Hello everyone, before we begin I'd just like to make something clear real quick: This is a one-shot set within my fanfic universe that I am writing that has been dubbed as The Arsenalverse. It houses HP, DC, Teen Wolf, Lucifer, Supernatural, and Evil Dead all in one universe. You do not need to read the other stories to read this, it was designed to be read by everyone without extra knowledge!

Anyway... please enjoy!

It wasn't unusual for his dad to run off without telling him where he was going. If it were a hunting trip, John would have given him a call about two days in, just to check in. Dean had gotten used to it, but the silence never sat well with him. With Sam in Palo Alto, the only person looking out for John was Dean. The last time he had spoken to John, he was checking in with one of their contacts about a possession case that had killed thirteen in Alabama. So, Dean figured that was where he needed to start.

The Impala rolled into the gravel parking lot, its headlights cutting through the dust kicked up by a passing semi. Dean eased it into a spot near the entrance, letting the engine idle for a moment before shutting it off. The roadhouse was exactly the kind of place his dad would've stopped at—faded neon buzzing above the door, the distant twang of a country song bleeding through the walls. The smell of fried food, old beer, and cigarette smoke clung to the night air, mixing with the faint sting of gasoline from a nearby pump.

Dean took a second to survey the place. A few bikers stood by their Harleys, passing a cigarette between them while a couple of long-haul truckers leaned against a rusted-out pickup, swapping stories. He caught a snippet of conversation from the truckers as he walked by.

"I'm just sayin'—an oil rig don't just stay upright on its own."

"I saw the news, man. That thing was comin' down, and then—bam—held up long enough for the workers to get clear."

"Yeah? And who the hell held it up?"

"Dunno. Some guy. Big, fast, strong as hell. Then he was gone."

Dean didn't slow down, but he filed it away. Weird, sure, but not his problem

Inside, the roadhouse was the same as a hundred others he'd been in. A long bar stretched across one side, lined with stools that had seen better days. Pool tables in the back, a jukebox playing something old and slow, the air thick with booze and sweat. A few regulars sat hunched over their drinks, while a group near the dartboard laughed too loudly at an inside joke.

And then there was Ash Williams.

Dean spotted him leaning against the bar, one hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey, the other—well, the lack of a hand—resting against his belt. He was mid-conversation with a woman in a red leather jacket, flashing that signature grin of his, the kind that said he thought he was the smoothest guy in the room. His hair was still thick, though a little more streaked with gray than the last time Dean had seen him, and the crow's feet at the edges of his eyes were deeper. The blue button-up he always seemed to wear had a few stains that could've been from grease, blood, or something worse.

Dean knew the stories. Hell, he'd been there for some of them. Ash wasn't just some loudmouth who liked the sound of his own voice—he had the scars to back up his bullshit. The guy had survived a cabin in the woods that turned his friends into walking corpses, got sucked into some medieval nightmare where he fought off an army of the dead, and somehow, despite all that, he was still here, drinking cheap whiskey and hitting on women like nothing had ever happened.

The first time Dean had met him, John had been the one asking questions. He'd recognized Ash's face from some old newspaper clippings—"sole survivor of a massacre" kind of stories. John had half a mind to put a shotgun to his head just to make sure he wasn't still possessed, but Ash had talked his way out of that. Barely. Turns out, if you wanted to know anything about the Necronomicon or Kandarian demons, Ash was your guy.

And right now, Ash was trying his damnedest to impress the woman next to him.

Ash was mid-story, one arm draped over the bar, his whiskey glass catching the dim light. The woman next to him was hanging onto his words, eyes wide, drink half-forgotten in her hand.

"So there I was, sweetheart," Ash said, tapping his fingers against the bar. "Car flipped over, kid trapped underneath, and my hand?" He lifted the stump of his right arm for dramatic effect. "Pinned. Now, most guys? They'd sit there cryin', waitin' for the paramedics. But not me. No, I did what had to be done—grabbed the nearest piece of glass, took a deep breath, and made the cut." He took a sip of whiskey, savoring the moment. "Saved the kid, and hey—chicks dig scars."

The woman gasped, eyes flicking from his face to his missing hand.

"That's… that's incredible."

