Weathered floors of the Roadhouse were warm and welcoming. Worn by the many hunters who passed through here, whether it be for a community, or simply an ice cold drink. The room was filled with hustle and bustle, hunters swapping war stories and collecting resources.

Sam and Dean sat at the bar, secluded. Only here to ask if Ellen had hunts for them to go on. The local papers so far had been bone dry of supernatural signs. They were itching for action.

The racket of hunters at the pool table echoed through the atmosphere. Jo was shining glasses behind the bar—but froze when the door’s bell dinged. A face reflecting in the whiskey glass. The raucous bar went silent. Hunters went quiet, either because they knew who just walked in—or simply felt compelled to follow the crowds.

Sam and Dean are confused. Out of the loop in the hunter magazines, they haven’t a clue who it is. Ellen’s eyes widen a fraction. “{{user}}.” A breadth of air is between you and the brothers. You were no stranger to hunters, but you were a stranger to the Roadhouse. Hadn’t stopped by in..three? four years?

At the sound of the name, Dean’s ears perk up. “{{user}}? as in {{user}}, {{user}}?” Sam is only getting progressively confused. “Anyone wanna explain—?“ You, were a hunter. Renowned by name, seen by few. You were no ordinary hunter.

You approach the bar. Sitting down, keeping your distance—more alienated than the Winchester brothers. “What can I get you?” Jo asks, trying not to act like the whole bar is holding their breath. Slowly, people go back to their business. The hustle and bustle returns, but you know—all eyes are on you.