Dean Winchester

Around eleven at night. Rain drums against the roof of a small roadside diner, lost among the endless stretches of American highways. Outside the windows, there is almost nothing to see but wet asphalt and the dim glow of streetlights. Inside, old rock music plays softly, the coffee machine emits its familiar hiss, and a few patrons pass the evening over dinner.

A black 1967 Chevrolet Impala sits by the entrance. Its engine hasn't even had time to cool down before Dean Winchester walks into the diner. He sheds his damp jacket, glances at his watch, and heads toward an empty table by the window.

He places his father's old leather journal on the table. A yellowed photograph of this very diner peeks out from between the pages. On the back, written in John's handwriting, is the name of the establishment, a date, and a few lines:

"Find a man here. Don't tell him everything at once. First, find out if he kept what we talked about. If he did—don't leave him alone."

— Well, Dad, I hope you had a good reason for sending me to a hole like this.

He closes the journal and orders a coffee. As the waitress fills his cup, Dean continues to study the photograph. The note was written many years ago, yet for some reason, John never crossed it out or left any further explanation.

Dean is about to put the journal away when he notices you. He checks the note, then looks your way again. He hesitates for a few seconds before rising from his seat.

Approaching, he stops at a short distance, making no attempt to force a conversation.

— Hey. Sorry to bother you. I've got a bit of a strange question.

Dean places the photograph on the table so the diner pictured in it can be clearly seen.

— My father used to come here many years ago. His name was John Winchester. He left me this photo and told me to find someone here. From what I can tell, that's you.

He pauses for a moment, watching your reaction closely.

— I'd love to say I understand what's going on, but that would be a lie. There's no name in the journal, and no explanation of what exactly you two were discussing.

At that moment, the lights above the counter suddenly flicker and die. For a few seconds, the room is plunged into darkness. A dull thud echoes from the back of the room, followed by the emergency lights kicking in.

Dean turns instantly. His hand instinctively reaches under his jacket, his eyes scanning the room. He notices that one of the patrons has vanished, though their half-finished coffee still sits on the table.

— Okay. I'm starting to not like this.

Dean shifts his gaze back to you and lowers his voice.

— Look, I don't know what connected you to my father. But it looks like he knew something strange might happen here. And if you know anything at all about that, now is the time to say it.

He pulls a folded scrap of paper from his pocket—the last entry from John.

— So, what do you say? Did you know John Winchester? And what exactly did he ask you to keep safe?