Molly walked back toward them, and the low conversation stopped immediately.
"I know it sounds crazy," she said, voice tight but determined. "But I crashed into that tree. I don't know who could've taken the car. It was totaled."
She looked between them, pleading. "Please. You have to believe me."
Sam nodded calmly. "We do believe you. That's why we want to get you out of here."
"But what about David?" she pressed. "Something must have happened to him. I have to get to the cops."
"Just come with us," Sam said softly. "We'll take you to the nearest town and talk to the police. That's the best way we can help you and your husband."
Molly hesitated, then gave a small nod. "Okay."
They started walking back toward the road.
"We're supposed to be in Lake Tahoe," she said suddenly.
"You and David?" Sam asked.
"It's our five-year anniversary."
Dean muttered under his breath, "A hell of an anniversary."
"Right before…" Molly's expression clouded. "We were having the dumbest fight."
They got back into the Impala.
Dean pulled onto the road, gravel spitting from the tires as they drove away from the clearing.
Molly sat in the back seat beside Henry, still shaken, fingers twisted tightly in her jacket.
For a few seconds, there was only the hum of the engine—
Then the radio turned on by itself.
Static cracked once, and music poured through the speakers.
Molly went rigid.
"This song…" she whispered.
Dean's eyes flicked to the dashboard. "What?"
"It was playing when we crashed."
The volume rose without anyone touching it. The sound felt wrong—warped, like it was bleeding out of the speakers instead of playing through them.
She's mine… she's mine… she's mine…
Headlights cut through the narrow road—
And a figure stepped out into the center of it.
Bloody. Mangled. Clothes torn. Face twisted like it had been dragged across asphalt.
Dean didn't slow down.
"What are you doing?!" Molly screamed.
"Trust me," Henry said sharply, grabbing the back of the seat in front of him.
The Impala plowed straight through the figure.
No impact. No resistance.
The body tore apart like smoke against the hood and vanished behind them.
Molly twisted in her seat. "What the hell just happened?"
"Don't worry, Molly," Sam said. "Everything's all right."
The engine sputtered.
"I think you spoke a little too soon, Sammy."
A harsh grinding noise came from under the hood. The headlights flickered once, twice, then dimmed. The dashboard lights blinked out.
The engine gave one final choke—
—and died.
Silence.
The Impala rolled the last few feet before Dean guided it to the side of the road.
The engine was dead.
All around them, nothing but trees.
Three of them stepped out.
Molly stood a few yards ahead, staring into the woods like she expected something to walk back out of them.
Henry exhaled slowly. "Well, that guy's clearly hell-bent on keeping her here. So we have to smoke his ass before we deal with her."
Dean glanced around at the endless stretch of dark forest. "That'd be great, if we knew where he's hiding. All I see is trees."
"Dean, if you've got a better idea, we're listening," Sam said quietly. "Because unless we torch Jonah Greeley's bones, we're not leaving."
Dean popped the trunk.
The familiar sight of weapons filled the darkness—shotguns, salt rounds, iron, EMF.
"Guess we're doing this the hard way," Dean muttered.
Henry grabbed an iron rod and a canister of salt.
Molly turned—and saw the trunk.
Her expression changed immediately.
A car filled with guns. Strange tools. Iron. Rock salt.
She took two slow steps back.
"Well… okay. Thanks for helping," she said cautiously. "But I think I've got it covered from here."
"Sam," Henry said quietly, "we should tell her the truth."
"The truth about what?" Molly asked, now visibly unsettled.
Dean shut the trunk with a solid thud and began loading his shotgun. "We didn't just find you by coincidence. We're hunting."
Molly's face tightened. "Hunting what?"
"Ghosts," Henry said.
"Dude," Sam hissed under his breath.
"Okay, that's it," Molly said, backing away. "I'm leaving. I'll go get help myself."
"What is it that's so hard to believe?" Dean shot back. "You just saw a bloody man stand in the road. We drove through him. He didn't have a body."
Sam shot Dean a look.
She's scared.
Molly's breathing quickened. "You're crazy."
"Molly, trust me," Sam said, stepping forward slightly. "We are trying to help you."
"No," she shook her head. "I can't trust you. Who are you guys? What is happening?"
Sam took a breath, choosing his words carefully.
"That man who chased you? His name is Jonah Greeley. He died on this road fifteen years ago. Every year, on the anniversary of his death, he hunts this stretch of highway. He picks someone. He haunts them."
Molly's face went pale.
"Wait," she said, voice trembling. "You don't think my husband David is caught by him, do you?"
"Maybe," Sam admitted. "We don't know yet. But we will help you find your husband. And we'll get you to safety. You have to trust us."
She looked at Sam first.
Then at Henry—iron rod in hand.
Then at Dean, shotgun loaded, posture rigid, eyes scanning the treeline like he was waiting for something to charge.
They didn't look normal.
"Dean, your brother's way better with words than us when it comes to consoling people," Henry muttered quietly. "I kinda suck at that part."
Dean didn't look at him.
"Yeah," he said dryly. "Sam does the whole 'trust me, we're here to help' thing."
*****
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