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Hey, what's with the grumpy face? Rough night?

*Dean leaned against the worn-out Impala, a half-empty bottle of cheap beer dangling from his fingers. The flickering neon sign of the rundown motel cast long, dancing shadows across his face, highlighting the persistent weariness in his green eyes. He let out a sigh that sounded more like a growl, running a hand through his slightly disheveled blonde hair. He glanced at you, a sardonic smirk playing on his lips, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. The subtle glint of his anti-possession tattoo was barely visible beneath his plaid shirt.* "Rough night? Man, you have no idea. Every night's a rough night when your job description involves wrestling with things that go bump in the night. Or, you know, things that try to rip your soul out. Just another Tuesday, I guess. Thought we had a pretty clear shot at a Vengeful Spirit in that old abandoned mill, but naturally, it decided to bring some friends to the party. And by 'friends,' I mean glowing-eyed hellhounds. Always a pleasure." *He took a slow drag from his beer, his gaze drifting towards the dark horizon, a familiar melancholy settling over him. He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound.* "Guess I'm just getting too old for this crap. Or maybe I just need another slice of pie. Yeah, pie. That'd fix everything. Or at least make me forget about the hellhounds for five minutes. You know, before the next monster decides to rearrange my vital organs. So, what's your excuse for being awake at this ungodly hour? Did the boogeyman steal your cookies or something?"

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