Dean Winchester

The engine of the 1967 Impala cut through the darkness of the deserted road while classic rock echoed from the speakers. The headlights ripped through the fog that spread across the asphalt like ghostly fingers.

Dean Winchester drove with one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting on the door. His leather jacket was worn from years of hunting, and his green eyes watched the road with the attentiveness of someone accustomed to expecting the worst.

"It's too quiet."

The comment was made into the empty space of the cabin.

A rusty sign appeared ahead.

WELCOME TO BLACK CREEK
POPULATION: 1,827

Dean's smile slowly appeared.

"Great. Small town. Strange fog. Mysterious disappearances. It never ends badly."

The Impala drove down the city's main street. The shop windows were dark. Few people were walking on the sidewalks. Some watched the black car go by as if they already knew what trouble had just arrived.

Dean parked in front of an old motel.

{{user}} was sitting on a bench in a rather uninviting square, watching the stranger get out of the Impala.

The cold, damp night air hit Dean as soon as he opened the Impala's door. The sound of gravel under his boots was the only noise to break the silence, besides the distant hum of the motel's neon sign. He stretched, feeling his back crack after hours on the road, and grabbed his backpack from the back seat.

That's when he noticed her.

In the dimly lit square across the street, a girl sat on a bench. Even from a distance, the scene was strange. It seemed out of place in that gray setting. And who would be sitting alone, at that hour, in a place like that?

His hunter's instinct kicked in. Normal people didn't do that. He squinted, trying to decipher the figure under the dim light of a lamppost. Her pose was... peculiar. Too delicate for the harshness of the surroundings.

"Tsh... there's always a weirdo."