Dean rolled his eyes as he stepped closer.

"Yeah, real hero over here."

Ash turned, grin widening when he saw Dean.

"Well, well, if it ain't little Winchester. Where's your old man?"

Dean's expression flattened.

"That's what I'm tryin' to figure out."

Ash raised an eyebrow at Dean's expression. The usual cocky grin faltered just a little. He took a slow drink of his whiskey, set the glass down, then turned back to the woman.

"Hey, sweetheart," he said smoothly, taking her hand. "Gimme a few minutes, alright? I'll be back."

She pouted, but Ash just winked before sliding off his stool. He motioned for Dean to follow, leading him toward an empty booth in the corner, away from prying ears.

Ash settled in first, leaning back against the worn leather seat.

"Sorry about that, kid. What's the deal with John?"
Dean slid into the booth across from Ash, resting his forearms on the table. Before he could speak, Ash flagged down a passing waitress with a lazy wave of his hand.

"Two whiskeys," Ash said. "And don't go cheap on me, darling."

The waitress gave him a flat look but nodded, disappearing behind the bar. Ash leaned forward, lacing his fingers together.

"Alright, now spill. What's goin' on with your old man?"

Dean exhaled, glancing around the room once before meeting Ash's gaze. "Last time I talked to him, he was checking in with one of our contacts about a possession case in Alabama. Thirteen people dead. Then—radio silence. No calls, no texts, nothing."

Ash whistled low. "That's not like John."

"No, it ain't," Dean said, jaw tightening. "Figured I'd start with the usual spots, check in with people who might've seen him. You're on that list."

The waitress returned, setting their drinks down with a thunk before walking off. Ash picked his up and swirled it. "And you're hoping I got something useful."

Dean lifted his own glass but didn't drink yet. "Yeah. You seen him?"
Ash took a slow sip of his whiskey, letting the burn settle before speaking.

"Yeah, your dad came through," he said, setting the glass down. "A few days ago—he was asking about that case in Alabama—said it had some telltale marks. Y'know, stuff that usually points to the book."

Dean's grip on his glass tightened.
"And?"

Ash shrugged.
"Told him what I'm tellin' you—I got that book locked down. Buried deep. Nobody should be havin' any problems with it."

Dean studied him, looking for any sign of doubt. "You sure about that?"

"Kid, if that thing so much as twitched, I'd know. And trust me, I'd be the first guy tryin' to throw it into a volcano."

Dean exhaled, but Ash wasn't done. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.

"That said… I did warn him about the other two."

Dean frowned.

"Yeah, I've heard that story before. Three books, right? You dealt with one, but the others…"

"Still out there," Ash finished, tapping his fingers against the table. "Could just be rumors, could be real. Either way, your old man wasn't thrilled about the idea."

Dean ran a hand over his face. "Great. So what, you think he went chasing after one of 'em?"

Ash shrugged again.

"Maybe. Or maybe he was just makin' sure none of 'em were causin' trouble." He took another sip, then set his glass down with a thud. "But lemme tell ya—if he was sniffin' around the wrong places, and someone else got wind of it? That could be a problem."

Dean didn't like the sound of that.

"You got a name?"

Ash tilted his head.

"Maybe. But first—how 'bout we finish our drinks?"

Dean didn't like the way Ash was laying it out, but he gave a slow nod. Without another word, they both knocked back the rest of their whiskey, setting the empty glasses down with a quiet thunk.

Ash exhaled, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off a bad memory. "Alright, look—there was a hit up north. Something that gave me the damn chills when I heard about it."

Dean leaned forward slightly, waiting for the details.

Ash sighed. "Damn near a spitting image of what happened to me the first time I saw the book. Group of kids go up to a cabin, y'know, to help some girl detox. Real heartfelt kinda thing." He shook his head. "Only one of 'em made it out. Cabin burned to the ground. Girl lost her hand. Cops found her covered in blood from head to toe, wouldn't say a word."

Dean frowned. "And you think—"

"I think it's a helluva coincidence," Ash cut in. "Your dad wanted to check it out, but he had other crap on his plate."

Dean sat with that for a moment, tapping his fingers against the table. "You planning on takin' a look?"

Ash let out a short laugh. "Kid, I'm retired."

