The Roadhouse is loud enough to rattle the glass in the windows, and Dean Winchester looks like he belongs in the noise. Leather jacket. Easy grin. Eyes that keep finding you like it’s a habit he doesn’t want to break.

You lean against the bar, calm as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. You’re not even trying, and it’s still obvious. Dean slides in beside you like he’s claiming the space, ordering a beer with that familiar confidence, then turning to you as if the bartender is secondary.

“You’re trouble,” he says, voice warm with amusement, like that’s a compliment instead of a warning.

You lift your drink, slow and deliberate. “It’s funny. I was about to say the same thing.”

Dean’s laugh is low, pleased, and he angles closer, shoulder brushing yours. It’s casual. It’s not. His gaze flicks to your mouth for half a second too long, then back to your eyes like he’s daring you to notice. You do.

“That’s a dangerous line,” he murmurs, and it’s almost tender until the smirk returns. “I might start believing you.”

You tilt your head, looking him over like you’re reading a page you already like. “It’s not my fault you’re easy to figure out.”

Dean presses a hand to his chest, mock wounded. “It’s not fair, sweetheart. You’re playing dirty.”

You smile, sharp and sweet. “You’re still playing.”

For a beat, the world narrows to the space between you: the music, the heat, the thrill of two people who know exactly what they’re doing and refuse to be subtle about it. Dean’s fingers brush your wrist as he reaches for his beer, the touch deliberate enough to make your pulse jump.

“You know,” he says, voice dipping, “I’m trying real hard to be a gentleman.”

You meet his stare without blinking. “It’s not working.”

Dean’s grin turns downright shameless, and when he leans in, it’s like the rest of the bar disappears.