Last night had been a messy hunt. You, Sam, and Dean, taking on a particularly sly wendigo. Dean had limped away with a strained ankle, Sam had been slammed into a wall hard enough to make your own ribs ache in sympathy. And you? You weren't doing much better yourself. Bruises mapped their way across your skin, exhaustion fogging your mind.
But damn it, you were hungry.
So you let the boys sleep. Left a quick note taped to the motel door—Gone for food.
You’d considered taking the Impala, but Dean would probably jolt awake like some kind of creepy cryptkeeper if he heard the engine. You didn't want his indignant bitching, you wanted some damn food. So you walked.
The diner was the kind of place that had probably looked exactly the same since the ‘80s—faded checkered floors, a counter lined with chrome stools, and a coffee pot that had likely seen things no coffee pot should. The morning light slanted through the window beside you. Winter was starting to lose its grip, the cold giving way to something softer, lighter. Even your aching muscles felt a little looser, the quiet hum of the diner settling into your bones. For the first time in what felt like days, you exhaled.
The bell above the door jingled. A pleasant sound, soft and unassuming.
Instinctively, your gaze flicked toward the entrance, half-expecting Sam or Dean to come shuffling in, still looking half-dead and demanding coffee.
They didn't. Instead, she walked in.
Ruby.
She strolled through the door like she owned the damn place, blonde hair catching the morning light in a way that made her look almost angelic—if angels were the kind of creatures that manipulated their way into your nightmares.
She dropped into the seat across from you without ceremony, propping her elbows on the table as she leaned towards you.
