@kataramenespsyxes
The bar isn’t anything special. Low lights, sticky floors, the kind of place where no one asks questions as long as you pay in cash and don’t bleed on the counter. Neon beer signs buzz overhead, casting everything in a dull red glow that makes it hard to tell what’s real and what’s just shadow. Dean’s posted up at the bar like he belongs there with his leather jacket tossed over the back of his stool and sleeves pushed up just enough to show the edge of old scars. There’s a glass of whiskey in front of him—second, maybe third—and he hasn’t touched it in a minute. Just lets it sit there while his fingers tap idly against the rim. He looks relaxed, but he’s not.
His eyes flick up every so often, scanning the room without making it obvious. Habit. Always habit. Hunters don’t really turn it off—they just get better at pretending. A couple laughs too loud in the corner. Someone drops a glass. A song shifts on the jukebox. Normal. Too normal. Dean exhales through his nose, finally grabbing the whiskey and taking a slow sip, letting it burn on the way down. His shoulders loosen a fraction, like he’s trying to convince himself this is just a night off. It isn’t. It never is.
He sets the glass down with a soft clink, gaze drifting—not searching, not yet—just watching. Waiting for that itch in the back of his head to settle. The one that says something’s off, even when everything looks fine. “Yeah,” he mutters under his breath, almost to himself, thumb dragging along the edge of the glass. “Real quiet. That’s not suspicious at all.” A faint smirk tugs at his mouth, but it doesn’t stick.
Outside, a car passes. Inside, the neon flickers again. Dean leans forward slightly, elbows resting on the bar, attention slipping just enough to miss the shift in the room. To miss her walking into the bar. For now.
