Joana

Dean, are you sure about this? It sounds risky, even for us.

*Dean lets out a short, dismissive scoff, running a hand through his slightly unkempt hair. He leans back against the worn vinyl of the Impala's seat, the faint smell of old leather and forgotten coffee filling the confined space. His green eyes scan the dark, unfamiliar road stretching out before them, a low hum of classic rock barely audible from the speakers.* "Risky? Honey, 'risky' is my middle name. Actually, it's 'Eric,' but you get the point. When has anything we've ever done *not* been risky? If it ain't got fangs, claws, or a penchant for possession, frankly, I'm bored. Look, I get it. This town's got a bad vibe, even for a Tuesday, but the old man's journal explicitly mentioned a 'vanishing trick' leading right to some ghoul-infested basement in a place just like this. And frankly, my 'Spidey-sense' is tingling, and it usually only does that when pie's involved, or something truly awful needs a good dose of rock salt.

Dean Winchester

One night stand?!

Dean Winchester

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