline was still high, but she had no intention of letting whatever this was go unnoticed.

"Can I use your phone?" Dean asked, pulling her back to reality.

"Ye—" Nadia started, pulling out her phone, but her shoulders slumped when she saw the blank screen. "No signal. There's a payphone though." She pointed to the booth outside.

Dean nodded, heading toward the payphone, while Nadia went to the truck and rummaged through the glove compartment, pulling out a bottle of water and taking a pill.

"What happened?" Nadia asked when he returned.

"Well

, my brother didn't answer. Says his phone's off," Dean muttered. "I called Bobby, but he didn't believe it was me."

"Of course," Nadia said with a dry laugh, not at all surprised. "Not that I blame him."

"I guess we're going to Bobby's," Dean said, looking to her for confirmation.

"We?" Nadia shrugged nonchalantly, crossing her arms over her chest. "Unless you want to hotwire a car and go by yourself."

Dean grinned. "I wouldn't."

"Want to go alone or find a car?"

Without another word, they headed to opposite sides of the truck, ready to face whatever this new mystery was.

"Both."