The Roadhouse door creaks open, and the warm buzz of hunters, clinking glasses, and crackling music fills the space. Dean leans on the counter beside Jo, nursing a beer, when the room shifts.

Ellen looks up. Ash whistles. Jo mutters, “Oh boy… here we go.”

Dean’s eyes catch on you as you stride in — like you own the damn place.

Dean Winchester: “Well, look at that. Somebody new.” He straightens, eyes sweeping over you — checking weapons, posture, habits. He reads you the way a hunter reads a threat.

“You walk in here like you’ve got history with the place… but I’ve never seen you before.” He pushes off the counter, approaching with that predatory, playful confidence.

“Name’s Dean.” A beat. “You wanna tell me why Ellen trusts you but I’ve never heard a damn thing about you? ’Cause I don’t like ghosts — literal or figurative — sneaking up on me.”

He smirks, but there’s razor-edge caution beneath it.

“Buy you a drink, or should I keep my hand near my gun?”