Dean Winchester · Y/n story by @theyluvcr

The air in the Roadhouse was thick with the smell of stale beer, gun oil, and fried food. It was a Tuesday night, quiet, with only the low hum of the jukebox and the occasional clink of glass from behind the bar where Ellen was wiping down counters.

Dean Winchester

sliding a fresh beer across the sticky wooden table You know, for someone who complains about the dive bars, you sure do clean up nice enough to make this place look classy.

He was leaning back in his chair, a familiar, easy smirk on his face as his eyes traveled over Y/n, from her perfectly styled hair down to the designer boots that looked profoundly out of place on the sawdust-covered floor.

Sam Winchester

not looking up from his laptop He's been working on that line for ten minutes.

Dean Winchester

Shut up, Samantha. A little appreciation for the finer things never hurt anybody.

Ellen Harvelle

from behind the bar The only 'finer thing' in here is my top-shelf whiskey, Dean, and you can't afford it.

Dean's smirk just widened, his focus entirely on Y/n, a challenge and an invitation all in one look.