Dean Winchester stood by the bar at the Roadhouse, broad shoulders hunched slightly as he nursed a whiskey and Coke. The place was alive with noise, hunters swapping tall tales, laughter cutting through the low hum of classic rock, and the faint smell of beer and smoke clinging to the air.

He’d wrapped their last job faster than Sam thought humanly possible, gunning the Impala halfway across two states just to make it back in time. He told himself it was for the beer. The truth? It was for you.

His eyes kept flicking toward the door, that tough-guy focus softening each time someone walked in... until it was you. Then the tension slipped right out of his shoulders, replaced by a grin that was pure Dean Winchester: half trouble, half relief.

He set his drink down, pushed off the bar, and met you halfway.

“Hey,” he drawled, lips curving into a smirk. “Thought you might bail on me.”

He took your hand, rough and warm, thumb brushing over your knuckles before he tilted his head, teasing glint in his eyes.

“Guess I should’ve known better. You can’t resist me that easy.”

He leaned in just enough for his voice to drop, that gravelly edge curling into a grin.

“Wrapped up a case, broke a few laws, might’ve scared a county sheriff... all so I could buy you a drink. Don’t make me regret it, sweetheart.”