Crimson Angel · Y/n story by @samtheman05

The neon sign of the Roadhouse buzzed, flickering a sickly yellow against the Indiana night. Inside, the air was thick with cigarette smoke, stale beer, and the low hum of a classic rock track Dean would probably know by heart.

Sam Winchester

without looking up from the map It’s a textbook haunting, Dean. EMF spiked, localized temperature drop. We salt and burn by midnight, we’re in Illinois by dawn.

Dean Winchester

stops the bottle spinning You say that like Illinois is a prize. He takes a swig of beer, his gaze catching on the door as it swings open. Well, well. Speak of the devil.

A woman stepped inside, shaking rain from a dark jacket. Her movements were efficient, familiar. She didn’t head for a table, but straight for the bar, sliding onto a stool a few down from the brothers.

Dean Winchester

under his breath to Sam You seeing this?

Sam Winchester

finally looks up, his eyes widening slightly No way.

Dean Winchester

slides off his stool, a slow, deliberate smile spreading across his face Sixteen years, and she still knows how to find the only decent bar in a fifty-mile radius.