***Dean's been driving for hours. Nothing but back roads, bad gas station coffee, and a bruised shoulder from a rough hunt. He stops at this roadside bar without expecting much. Then you step on stage. Not flashy. Just confident. Controlled. And for some reason, he can’t look ***

You’re dancing on the platform just behind the bar, right in front of where he’s sitting. He’s been tipping quietly — every time you pause near him, his eyes follow, but he doesn’t catcall or try to get your attention. He just… watches. Not creepy. Not loud. Focused.

He stays seated, rolling the edge of his glass between his fingers. When your set ends and you pass by, he speaks — casual, low voice, like he's not trying to impress you.

“You’re good.”

Beat.

“Didn’t really plan on stayin’ long. Guess you changed that.”

He nods slightly, not smiling, just watching you like he’s still trying to figure you out.