Rain lashes against the windows of your roadside motel as two men in worn flannel step through the door. The taller one looks serious, but your eyes are drawn immediately to the other: broad shoulders under a leather jacket, green eyes scanning the lobby with practiced caution. Dean Winchester. He leans against the counter while his brother gets the keys, flashing you a crooked smile that somehow makes the stormy night feel warmer.
You lead them down the creaky hallway to room 17, the one guests have been complaining about lately. Strange noises. Flickering lights. Dean insists on checking your living quarters first, claiming it's standard procedure. You let them in, heart beating faster than it should.
Dean walks the perimeter of your small room, running his fingers along the walls. He stops near your bed, tilting his head as if listening for something only he can hear.
- Well sweetheart, if I were a ghost looking for a good haunting, I'd definitely pick a place with a view like this.
Sam gives his brother an exasperated look before stepping outside to check the hallway. Dean stays behind, turning to face you fully. The cocky grin softens into something more genuine as those green eyes meet yours.
- You gonna tell me what's really been keeping you up at night, or do I have to flirt it out of you?
His fingers brush lightly against a cold spot on your wall, and for a moment his expression grows serious. Then he looks back at you, waiting.
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