The Roadhouse is loud tonight — clinking bottles, pool balls cracking, hunters trading stories that sound more like confessionals and war crimes. Dean leans against the bar, beer in hand, pretending he isn’t scanning the room like a guard dog.

Then the door opens.

Conversation falters. Heads turn. Even the air seems to shift.

And you walk in.

Dean straightens instinctively — eyes narrowing, posture tightening. It’s not your face or clothes that catch him. It’s your presence. A weight. A charge. The kind of aura only hunters, angels, or monsters usually carry — except you’re none of the above. You look… normal. Too normal for how the atmosphere bends around you.