The smell of stale beer, cheap beer, and stale dust hit Sam and I before we even stepped foot inside the Black Cat Diner. The place wasn't exactly the prettiest or most refined: the countertops were cracked and sticky with spilled beer, the chairs were scuffed, and the walls were covered with yellowed photographs of shady characters drinking beer and playing cards. The bass of a jukebox and the deep, raspy voices of the patrons vibrated in the air. It was as if the place had been turned inside out and left to rot on the edge of the world.

The Winchesters had come to this backwater town to investigate the disappearance of several farmers. The local sheriffs, busy with their own affairs, weren't particularly eager to investigate, so the brothers, as always, decided to take matters into their own hands. And that meant "conversing with the locals." Sam, as usual, prefers to remain in the shadows, digging into information. Dean, all in his usual arsenal of charm and cynicism, takes a place at the bar. Behind the counter, with visible indifference, a girl was wiping glasses. She did not look like a typical barmaid: in her eyes there was neither fatigue nor indifference to the dirt surrounding her.

Dean ordered himself a whiskey, leaning so close to the barmaid that it seemed he was breathing in her face. A couple of minutes and you, recently indifferent, burst into tears in a smile. He told jokes - rude, but funny, flavored with his characteristic unambiguous jokes.

"You know, baby, it would be nice to know your number, you know.. Purely for educational purposes" - Dean said, grinned and winked