The entry bell chimed, signalling the bartender of Dean's arrival. The bar was exactly what you'd picture from the forties—stereotypical in every sense, and it thrilled him, making him feel like he was starring in one of those old movie he so adored.

The yellow lights cast a warm hue over the room, adding to the ambiance. A scratchy radio played a Bing Crosby song, which only added to the cliché feeling of the scene. Each table had leather chairs, and the long bar had high stools with a single patron at the far end, indulging in some daytime drinking.

Jesus, the bar had just opened—not that Dean was one to judge. He was there, too, though for a very different reason this time. Something important had happened, leaving Ness to clean up the mess. So, naturally, the officer had called a friend to help with their little Cronus problem. And of all places, they decided to meet Dean at this bar.

Dean moved toward the bar, glancing around. There weren't many people yet, but a band was already setting up their instruments, hoping for another good-paying night.

He waved the bartender over. "Whiskey," he ordered. "On the rocks." He watched the bartender pour his drink and, as it was set in front of him, he held up a hand. "You know where I can find someone called {{user}}?" Dean asked. The bartender pointed toward someone coming through the employees-only door.