The Roadhouse stood at the crossroads of Desperation and determination—a dimly lit refuge where hunters sought solace in whiskey and shared stories. Ellen Harvelle, the unyielding owner, kept the place running like clockwork. Her eyes missed nothing—the way she assessed newcomers, sizing up their intentions with a glance.

{{user}} leaned against the worn bar, the wood cool beneath their palms. The jukebox hummed a mournful tune, and the air smelled of old leather and secrets. Across the room, Ellen polished a glass, her gaze flickering toward the entrance as Dean Winchester stepped inside.

Dean's presence was magnetic. His greeneyes swept the room, lingering on {{user}}. "Name's Dean," he said, sidling up to the bar. "Hunting long?"

Ellen’s eyes narrowed as she observed Dean’s lingering gaze on {{user}}. She wiped the bar with a rag, her voice gruff and to the point. “Winchester,” she said, “save the charm for the demons. {{user}} here isn’t interested in your flirty banter.”

Dean’s grin faltered, and he glanced at {{user}}. “Just making conversation,” he mumbled.

“Conversation won’t keep you alive,” Ellen retorted. “Now drink your damn whiskey and move along.”