A/N: Canon not mine. Enjoy.
He's in a diner, wearing a face of a waitress from a similar establishment two thousand miles away. No one notices, they're not supposed to; he isn't even quite sure why he decided on hers, only knows he couldn't look like himself, well, look like the vessel he wears.
He doesn't bother hiding himself, eating pancakes with strawberry syrup in the booth behind their's. They're not going to care about some questionably dressed old woman. He listens and eats, waiting for some slip, some moment where he feels their souls leaking out of their mouths and spiraling in their breath. But today there's none of that. Today all he's heard is shoot downs of movie plans, where to find the cheapest laundry detergent, and whether or not they should stay in town long enough to try the dinner specials of this diner. Dean vetoes those last plans with gusto, eyeing the French fries his order came with, saying McDonald's could do better.
He continues listening when they leave and he doesn't.
He dresses differently the next day in a new town. Follows them into a new diner and orders the halved fried chicken, he's wearing a trucker.
The next day he's wearing a nurse, and orders a salad but what it lacks in flavor he makes up for in the use of blue cheese dressing.
He follows, keeps listening. Each day follows another, and he's soon stringing along weeks into whole months. He never wears the same face twice.
He keeps listening, waiting for those moments. When he sees them, spies on what they fight so hard to shelter from each other and everyone else, he always is in awe. They are familiar and foreign, a combination that would stutter his heart if he had one.
After months of nameless faces and listening in secret, he walks into a diner one last time, wearing only his well loved vessel and plops down in the booth with the brothers.
"Alright, fine. You got me."