tired eyes. (supernatural fanfic)

the road house .pilot

They were back on the road again.
Grief sat heavy in the car, unspoken but ever-present, following the devastating loss of their father like a third passenger. Answers were scarce, leads even scarcer, but every road eventually circled back to the same name.
Ellen.
Their search brought them to an old bar at the edge of nowhere, its weather-beaten sign creaking faintly in the wind.
The Roadhouse.
The sign on the door read CLOSED.
They didn’t bother knocking.
Dean pushed the door open slowly, the hinges protesting as they slipped inside. The air was stale, old beer, dust, and something sharper beneath it all. The place felt abandoned, but Dean knew better. Places like this never truly were.
After a brief sweep of the room, they found him.
A man lay sprawled across the pool table, half on his side, one arm dangling toward the floor, clearly passed out cold. Dean and Sam exchanged a pointed look. Classy.
Sam silently disappeared toward the back of the bar, while Dean continued to scan the front room, every muscle coiled and ready.
That was when something poked firmly into his back.
Dean sighed.
“Please tell me that’s a shotgun.”
“Nah,” a woman’s voice drawled behind him. “I’m just real happy to see you.”
Dean rolled his head back slightly, already smirking despite himself.
“You know… when you hold a gun to someone’s back, you shouldn’t keep it so close. Makes it real easy for them to...”
He spun suddenly, grabbing the barrel and yanking it out of her hands in one sharp motion.
“...do that.”
The girl stared at him, stunned.
She was small, blonde, and wearing a scowl that suggested she was deciding exactly how painful his death was going to be.
Before Dean could add another word, a sharp whistle cut through the air.
He barely had time to turn his head before a fist slammed into his nose. Pain exploded across his face as the shotgun was wrenched from his grip.
A brunette now stood in front of him, the weapon braced confidently against her shoulder. Her dark eyes were sharp, calculating, dangerous.
“That better?” she asked flatly.
“Sam!” Dean yelled, pressing a hand to his nose. “Little help here-oh God, I can’t see. I can’t even see.”
The doors to the back swung open.
Sam walked in slowly, hands raised, looking deeply unimpressed.
“Sorry, Dean,” he sighed. “I’m a little tied up.”
An older woman followed closely behind him, her own gun trained steadily on Sam’s back.
At the sound of their names, she paused.
“Sam… Dean?” she asked, lowering her weapon slightly. “Winchester?”
Dean froze.
“Yeah,” confirmed the brunette, easing her stance. “You know these guys?”
The older woman’s expression softened into a knowing smile.
“Yeah,” she said. “I think these are John’s boys.”
The older woman studied them for a long moment, eyes sharp and searching, like she was fitting together a memory she hadn’t expected to see again.
“Sam,” she said slowly.
“Dean.”
Dean froze mid-nose inspection.
“…Okay. Either we’re being stalked, or this is a very weird fan club.”
Sam frowned.
“You know us?”
The woman lowered her gun the rest of the way.
“Yeah. I do.”
The brunette, still holding the shotgun Dean had tried to steal, shifted her stance but didn’t lower the weapon. Her grip was confident, practiced.
“You sure?” she asked.
“I’m sure,” the woman replied. “Those faces don’t change much.”
Dean squinted at her, trying to place the voice, the posture, something.
“Sorry, I’m usually better with faces. This is.. clearly.. not my best night.”
“Ellen Harvelle,” the woman said.
Dean blinked.
“…Wait. Ellen?”
Sam’s shoulders loosened slightly.
“Our dad talked about you.”
“That sounds like him,” Ellen said.
A scoff came from behind dean.
“So these are the Winchesters.”
Everyone turned.
The brunette had stepped forward, setting the shotgun carefully on the bar before hopping up onto a stool. She moved with the same efficiency she’d used to punch Dean in the face- no wasted motion, no hesitation. Dark hair, sharp eyes, alert in a way that didn’t switch off just because the guns were down.
“They’re underwhelming,” she added.
Dean stared at her.
“You punched me.”
“Yes,” she said simply.
“And you stole Jo's shotgun.”
“You were explaining how,” she replied. “I sped it up.”
Ellen sighed.
“Allison.”
Allison glanced at her.
“What?”
“You don’t have to antagonize them.”
“I’m not,” Allison said, genuinely puzzled. “I’m stating facts.”
Jo snorted from her spot nearby.
“She does that.”
Allison glanced at dean over her shoulder, eyes flicking briefly to his nose.
“You should ice that. The angle was wrong for a clean break, but you might still have a fracture.”
Dean pressed his fingers there again, wincing.
“Awesome. That’s… comforting.”
Sam cleared his throat.
“We’re not here to cause trouble.”
“I know,” Allison said. “If you were, Ellen would have shot first.”
Ellen shot her a look.
“Hey.”
“What?” Allison said. “That’s not criticism.”
Dean glanced between them.
“So… you always let her lead with the punch?”
“Allison’s been hunting since she was sixteen,” Ellen said. “She knows what she’s doing, and she isn't exactly friendly to people holding guns”
Allison corrected immediately.
“Fifteen.”
Ellen sighed again.
The tension eased just enough to breathe.
Dean finally looked back at Ellen.
“Okay. I’m officially admitting defeat here. You know us. We don’t know you. And your kid hit me.”
“I’m not her kid,” Allison said. “I’m staying here.”
“And you started it" the comment earned a scoff from dean.
Sam blinked.
“…Good to know.”
Ellen folded her arms, studying the brothers more carefully now—weariness softening her edge.
“You boys look like you’ve been through hell.”
