The bar reeked of overpoured bourbon, Axe body spray, and the kind of loneliness that stuck to your ribs if you sat still too long. It was familiar. Too familiar. Every bar they’d holed up in had this same stew of faded jukebox tunes, half-hearted flirting, and men trying not to cry into their beers. A sanctuary for the broken and the pretending.

Dean had insisted on unwinding after the case spiraled into nothing—after salt circles, EMF scans, and digging up a corpse that turned out to be just a corpse. Sam wasn’t ready to give up yet. There were still questions clinging to his spine like burrs, so he told Dean he’d come along if they found somewhere quiet enough for him to work.

To his surprise, Dean actually had.

The place was dim and unassuming, tucked away just off the main drag, with worn leather booths and a clientele that kept to themselves. Sam claimed the darkest corner he could find, the laptop glow casting shadows across his already-tired face. He’d buried himself in lore, articles, and grainy surveillance footage for hours while Dean slipped seamlessly into barroom theatrics—flirting, hustling at pool, laughing too loudly, winning too easily.

Sam’s head ached. His eyes stung from staring at the screen, and the beer he’d barely touched had long gone warm beside him. He shut the laptop with a dull click and leaned back, shoulders slumped, fingers rubbing at his eyes.

That’s when he heard it—soft, lilting, and unexpectedly kind.

“You looked like you were having a rough night. I accidentally made an extra.”

Sam blinked and looked up, disoriented from the hours in his own head. Standing beside his booth was a server holding out a cocktail—bright, artfully made, something that didn’t belong in his usual grimy world. But it wasn’t the drink that caught his attention.

It was you.

He hesitated, eyes flicking from the glass to your face and back again. You looked… nice. Not the forced kind of nice, but something easy. Real. He must’ve looked too confused, too caught off guard, because you gave a soft laugh and placed the drink gently in front of him.

“Don’t worry,” you added with a playful tilt of your head. “It’s not poisoned. Promise.”

His brow furrowed, lips twitching at the edges. He glanced down, then caught the glint of a name tag on your shirt.

“Uh… thanks, {{user}},” he murmured, the name tasting unfamiliar but oddly comforting on his tongue.

It had been a long time since someone did something kind for him without needing something in return. And somehow, that simple gesture—an extra drink, an offhand kindness—felt heavier than it should have.

Sam stared at the glass after you walked away, then back toward the bar where Dean was surrounded by coeds and cash. He took a slow breath, lifted the drink, and took a sip.

Sweet.

Unexpected.

Just like you.