Dean scoffed.

"Yeah? Workin' at S-Mart really count as retirement?"

Ash waved him off.

"Hey, beats fighting Deadites. Though, I'll tell ya—those damn 'Karens' are worse than any demon I've ever faced."

Dean chuckled, shaking his head.

"Yeah, I bet."

Ash leaned back in the booth, stretching his arm across the top of the seat. "So, you hear from your brother at all?"

Dean's smirk faded just a little. He shook his head. "Nah. Haven't talked to Sam since he and Dad had their falling out." He gave a small shrug, forcing an easygoing tone. "It's all good, though. I'm sure I'll see him soon enough."

Ash studied him for a moment, then smirked.

"Your old man still pissed about that whole 'normal life' thing?"

Dean huffed a quiet laugh.

"Dad's a pain in the ass sometimes, but he can't stay mad at Sam forever. Especially not for wantin' something different." He rolled his empty whiskey glass between his fingers. "I mean, hell—can't exactly blame the guy for not wantin' to live out of crappy motels and hunt monsters for a living."

Ash snorted.

"Yeah, well, normal ain't all it's cracked up to be. But hey, kid made his choice."

Dean nodded but didn't say anything right away. For a brief moment, the thought crossed his mind—what it would be like to settle down, have something stable. A house, maybe even a family. A life where he wasn't always looking over his shoulder.

But he knew better. What he did was too important.

He shrugged it off and set his empty glass down.

"Yeah. He did."

Ash reached over to the edge of the table, grabbing a crumpled newspaper someone had left behind. The man flipped through the newspaper, barely paying attention, while Dean's gaze landed on an article near the bottom of the page. A pair of rough sketches stood out—one of a hooded guy with a bow, the other of a similar figure in red.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "The hell's this?"

Ash followed his eyes, then snorted.

"Couple of vigilantes out west. Starling City, I think. Takin' the law into their own hands, real Robin Hood types." He shook his head and turned the page. "People got way too much time on their hands."

Dean smirked, leaning back.

People are crazy, he thought. As if his life was any less insane.

"You wouldn't happen to know where he was headin' next, would you?"

Ash scratched his chin, thinking.

"Yeah, actually. Said he was makin' a stop back home." He paused, glancing at Dean. "Figured it was personal, so I didn't press."

Dean exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. That's why he went quiet. His dad never talked about it, but Dean knew—knew what day was coming up, knew where John would be. Their anniversary was supposed to be next week...

He drummed his fingers against the table, nodding to himself.

"Alright," he muttered. "I'll give him a call in the morning. If he doesn't pick up…" He sighed. "I'll head up there myself."

Ash leaned back in his seat, rolling the empty glass between his fingers.

"Y'know, kid… chasin' ghosts—real ones or the ones in your head—never really ends well."

Dean scoffed.

"That supposed to be wisdom?"

"Hey, take it from a guy who's been there. Got caught up in my own past for years. Didn't get me much except a stump for a hand and a drinking habit." He gestured to the bottle on the table. "And between you and me, drinking's cheaper than therapy."

Dean chuckled, shaking his head.

"Yeah, well, I think you just suck at therapy."

"Ain't wrong there." He let the moment breathe before continuing. "But seriously, kid. I knew this guy once—kept diggin' up the past, couldn't let it go. Cost him everything before he realized some things just stay buried." He gave Dean a pointed look. "Ain't sayin' don't look for your old man, but don't lose yourself in it if it's going to cause more pain than good."

Dean let that sit, his jaw tightening slightly. He appreciated the words, even if he wouldn't admit it.

Then, as if sensing the mood getting too heavy, Ash grinned. "Hell, if it all gets too much, I hear S-Mart's hiring. Bet you'd kill it in housewares."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, 'cause that's my dream gig. Punchin' a clock, sellin' toasters to housewives."

"Beats fixin' that rust bucket you drive," Ash shot back, nodding toward the door. "Seriously, classics are a pain in the ass to keep running. Bet that thing's got more issues than you do."

Dean smirked. "She can be a pain, but you need to watch it; that's my baby you're talking about there."

Ash chuckled, shaking his head.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, hotshot."

