A/N: I own nothing from the Supernatural franchise. Sadly.
The bar was known to host exclusively for the dirty and restless, a place where bikers stopped for a quick drink and to share road stories, a place where the highway merged into a building. There was an everlasting taste of smoke in the air, from stale cigars to the greasy feel of gas. The only fully functioning light were in the back, and it only remained fully functioning so that the range of alcohol could be easily seen. The people who inhabited the space weren't the nicest, and half had guns at ready. The other half had knives hidden in their deep pockets. Needless to say, mothers hurried their curious young ones far past the bar whenever they would have the misfortune to walk down the path, and businessmen would put up a nonchalant facade, but would take longer strides and look determinedly at the blackberries they had clenched in their fists. It wasn't a place for the innocent, and it definitely wasn't the place for anyone that hasn't been worn down by the summer's sun on black asphalt.
The boy didn't care about any of the rules. He sauntered in, throwing open the doors like he didn't know he was kicking himself into the lion's pit. There weren't many females, and there were no ladies in this place, but with a well-placed smirk and a small wink, the women that were old to be his mother suddenly forgot about their hard liquor and immediately focused on the new meat. And they had all the reason to. The boy may have had the right attitude, the right dust covered clothing, the right aura of long nights spent not in a bed but in the backseat of a car gunning down some empty country road, but his face didn't fit the picture at all. The beer bottles with their glossy green shine had nothing on the boy's eyes, the color only cut through by the look of pain and hardships endured too early. His curling lashes cast shadows on his sharply defined cheeks, the hollows only more pronounced by the suction of his lips on the rim on the glass of whiskey. He didn't look the part of 21, but he also didn't look the part of the men who frequented the bar either. He didn't look the part of anyone really.
Several of the women tried to get him into the back of their trucks, or more persistently, the bathroom, and it cannot go without being said that the women were not the only ones with impure suggestions. The boy didn't seem to care. He would lead them on all the way up until the actual offer was made, then he would glance up with those damned green eyes and a cocky grin, proceeding to promptly turn the offer down with the ease of someone who was used to it, and with a tinge of laughter in his tone. No one got his name, his actual age, his school, his family, nothing. The most the people of the bar knew was that he was fresh meat that proved to have played in many rodeos before this and that he was a fighter. It wasn't every day a boy could beat down the hardened men at the bar, and it definitely wasn't every day a boy could do that and turn right around to finish his drink before swaggering out.
He didn't stay long, though. For maybe two weeks he was an on and off customer, until one day he just stopped. No more taunting remarks, no more green short of the light reflecting off bottles. For a while afterward, maybe a week, the women mourned the loss of his presence in the bar, but soon he was forgotten, just as he was in the town before this one, and the town before that.
Dean Winchester came back to that bar after Sam went to college, and his dad left on another of his solo hunts. No one remembered the boy that had drank at the counter so many years ago, just as no one remembered the pieces of dust that the wind blew inside. However, the bartender swore, even through his aging eyes, that the man sitting at the counter downing his fifth glass of whiskey wasn't new. It was just that he had finally grown enough to fit the part of 21, and that his body had finally caught up to his world-weary eyes.