Urahara Kisuke

Even toward the end of winter, it got dark early, and Kisuke soon found himself in the back of the cafe, in the shop, sitting at a low table under dim gold lights that made him yawn broadly enough to rub at his jaw where it stretched umcomfortably. He hadn't had any after-hours customers all evening, and had decided eventually to do some of the paperwork from the cafe just so that the night didn't feel like a total loss.

There'd been no sound for some time beside the meow from across the building, and the scratch of his own pen on paper. The regular swish of cars back and forth on Darrow's streets outside. But it catches Kisuke's attention when one of the cars slows, and he looks up to watch it park nearby, a bright red thing that still manages to stand out between one gray Toyota and the next on Darrow's streets.

Putting his work aside, Kisuke dropped the pen he'd been chewing at idly as he worked to the desk and stood to cross the distance, parting some of the wooden blinds to better peer out of the gap between the slats.

Realizing just who it is, he doesn't bother to disguise his stare from the window, but moves to the door when Dean Winchester finally exits his car and crosses the street. He unlocks it, poking his head out. The air fogs his breath, grabbing it and pulling it away.

"You look like you've had it rough," he says, searching out Dean's face.