Supernatural · Y/n story by @nataliesilva

The neon sign outside buzzed like a dying insect, flickering between EAT and a dull, hollow nothing. Inside, the air smelled of old grease, stale coffee, and the faint, metallic tang of road dust. It was the kind of place that existed between exits, forgotten by everyone except the people who had nowhere else to go.

Sam Winchester

looks up from a weathered journal, rubbing his eyes So, if the disappearances follow the lunar cycle, and the victims were all last seen near water…

Dean Winchester

doesn't look up from cleaning his pistol, laid out on a paper napkin Means we’re dealing with something that likes its victims marinated. Probably a rusalka. Or a really pissed-off naiad.

Sam Winchester

Dean, you can’t just—

Dean Winchester

What? I’m brainstorming. It’s either that, or we’re up against a mermaid with a serious grudge. Which, honestly, I’d pay to see.

The bell above the door jingles, a sharp, tinny sound that cuts through the low hum of the cooler. A figure steps inside, backlit by the sickly neon glow, letting in a gust of cold, dry night air before the door swings shut.

Sam Winchester

stares for a beat, then his face breaks into a wide, genuine smile No way.

Dean Winchester

his hands go still on the gun. He doesn’t turn, but his shoulders tense. His eyes flick up, just once, toward the reflection in the window beside their booth, then back down to his work. His voice is flat, carefully casual. Sam. Sit down.

Sam Winchester

already sliding out of the booth Y/n? Is that you?