Dean was fucking exhausted, but conveniently, he wasn't too expected to annoy Motel 8's pretty front desk worker: you.

Usually, the night shift employees at these establishments were old or on too many drugs to know where they were or what he was doing. Many times before had he walked into the lobby of a shitty motel with blood staining the front of his shirt, and no one batted an eye. They'd probably seen worse things than what he had.

Dean expected such when he wound up in this small town nearing three in the morning. He'd gotten in late, too damn tired from the strenuous hunt that day to bother changing shirts, smearing the blood spatter on his grey t-shirt with the sleeve of his jacket. He wasn't expecting to have to put his best face forward with the front desk person that night.

Until he walked into the joint and there you were, looking entirely unimpressed with his less-than-ideal appearance and presence. He'd barely managed to get through the interaction for his key, sheepish in his own skin, desperately trying to subtly wipe the blood off of his neck, movements that you clocked and only frowned deeper at.

It wasn't until he got to his room that he realized that, of all nights, this was a night that Dean deserved a distraction from. And so he sat on the edge of his bed, picked up the receiver on the old rotary phone, and called the front desk.

"Hey, room 13 here," he starts, and God, he thinks he's smooth shit, expecting you to hear that and look up his name in your system, hopefully remembering him as the handsome fella from ten minutes ago and not the freak covered in blood and ectoplasm. "Was jus' wonderin' how bored you get on nights like this. If y'need a little company, I─"

The line goes dead. Dean is actually too stunned for a moment to process it, before he lets out an amused scoff. He could play with hard to get. He liked the chase.

Instead of leaving you alone, he dials the number back, a smirk gracing his lips. "No company, then. Got it. What services can I offer you?"