Sam’s voice dropped.
“We have.”
Something unspoken passed through Ellen’s expression.
“Well,” she said quietly, “you’d better sit down.”
As they moved toward the bar, Allison glanced at dean again seemingly less volatile now. "You got decent reflex Winchester" she hummed then she pushed off the bar and walked past him.
Dean watched her go, then leaned toward Sam.
“I like her.”
Sam sighed.
“Of course you do.”
Ellen returned from the back a moment later and set a small bag of frozen peas on the table in front of Dean.
“For your nose,” she said.
Dean muttered a thanks and pressed the cold pack carefully to his face, wincing as the chill set in.
Ellen leaned against the edge of the booth, studying them both.
“So,” she said, casual but not careless, “how’s your dad?”
The question landed heavy.
Dean’s shoulders stiffened. His jaw worked as if he were chewing on the answer before finally shrugging.
“Fine.”
The lie hung there... thin, unconvincing.
Sam shot his brother a quick glance but didn’t call him on it. Instead, he turned back to Ellen.
“So… why’d you call him?” Sam asked. “You said it was important.”
Ellen nodded.
“Yeah. The thing he was hunting. I figured he was getting close.”
Dean lowered the peas just enough to look at her.
“Close to what?”
“the demon,” Ellen said plainly.
Sam went still.
“If your dad sent you here,” Ellen continued, her eyes flicking between them, “then it must’ve been serious.”
She trailed off, something uneasy settling into her expression.
“…He didn’t send you,” she said quietly.
The brothers didn’t answer.
That was answer enough.
Ellen straightened slowly.
“He’s okay,” she said, the words careful, hopeful. “Right?”
Silence stretched.
Sam swallowed.
“No.”
Ellen’s breath caught.
“The demon,” Sam went on, voice tight but steady, “got to him, beforehe could get it.”
For a moment, no one spoke.
Ellen looked away, jaw clenched, eyes shining just a little. When she spoke again, her voice was rougher than before.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “must've been hard on you boys"
"I'm fine." Dean responded sharply. Allison bristled glancing up from her seat in a booth a few feet away. A warning look but choosing to hold her tounge. (For once) The silence lingered until Dean finally broke it.
“We need your help,” he said.
Ellen looked at him sharply.
“With what?”
Dean lowered the frozen peas, his nose already swelling.
“Finishing what our dad started.”
Sam leaned forward.
“He was tracking the demon. We think he was close, we just don’t know how close.”
Ellen studied them both for a long moment, weighing something. Then she shook her head once.
“No.”
Dean blinked.
“No?”
“No,” she repeated. “Your dad went after that thing alone and it got him killed. I’m not putting you boys on the same road.”
Dean scoffed.
“Too late. We’re already on it.”
“That demon’s killed enough Winchesters,” Ellen snapped. “I’m not letting it take two more.”
Allison shifted in her seat, arms crossed.
“That logic only works if refusing help actually stops them,” she said.
Ellen shot her a look.
“Allison-”
“They’re hunters,” Allison continued, unfazed. “They’re grieving. And they’re going anyway.”
Dean glanced at her.
“See? She gets it.”
Allison frowned slightly.
“That wasn’t approval.”
Sam opened his jacket and pulled out a worn leather journal, placing it gently on the table.
“This is our dad’s,” he said. “His notes, contacts, everything he had on the demon.”
Ellen hesitated, then sighed and took the journal, flipping through a few pages. Her expression softened as she recognized John’s handwriting.
“Stubborn man,” she muttered.
From across the room, a groan came from the pool table.
“Man, I was having the best dream…”
The man sprawled across the felt rolled onto his back, squinting at the ceiling.
“Allison,” he called lazily, “tell the jukebox to stop buzzing. It’s messing with my chi.”
“There is no jukebox buzzing,” Allison replied. “That’s the fluorescent light.”
“Oh,” he said, considering. “Yeah. That tracks.”
Ellen raised her voice.
“Ash!”
He blinked at her.
“…Oh. You sound mad.”
“Get over here,” she said. “I need you to look at something.”
Ash slid off the pool table and wandered over, eyes drifting to the brothers.
“Whoa,” he said. “Tall, sad, and bleeding. New customers?”
“Winchesters,” Ellen said. “John’s boys.”
Ash stopped short.
“No kidding.”
Dean gave a small wave.
“Hey.”
Ash leaned over the journal immediately, flipping pages with sudden focus.
“Man, your dad’s notes are like… hunter sudoku,” he muttered. “Cryptic. Efficient. Kind of terrifying.”
“Can you help us?” Sam asked.
Ash grinned.
“Oh, absolutely. Cross-referencing, satellite scans, EMF blips, this is my jam.”
Allison stepped closer, peering at the pages.
“He marks patterns,” she observed. “Geography and timing.”
Ash snapped his fingers.
“See? She gets it.”
She nodded once.
“Patterns calm me.”
Dean looked between the two of them.
“…I feel like I walked into a very specific club.”
Ellen closed the journal gently.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll help.”
Dean let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“But,” Ellen added sharply, “you listen to me. You don’t rush in half-cocked, and you don’t do this alone.”
Sam nodded.
“Deal.”
Ellen turned toward the back room.
“Ash, fire up the computer.”
Ash saluted lazily.
“Operation: avenge the cranky legend. Let’s roll.”
As they headed toward the back, Allison fell into step beside Dean.
“You’re still icing wrong,” she said.
Dean glanced at her.
“Wow. You really care.”
“I care about efficiency,” she replied. “You’ll bruise faster that way.”
He smirked.
“Still like her.”