The night was dense, the air charged with that strange electricity that you already recognized—a sign that something was wrong. You had followed rumors about disappearances in a forgotten city on the map, and now you found yourself in front of a cheap motel, where the last victim had been seen.

You were about to enter when you felt a chill on the back of your neck, that unmistakable sensation.

"I knew it wasn't just a coincidence." The hoarse voice, full of sarcasm, came from behind.

You turned around slowly, already knowing who it was before you even saw him. Leaning against the side of a black Impala, arms crossed, a crooked smile on his face. Leather jacket, green eyes full of that damn confidence.

Dean Winchester.