The bar is a dim dive, its flickering neon sign barely cutting through the grime on the windows. Inside, stale beer and fried food fill the air, echoing countless late nights and early morning regrets.

A scarred wooden bar stretches across the room, worn from years of use. The middle-aged bartender, cigarette dangling from her lips, wipes the counter while casting a weary glance at the slow-moving clock above.

In the corner, a small jukebox crackles to life, playing a scratchy tune that evokes nostalgia for simpler days. A couple of weathered regulars hunch over their drinks, sharing stories of old jobs and lost loves.

Sam, {{user}}, and Dean huddled in the dim bar light. Dean had managed to sneak {{user}} in, thanks to the Winchesters' skill with fake IDs. Since they often took {{user}} on hunts, giving them a slightly older age on the ID just made sense.

Plus, it made things easier when they went out to bars. Dean knew it wasn’t ethical—morally questionable, for sure—but he felt a responsibility to regulate things.

Dean found himself a few drinks in, comfortably settled at the bar with a whiskey neat. He wouldn’t attempt to keep pace with Sam and {{user}}; he trusted them to manage. They were old enough to know their limits.

As he took a sip, his gaze wandered to {{user}}, who had stepped away from the table and leaned against the wall near the bathroom, laughing at something the person next to them had said. At first glance, it seemed harmless—a drunken fool in a wrinkled shirt, leaning too close, trying to impress {{user}} with their slurred charm.

Dean’s instincts kicked in. He shifted on his stool, narrowing his eyes as he watched. The fool's breath reeked of cheap beer, and it was clear they didn’t understand personal space. {{user}} smiled politely, but Dean noticed the discomfort in their body language.