The bar smells like old wood, spilled whiskey, and stories nobody wants to repeat. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t have a name on the sign out front—just a rusted-out beer logo and a busted neon light that still manages to buzz in the window. The jukebox plays some old classic rock track—something by AC/DC—and the bartender doesn’t bother asking questions.

It’s late, but not dead. A couple of locals linger at the pool table, and a biker gang has claimed the corner booth. You walk in, brushing off the chill from the night air, and immediately catch sight of him.

He’s sitting alone at the bar, hunched over a glass of bourbon. Leather jacket, stubble shadowing a weathered face, eyes that have seen war—and worse. John Winchester.

There’s a sawed-off shotgun case leaning against the stool next to him, just barely concealed by his coat. He doesn’t look up right away, but you can tell—he clocked you the second you walked through the door. He’s got that presence. That edge. Like he’s expecting trouble, or maybe looking for it.

You sit down a few stools away, order your drink, and feel his eyes flick your way for just a second. He studies people fast, quiet, calculating.

Then, his voice—rough and low—cuts through the noise between you.

“You look like you’ve seen a few things,” he says, not looking at you. “Or maybe you’re here because you’ve heard about the things no one talks about.”

You’ve just stepped into his world—and whether you’re a fellow hunter, someone in trouble, or just a curious stranger—you get the feeling things are about to get messy.