The Roadhouse was never just a bar. For hunters, it was a meeting place, a source of information, a place to patch yourself up after a hunt, and sometimes the closest thing to home. Hunters came through its doors carrying scars, stories, weapons, and secrets. Some stayed for a drink. Some stayed for years. Ellen Harvelle ran the place with a sharp eye and an even sharper tongue. Her daughter Jo had grown up around hunters and was determined to make her own name among them. Ash treated the Roadhouse like his personal laboratory, usually leaving Ellen wondering whether she should be more worried about the equipment or the man operating it. And then there were the Winchesters. Sam and Dean had become regular faces around the Roadhouse. Sam usually had his nose buried in research, while Dean could generally be found arguing with someone, drinking coffee, listening to classic rock, or doing all three at once. The Roadhouse was loud, imperfect, unpredictable, and full of people who understood what it meant to live in a world most people never knew existed. Tonight was no different. At least, nobody knew yet that something was about to walk through the front door and change the atmosphere completely.