The storm had finally caught up.
Rain slid down Knox's windshield like whispered curses as the 1954 Mercedes 300SL glided to a smooth, silent stop in Palo Alto. The enchanted car barely hummed as it came to rest beneath a flickering streetlamp, mist curling around the tires.
Knox shut off the jazz with a mental flick. The interior lights dimmed to a violet glow. Three floors up, behind one unassuming window, was a man who hadn't seen his brother in years. And Knox... well, he was walking straight into the pilot of a story he didn't expect to join.
As he stepped out, coat catching the breeze, a familiar voice called from the shadows:
"Took you long enough."
Dean Winchester emerged from under the stairwell, all smirk and damp leather jacket.
Knox grinned. "You're just jealous I travel in style."
Dean's eyes dropped to the Mercedes—and widened.
"Wait. Is this... holy crap, is this a real 300SL?"
Knox raised a brow. "You recognize it?"
"Are you kidding?" Dean circled the car slowly, reverent. "This is a '54 gullwing. My dad talked about it like it was the Ark of the freakin' Covenant."
"Bought it at a Sotheby's auction in London."
Dean stopped mid-step. "You bought this? At auction?"
"I mean... I apparated it back to Boston right after. Shipping takes forever."
Dean squinted. "You what it?"
"Magic teleportation."
Dean threw his hands up. "Of course you did."
He leaned closer, running a hand along the flawless matte-black finish. "Tell me it's enchanted."
"Warded to hell and back. Anti-tracking, invisibility glamour, scrying shields, impact-absorbing runes... it self-repairs and can push Mach 1 when the jazz hits right."
Dean stepped back, hand over heart. "I think I'm in love."
"She's picky. Doesn't like backseat drivers."
Dean smirked. "You know what? I'm not even mad. This thing's a damn work of art."
They shared a look—equal parts mutual respect and your life is ridiculous—before heading toward the building.
"You ready to break in?" Dean asked, adjusting his jacket.
"You mean you haven't already?"
Dean shrugged. "Thought I'd wait. Let you wave your magic wand around."
Knox pulled out his wand with a little theatrical flourish.
"Alohomora."
Click.
Dean blinked. "No lockpick? No crowbar?"
"Nope."
"Okay, I hate how smooth that was."
Knox smirked. "Want a light?"
He flicked his wand again. "Lumos."
The stairwell lit up with silver-blue light.
Dean stared like a caveman seeing fire. "Every time. It's freaky. Useful. But freaky."
"You keep saying that like it's an insult."
"It's... a compliment. With salt."
Knox smirked. "Good to know my seven years at Hogwarts weren't a waste."
Dean just blinked at him, confused.
Knox arched an eyebrow. "You do know what Hogwarts is, right?"
Dean frowned. "Is that... like a swamp disease?"
Knox stopped mid-step and stared at him. "You don't know Hogwarts?"
Dean shrugged. "I was raised by a man who thought Latin was light reading and anything supernatural was shoot-on-sight. No bedtime stories, no magic schools, just 'salt first, questions later.'"
Knox sighed. "Dean, my entire childhood is wasted on you."
They reached the apartment door. A faint light glowed beneath it.
Knox felt the pull of memory. That exact edge of tension. And then—
[June 21, 2003 in Boston — Dean Winchester's POV]
Dean Winchester had met a lot of weird in his life—vampires, witches, shapeshifters.
But this guy?
This was new.
Bobby had sent him to Boston with barely a sentence of explanation."You'll need him. Don't ask questions. Just give him the benefit of the doubt."
Which, in Bobby-speak, usually meant: pack salt and expect trouble.
Dean figured he'd find a grizzled old hunter with too many scars and not enough patience.
Instead, he found a bar called The Crossroad—and a guy who looked like a cursed Vogue model opening the door.
Dark coat. Silver rings. British. Smug.
"Knox," the man said, voice clipped and precise. "You must be a Winchester."
"Dean," he replied. "And you're... not what I was expecting."
Knox's eyes flicked over him. "You either. I thought you'd be taller."
Inside, the place was all arcane ambiance and quiet hums of power. The air smelled like ozone and old paper. Books lined every wall—some muttering to themselves. A broom swept by on its own. Something in a mirror blinked at him.
