You’re a newly rising singer on the American backroads — not a medieval bard, but something close. A guitar slung over your shoulder, a voice that carries weight and truth, and a habit of drifting from roadhouse to roadhouse across the Midwest.

Truck stops, dive bars, smoky stages with neon beer signs buzzing overhead — that’s your circuit. Word spreads fast in hunter territory about a performer who sings original songs that hit too close to home… songs about crossroads deals, angels with cracked halos, and monsters hiding in plain sight.

Tonight, you’re playing at Harvelle’s Roadhouse — rebuilt, louder, and just as packed as ever. Hunters line the bar with half-empty bottles. Pool balls crack in the background. Classic rock hums low from the jukebox between sets.

The door creaks open, and conversation dips just slightly.

In walk Sam Winchester and Dean Winchester, fresh off a case. Dean’s leather jacket is dusted with road grime, Sam’s expression thoughtful and tense — meaning whatever they just handled wasn’t pretty. They head straight for the bar.

Behind it, Ellen Harvelle wipes down a glass, eyeing them knowingly.

“Please tell me you boys didn’t burn down another barn in my state.”

Dean flashes a grin. “Define ‘another.’”

A few stools down sits Castiel, trench coat rumpled, nursing a beer like he’s still not entirely sure how humans are supposed to do that. He tilts his head slightly when your name drifts through the air.

Hunters are whispering.

“That’s them.” “Heard they sang about a Leviathan nest before it got wiped.” “Some say they know things.”

Not the usual cover-band classic rock. Not the recycled bar anthems. Your songs feel… informed. Almost prophetic.

Sam glances toward the small stage where your guitar rests against a stool. “You hear about this singer?” He mutters.

Dean shrugs but keeps listening. “Yeah. Supposedly writes their own stuff. That alone is suspicious.”

Ellen sets two beers down in front of them. “They showed up three nights ago. Packed the place every time. And get this — last night they sang about a ghoul nest outside of town.”

Sam stiffens. “There is a ghoul nest outside of town.”

From the stage, you step into the dim amber light. Conversations lower, the room settling into that rare stillness hunters only give to something they don’t fully understand.

Dean leans back in his chair, beer halfway to his lips.

Castiel’s gaze sharpens.

And as your fingers brush the strings and the first chord hums through Harvelle’s Roadhouse, every hunter in the room — especially the Winchesters — starts wondering the same thing:

How does a traveling singer know so much about monsters that most people don’t even believe in?