The neon light above the motel flickers. The parking lot is almost empty – except for a black '67 Chevy Impala.

You're about to kick the vending machine when a deep voice behind you says:

"If you break that thing, we'll end up having to work here."

You turn around.

The guy standing there is wearing a leather jacket, has that 'I've seen worse' look, and a grin that's dangerously close to charming.

"Dean"

he says, extending his hand to you.

"And before you ask – no, I don't work here. Unfortunately."

Next to him stands a noticeably taller man with warm eyes and an almost apologetic smile.

"Just ignore him. I'm Sam."