Dean was about 90% sure the building was trying to read his soul.
He stepped up to the bar and dropped a manila folder between them with a dull slap.
"Edward Trenton. Three victims. Livers eaten. Police are calling it drug-related."
Knox flipped open the folder with clinical calm, eyes flicking over the photos and police notes.
"Summer solstice," he murmured.
Dean raised an eyebrow. "So?"
Knox tapped one of the photos. "Timing matters. Certain patterns only emerge under... specific conditions."
"You talk like a damn fortune cookie."
Knox smiled faintly, closing the file. "Let's just say I've studied cases like this before."
Dean narrowed his eyes. "You're not exactly chatty about how you're gonna help."
"I'll help," Knox said. "That's what Bobby sent me for."
"You some kind of specialist?"
"In a way."
Dean stepped closer. "Look, man, I'm not in the habit of teaming up with people I don't understand. Are you a hunter?"
Knox tilted his head. "I'm not not one."
Dean huffed. "Great. Cryptic and smug."
Knox just smiled.
They set out at dusk, tracking the pattern through police chatter and a growing list of missing organs. The trail led to a condemned apartment complex with peeling walls and busted windows.
The stench of death hit before they even reached the stairwell.
"He's here," Dean muttered, blade already drawn.
Knox simply nodded, following silently, hands in his coat pockets like he was out for a stroll.
They moved fast.
Inside, Edward Trenton was hunched over a fresh body, face slick with blood, eyes glowing with a wrongness that prickled Dean's spine.
Dean didn't wait. He charged, blade raised.
Then—
WHAM.
Dean was thrown back mid-run, like he'd hit an invisible wall.
He hit the ground hard and rolled, breath knocked out of him.
"What the—"
Trenton screamed—then slammed backward into the wall, pinned by some unseen force.
Dean scrambled up and saw Knox standing in the hall, hand outstretched, calm as ever.
"What... what the hell did you just do?"
Knox didn't answer. He pulled a slim stick—a wand?—from his coat and flicked it once.
"Incarcerous."
Black ropes snapped out of thin air and wrapped around Trenton like a python, binding him to a cracked support beam.
Dean stared, wide-eyed.
"You—you've got a wand?!"
Knox glanced over, casual as hell. "Better than getting your jacket dirty."
Dean pointed a shaking finger. "No. No, nope. That's not normal. You just force-fielded a liver-eating monster and rope-charmed it like a cowboy sorcerer. What are you?"
Knox shrugged. "Complicated."
Dean, processing the moment the only way he knew how, yanked a flask from his coat and splashed holy water straight into Knox's face.
Knox sputtered, soaked. "Really?!"
Dean waited.
Nothing sizzled.
"Alright," Dean muttered. "Not a demon."
"Nope."
"Not a witch?"
Knox tilted his head. "Depends on your definition."
Dean stared at him, wild-eyed.
Knox's smile widened. "It's a long story."
Later, back at The Crossroad, Dean bandaged his arm while Knox passed him a glass of something strong and smoky.
Dean took it.
"Alright," he said slowly. "I don't trust magic. I don't understand magic. But you helped."
Knox raised his glass. "That's all I ever try to do."
Dean studied him. "You're still a freak."
Knox grinned. "Takes one to know one."
Dean drained the glass. "I owe you one."
Knox just smiled. "You will."
[Back to Present – Knox's POV]
"Still a freak," Dean muttered, adjusting his grip on the door handle.
Knox flicked his wand. "Nox."
The light dimmed, leaving only the soft hallway glow and the hum of nearby streetlights.
"I thought you'd be over that by now," Knox said.
Dean smirked. "Not a chance. Freak."
Knox rolled his eyes and stepped forward, wand already in hand. "Alohomora."
The apartment door clicked open with a gentle snap.
Dean nodded approvingly. "Still hate how easy you make that look."
Knox gave him a sideways glance. "It's called an education, Dean."
"Yeah? Mine involved salt, shotguns, and PTSD."
"Charming curriculum."
Dean chuckled under his breath as they eased into the dark apartment.
Then the world snapped forward in motion—