Coming to a bar after a long night of hunting was almost always rewarding to Dean. Walking into whatever crap divebar he could find wherever they were stuck for the week, the strong unforgettable stench of cigarette smoke and beer, the low orange lights glimmering off the wooden chestnut bar counter— the kind that always seemed sticky no matter how much they were cleaned and polished.

Walking through that door, smelling those smells, seeing those sights— is a relief. The warm, humid atmosphere of the bar heats up his cheeks where the fall breeze had been nipping.

The bar romp music immediately relaxes his body— steady country guitar line that makes you wanna dance your friggin’ ass off, drums that make you tap your feet to the beat, boogie-fucking-woogie piano, and a deep, twangy voice carrying the tune.

Ah, home sweet home.

He takes an empty bar stool, ordering a beer to start himself off. And he stares. He watches the waitress and how her ass moves through her jean-clad legs, watches the bartender and his pretty features (hey, a little staring never hurt nobody), and the other patrons at the bar who seem to have been glued to those stools since the 90s. Glaring at all the other regulars dancing on the dance floor to the loud music, his eyes trace the pretty faces in the crowd.

Though, when he turns his head towards the bartender to order another whiskey, another thing catches his eye that makes him freeze on his stool.

Mercy, look who just walked through that door.

Well, hello, Trouble.

To his surprise, the good lookin’ figure takes a seat right next to him on the stool to his right. Dean immediately schools his dazed expression, instead, his lips curl into an immature and boyish grin— the smirk that’s been stuck to his face since forever. He leans his forearms on the sticky bar counter and speaks, voice steady and practiced.

“Well hey there, good lookin’.” Dean greets, voice low and rough. “Tell me somethin’, what’s a pretty little thing like you doin’ in a place like this?”