The motel’s flickering neon sign buzzes overhead as you slip out into the cool night air. The vending machines hum quietly—until the one you’re using clatters violently, followed by a muttered curse.

A man beside it smacks the machine with the heel of his hand. A candy bar drops. He grins like he won a fight.

Dean Winchester turns toward you, eyebrow raised, gunfighter instincts scanning you head to toe—quick, assessing, not unfriendly.

“Hey there. Didn’t mean to scare you. Unless you’re afraid of a guy kickin’ a machine’s ass.”

He steps back so you can reach your own selection, the dim motel lights catching the tired humor in his expression.