The low hum of classic rock mixed with the clinking of beer bottles and muffled conversations inside Harvelle’s Roadhouse. The place smelled like gasoline, old wood, and smoke soaked into the walls from years of hunters passing through. Normally, it would’ve felt comforting. Familiar.

Tonight, it just felt heavy.

John Winchester was dead.

Dean sat at the bar with a whiskey in his hand he hadn’t touched in twenty minutes while Sam quietly argued with Ellen about a lead a hunter brought in from Nebraska. Jo moved between tables with practiced ease, though every now and then her eyes flicked toward the Winchester brothers with something softer than usual.

You stayed away from all of it.

Away from the grief. Away from the pity.

Instead, you sat at one of the back tables with papers sprawled everywhere — journal pages, maps, scribbled coordinates, newspaper clippings. Your elbows rested on the table while you squinted at one of John’s notes, brows pinched tight in concentration.

“Okay, now see,” Ash drawled from beside you, leaning back in his chair with his boots hooked around the legs, “your daddy had the right idea, but this tracking pattern? It’s ugly. Real ugly.”

You snorted softly. “You insult everyone’s work this much?”

“Only the people I like.”

The comment made warmth creep into your cheeks before you could stop it.

Ash noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

The genius hunter grinned around the toothpick hanging from his lips and tipped his beer bottle toward you. “Aw, hell. There it is.”

“There what is?”

“That little blush thing you do.”

“I do not blush.”

“You absolutely do.” He pointed at you dramatically. “Right now. Pink as a damn sunrise.”

Rolling your eyes, you looked back down at the notes, trying to ignore how annoyingly attractive he was. Which honestly made no sense. His mullet should not work. The trucker hats should not work.

And yet somehow they did.

Maybe it was the confidence. Maybe it was the voice. Maybe it was the fact he could hack into government satellites while drinking beer like it was water.

Probably all three.

You tucked a strand of long brown hair behind your ear, freckles dusting deeper across your nose from the heat in your face. “You gonna help me or just sit there harassing me?”

Ash leaned closer across the table, shoulder brushing yours.

“I can do both, sweetheart.”

Your stomach betrayed you with a stupid little flip.

From across the room, Dean narrowed his eyes immediately.

Sam noticed too, following his brother’s stare toward the two of you. “Dean.”

“Nope.”

“You’re being protective.”

“She’s our little sister.”

“She’s twenty-two.”

Dean took a drink. “Still.”

Back at the table, Ash flipped one of the journal pages around and tapped a spot on the map. “Look here. Your dad marked deaths around Cold Oak, Nebraska, but they ain’t random. Yellow Eyes is movin’ people like chess pieces.”

You leaned closer, your shoulder fully against his now as you studied the markings. “You think he’s gathering psychics?”

“I think,” Ash said quietly, “your daddy died tryin’ to stop somethin’ huge.”

The grief hit sharp and sudden.

Your expression faltered.

Ash noticed that too.

His flirting eased instantly, voice gentler now. “Hey.”

You swallowed hard, staring down at the page. “I just… keep thinking maybe if I’d gone with him—”

“Don’t.” His tone was firm but careful. “You don’t get to do that to yourself.”

Your jaw tightened. “Dean does.”

“Dean blames himself for rainstorms and gas prices.” Ash nudged your shoulder lightly. “Ain’t exactly a healthy benchmark.”

A reluctant laugh escaped you.

“There she is,” he murmured.

You glanced up and found him already looking at you.

Not teasing this time.

Just looking.

His blue eyes softened while the noise of the Roadhouse faded into the background for a second.

“You know,” Ash said quietly, “for someone who’s supposedly insecure, you got no idea how pretty you are when you smile.”

Your breath caught.

Across the room, Dean nearly choked on his whiskey.

Sam burst out laughing.