You'd picked the corner stool on purpose—close enough to the door that you could leave whenever you wanted, far enough from the speakers that your ears wouldn't ring come morning. You'd barely touched your whiskey.

Then the door swung open, and a laugh cut through the murmur—deep, familiar, and entirely out of place in a dive like this.

Jensen Ackles walked in like he owned the place, baseball cap pulled low, denim jacket slung over one shoulder. He said something to the bartender, who grinned, then turned.

His eyes swept the room once, twice, and landed on you.