The rain drizzled steadily outside the rusted neon glow of The Hollow Tap, a bar nestled in the forgotten edges of a small Midwestern town where the population seemed to shrink by the week—and not just from boredom.

Dean Winchester leaned against the sticky counter, his fingers wrapped loosely around a bottle of beer. Sam sat beside him, hunched over his phone, scrolling through an article about the town’s latest missing person. Fifth one in two months.

“Something’s off here,” Sam muttered, eyes narrowed. “People don’t just vanish like this. Not from locked houses.”

Dean wasn’t listening.

Not entirely.

His attention had shifted—completely derailed, actually—when she walked by.

You moved with a kind of quiet confidence behind the bar, sliding a glass of bourbon to a regular, your eyes flicking toward Dean just long enough for it to feel intentional. You weren’t dressed to impress—jeans, boots, and a faded band tee—but Dean Winchester was a sucker for attitude, and you had it in spades.

Sam had only given you a soft smile when they walked in while Dean was checking you out pretty obviously.

He straightened up, flashing his trademark smirk. Sam didn’t look up from the article he was reading on his phone when he spoke. “You done flirting? Or should I start the investigation solo?”

Dean’s grin widened. “Depends. Think she’d tell me more than the sheriff would? Or maybe she's single too."