Chapter Text
The Impala rolled to a stop in the gravel lot, its engine rumbling low before Dean killed it with a turn of the key. He sat back against the seat, his hands still gripping the wheel as he stared at the Roadhouse. It loomed ahead of him, unchanged and too familiar, like it had been plucked out of time and left to sit untouched, waiting for him.
Dean exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw clenching as he forced himself to look at the ground instead. The ache in his chest settled heavier, and he knew it wasn’t going anywhere.
Next to him, Charlie sat quietly for a moment before leaning forward, peering at him. “You’re not gonna make me go in there first, are you?”
Dean glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, his mouth pulling into a tight line. “I wasn’t planning on it.”
“Good,” she said softly, her gaze lingering on his face like she was trying to read something he wasn’t saying. “Because you’ve been here, what? Every day this week? Fixing stuff and checking in on Jo like it’s your damn job. And now, when people actually need you—really need you—you’re hesitating?”
Dean didn’t answer. He pressed his lips into a thin line, his hands flexing against the steering wheel.
Charlie’s voice softened, though it didn’t lose its edge. “Dean. You don’t have to fix everything, you know.”
“That’s funny,” Dean muttered, his voice low, bitter. “Feels like I do.”
“You’re not Ellen,” Charlie said gently but firmly. “And no one’s asking you to be.”
That made him flinch. He let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Feels like she did.”
Charlie leaned back slightly, giving him space but not letting up. “You think Ellen wanted you to break yourself over this? Over her?”
Dean huffed, his jaw tightening as he stared out the windshield. “She didn’t have to say it.”
Charlie rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. She tugged at her jacket zipper, her movements sharp but not impatient. “Look. I get it. It’s hard. But you being here? That matters. To Jo. To Bobby. Hell, to everyone in there.”
Dean didn’t look at her. He stayed focused on the gravel lot ahead, the way the wind stirred the edges of the black fabric draped over the tables near the bar’s entrance.
Charlie’s voice softened again, gentler this time. “You loved her, Dean. She knew that. And she’d kick your ass if she thought you were making this about what you could’ve done better instead of just showing up.”
He swallowed hard, his throat tight. The ache in his chest twisted, but he nodded. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Physically,” Charlie said, her tone teasing but light. “Emotionally? You’re in a galaxy far, far away.”
That earned her the smallest of smiles, brief but real. She reached over, squeezing his arm once before letting go. “Let’s get this over with.”
Dean pushed the door open, the cool air hitting him like a slap. He adjusted his jacket, his boots crunching against the gravel as he stepped out. Charlie followed close behind, her footsteps light but steady.
The Roadhouse loomed ahead, a quiet hum of voices and music slipping through the cracks of the door. Dean paused at the threshold, his hand resting on the worn handle. His chest tightened again, but before he could spiral, Charlie nudged him lightly with her elbow.
“You good?” she asked softly.
Dean didn’t answer, but he nodded once. Charlie gave him a small, understanding smile and opened the door.
The smell hit him first—wood polish and faint traces of fried food mingling with the sharper tang of whiskey. It was the same as it always had been, but different now, heavier, like the air itself was mourning. Dean scanned the room, his gaze sweeping over the mismatched vases of flowers, the black fabric draped over the tables, the picture of Ellen propped up at the bar.
Jo stood behind it, busying herself with a glass that didn’t need cleaning. Her hair was pulled back, her eyes red but dry. Her movements were deliberate, almost mechanical, as if staying busy might hold her together.
Charlie brushed past him, heading straight for Jo. She didn’t say anything—just reached over the bar and wrapped Jo in a hug. Jo stiffened for a moment, then relaxed slightly, leaning into the embrace. Dean turned away, giving them space, his chest tightening again.
His boots thudded softly against the worn floorboards as he made his way to the far end of the bar. Bobby was stationed there, a hand wrapped around a tumbler of amber liquid, his gaze fixed on something far away. He didn’t look up as Dean approached.
“You made it,” Bobby said gruffly, his voice rough but steady.
Dean slid onto a stool beside him, nodding. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Bobby snorted softly, his lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smile. “Didn’t figure you would.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the quiet hum of conversation and the faint strains of Fleetwood Mac filling the gaps. Dean stared at his hands, the calluses on his fingers catching the low light.
“You doin’ okay?” Bobby asked finally, his tone careful but not pressing.
Dean shrugged. “I’m here.”
Bobby huffed, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Guess that’s good enough for now.”
Dean’s gaze flicked to the picture of Ellen on the bar, her smile warm and steady, like she was looking right through him. His throat tightened, and he looked away quickly, fixing his attention on the scuffed edge of the counter instead.
“She was proud of you, you know,” Bobby said after a moment, his voice low but firm. “Always said you were one of the good ones.”
Dean’s chest twisted, the words landing hard. He swallowed, his jaw tightening. “Didn’t feel like it half the time.”
Bobby didn’t argue. He just took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze distant. “None of us ever do.”
Dean nodded absently, his mind drifting. The room felt too small, the air too thick. He clenched his fists against his thighs, willing himself to keep it together.
