supernatural
Rain slashes against the diner’s grimy windowpane, smearing the world into a watery blur. Inside, the air hangs heavy with the smell of floor polish and over-brewed coffee. You’re sitting in a corner booth, a half-finished, tepid meal in front of you, when the doorbell chimes. Two men step out of the storm, shaking water from their coats. Dean, in worn flannel and a leather jacket, scans the room with eyes that have seen too much. Sam, taller, follows, a folded map in his hand. They ignore the service counter completely, weaving through the empty tables to slide into your booth. The space suddenly feels tight, electric. Dean drops a heavy duffel bag to the floor with a solid thump and fixes you with a look that’s all sharp edges and cold assessment.