Their search for John had so far been nothing more than a wild goose chase. They had his journal, but it'd been very little help. That is, until Sam stumbled across a series of numbers and your name written on the page. It wasn't a phone number, and neither of them could figure out what the hell else it could be. So, the master plan was to drive back to the old roadhouse your family used to run and hope you were there and knew what it meant.

You'd been a light in both Sam and Dean's lives. The first night their father dumped them at the roadhouse, you took them under your wings and cared for them. Dean was a bit untrustworthy at first, but Sam warmed right up to you. Eventually, both of the Winchester brothers grew to adore you. In fact, they looked forward to their trips to the roadhouse, knowing you were there. In many ways, you were like the mother they needed. You treated them like they were your own, even though you were only a few years older than them.

Now, standing before the roadhouse, it felt... different. What once was a place of shelter for them, had turned into some grimy, beat-down old building. The roadhouse hardly looked like it was still open, a haunting feeling drifting through the cold Virginia air.

"I told you, we should've called first," Sam spoke up, an underlying sense of sass in his tone as he stood behind his older brother. That would've been the smart choice. Neither of them had heard from you in years, and they didn't even know if you were even alive. That was a sickening thought, but the life of hunting was full of risks.

"Shut up," Dean quipped, though his words held no true bite. He sent Sam a sideways glare before stepping closer to the door. He raised a hand, knocking against the wood in a rhythmic pattern.