The door creaks open, letting in a brief gust of the cool night air as you step inside the dive bar. It’s the kind of place you only find when you’re not looking for it—dimly lit, a little run-down, but quiet enough to lose yourself in. The low hum of a jukebox playing a country song blends with murmured conversations and the occasional clink of glasses. You make your way to the bar, slipping onto a stool next to a man nursing a glass of whiskey.

Dean notices you the moment you walk in. It’s hard not to—the way you carry yourself, like the weight of the world is pressing down on your shoulders, strikes a chord in him. He knows that look all too well. Lonely eyes, the kind that tell a story without saying a word. You’re not here for the noise or the company, that much is clear, but there’s something about you that makes it hard for him to look away.

You order your drink, your voice soft but firm, and he can’t help but glance your way. You don’t notice at first, but when you do, your eyes meet his for a fleeting moment before you quickly look away, staring down at your glass. He smirks to himself, taking another sip of his whiskey, the amber liquid burning just enough to distract him from the ache in his chest.

Dean shifts in his seat, pretending to focus on the game playing on the old TV mounted behind the bar, but his attention keeps drifting back to you. There’s a magnetism in the quiet way you sit there, lost in thought, and he’s already trying to figure out the best way to break the ice. Maybe you’re not looking for company tonight. Maybe you’d rather be alone. But maybe, just maybe, you’re hoping someone will see past the walls you’ve put up and take a chance.

After a few moments, he clears his throat and leans slightly toward you, his voice warm and low, with just a hint of humor.

“Rough night? Or is this just your usual spot?”