“You need to step out, you step out,” Bobby said, his tone softer now. “Ain’t nobody here gonna fault you for it.”
Dean shook his head. “I’m fine.”
Bobby gave him a long, measuring look but didn’t push. Instead, he tipped his glass toward Ellen’s picture, murmuring something too low for Dean to catch, and slipped off the stool, leaving Dean alone at the bar.
The Roadhouse began to fill slowly, a trickle of people that soon became a hum of overlapping voices. Faces Dean hadn’t seen in years filtered through the door—regulars, neighbors Ellen had once bossed around like they were her own. Everyone moved with a kind of cautious energy, the weight of grief pressing down on their shoulders but not quite breaking them.
Charlie flitted through the room like she belonged in every conversation. She laughed a little too loud, hugged a little too tight, and Dean knew it was her way of filling the silence. Jo stayed behind the bar, her hands constantly moving—stacking glasses, straightening napkins, rearranging bottles. She didn’t look up often, her gaze locked on the counter like it might ground her.
Dean hovered on the edges, nursing a whiskey he didn’t want but couldn’t seem to put down. He stayed close enough to be seen but far enough to keep anyone from trying to pull him into the swell of conversation. His chest tightened every time he heard Ellen’s name, the sharp ache of her absence cutting through the haze of whiskey and distant laughter.
“Dean.” Charlie’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. She was standing beside him, holding a photo frame. “Help me put this up?”
Dean frowned but set his glass down, following her to the far wall where a collage of photos had been carefully arranged. Charlie handed him the frame—a picture of Ellen standing behind the bar, her arms crossed and her smile warm but no-nonsense.
“Jo didn’t want to hang this one,” Charlie said quietly, stepping back as Dean placed the frame on a nail. “Said it made her feel like Ellen was still running the place.”
Dean swallowed hard, his fingers lingering on the edge of the frame. “Maybe she still is.”
Charlie tilted her head, studying him. “You okay?”
Dean let out a soft snort, shaking his head. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
“Because we care, you idiot,” Charlie said, her tone light but her eyes sharp. “You’ve got this look like you’re two seconds from bolting.”
Dean stiffened, his jaw tightening. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good,” Charlie said firmly, but her gaze softened. “Just... don’t shut us out, okay? Ellen wouldn’t want that.”
Dean didn’t answer. He just nodded, turning back to the collage. His eyes caught on a photo of Jo and Ellen, their arms slung around each other, matching grins on their faces. He clenched his fists, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets before Charlie could notice.
The room grew quieter as the crowd settled into the rhythm of the wake. Laughter rose and fell in waves, mingling with the faint hum of Fleetwood Mac playing softly over the speakers. Someone started telling a story about Ellen chasing a guy out of the bar with a shotgun, and the warmth of the memory spread through the room, drawing more smiles than tears.
Dean stayed near the wall, his back against the wood paneling, his gaze sweeping the room. Bobby was near the smoker, his low voice rumbling as he talked with an older hunter Dean didn’t recognize. Jo moved through the crowd, her steps steady but her shoulders tense.
The air felt heavy, suffocating. The laughter grated against Dean’s nerves, the noise too bright in the shadow of Ellen’s absence. His chest tightened, the ache spreading through his ribs. He needed air—needed quiet.
Without a word, he slipped out the side door.
The night hit him like a slap, the cold air sharp and biting against his skin. Dean exhaled slowly, his breath clouding in front of him as he leaned against the wall of the Roadhouse. The gravel crunched under his boots as he shifted, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.
The quiet was a relief. Out here, he didn’t have to smile or nod or pretend he was holding it together. He could just... breathe.
Dean’s gaze drifted to the far side of the lot, where the Impala sat in its usual spot, angled slightly toward the building. She looked the same as ever, her black frame gleaming faintly under the dim glow of the porch light. He pushed off the wall, his boots crunching softly against the gravel as he walked toward her.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, he leaned back, his head resting against the seat. The familiar smell of leather and motor oil wrapped around him, grounding him in a way nothing else could. He let out a slow breath, his eyes drifting shut.
The memory surfaced without warning—a flash of Ellen standing behind the bar, handing him a beer and telling him to stop overthinking everything. Her voice was steady, her smile soft but firm, the way it always was when she was trying to talk sense into him.
Dean’s chest tightened, the ache pressing deeper. He reached for the keys, but his hand froze halfway there. Driving off wasn’t an option, not tonight. Not ever, really. He wasn’t his father.
Instead, he climbed into the backseat, stretching out as best he could. The leather creaked under his weight, the faint scent of old cigarettes and pine air freshener filling the space. He stared up at the ceiling, the faint outline of the stitching blurring in and out of focus.
The ache in his chest didn’t fade, but the quiet helped. Out here, away from the noise and the laughter and the weight of everyone’s grief pressing down on him, he could finally let himself feel it.
“Miss you, Ellen,” he murmured, his voice rough and low. The words hung in the stillness, unanswered but not unheard.
Dean closed his eyes, the sound of his own breathing filling the space. For the first time that night, he let himself be still.