Dean glanced toward the bar, eyes landing on the woman Ash had been chatting up before he got dragged away. His smirk faltered for half a second. Really? She wasn't exactly the best-looking chick in the bar—not by a long shot.

Ash caught the look and scoffed. "What? You judging me, pretty boy?"

Dean shook his head, suppressing the urge to laugh. "Nah, man. Just… you got options."

Ash leaned in, lowering his voice mock-conspiratorially. "See, that's where you're wrong. She's got a car. And she offered to buy me a drink. That's what I call a two-for-one special."

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. "You really are somethin' else."

Ash shrugged. "Hey, when you've only got one hand, you learn to take what you can get."

Dean was still eyeing the woman when Ash smirked and leaned in with a wink. "Look, kid, there's just some things your own hand can't do."

Dean shot him a disgusted look. "Dude."

Ash just laughed, slapping the table. "Hey, I'm just sayin'—a man's gotta have priorities. And when you're working with a handicap, you learn to appreciate the little things."

Dean shook his head, downing the last of his whiskey.

"You are so messed up."

Ash grinned.

"And yet, here you are, sharing a drink with me. What's that say about you?"

"That I clearly need better friends," Dean exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

"Judge all you want, but in this line of work you gotta take what you can get and count yourself lucky." He gestured vaguely toward the bar, where the woman had gone back to nursing her drink. "Ain't about looks. It's about what's there when the dust settles."

Dean scoffed.

"That supposed to be another one of your life lessons?"

Ash shrugged.

"Hey, take it or leave it. But lemme tell ya somethin'—I used to be like you. Thought I had all the time in the world. One day, I wake up, and boom—everything's gone. My girl, my friends, my damn hand." He lifted his stump for emphasis. "And all I got left is a shotgun, a chainsaw, and a shitty retirement plan."

Dean leaned back, considering that. He'd lost people before. And yeah, he still had Sam and John, but deep down, he knew nothing lasted forever.

Ash poured them another drink, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

"So yeah, maybe she ain't the best-looking chick in the bar. But she's buying me a drink, and she sure as hell ain't possessed. I call that a win."

"Guess when you put it that way…"

"Damn right," Ash grinned. "So do yourself a favor—don't get picky. In our world, you wait around for perfect? You're gonna die alone. Besides the fact, I'm getting old. You're still young enough to get any chick you want. Me? I gotta work for that shit."

Dean smirked.

"Yeah, 'work' is one way to put it."

Ash shot him a look.

"Hey, screw you, Winchester. I lost the hair, the hand, and the metabolism. You try keepin' up a love life when you're rockin' a tin can for a grip." He flexed his metal fingers again for emphasis.

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. "Man, I don't know what's sadder—your love life or the fact that you're actually trying to guilt-trip me over it."

Ash grinned, taking a sip of his drink.

"Ain't guilt-tripping. Just saying, enjoy it while you can. 'Cause one day, you'll wake up, look in the mirror, and realize your best years are behind you. And that's if you even make it that far."

Dean's smirk faltered just slightly, but he covered it up with a sip of whiskey. He knew Ash was right—not that he'd ever admit it.

"And what exactly do you call what you've got right now?"

Ash let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head.

"Oh yeah, real luxurious. Livin' in a run-down RV in the ass-end of nowhere, keepin' my nose down, hopin' to God that the 'Evil' doesn't come knockin' and turn my life into a goddamn horror movie again." He took a sip of his drink, then gestured vaguely. "And let's not forget my prestigious career at S-Mart."

Dean snorted. "Sounds like you've really made it, man."

Ash sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

"This is about as close to a normal life as I'm ever gonna get. And trust me, I've thought about walking away, ditching it all, pretending none of it ever happened. But the second I do that? That's when it'll find me. That's when all hell will break loose. Literally."

Dean leaned back, nodding slightly. He understood that. Hell, it wasn't so different from his own life—always looking over his shoulder, always waiting for the next damn thing to come crawling out of the dark.

"I'm not saying you should come out of this hole you're hiding in, but there's gotta be a part of you that misses fighting those things, right?"

Ash let out a low chuckle, swirling his drink before taking a sip.

"Kid, the only adrenaline I crave anymore is the kind you get in the bedroom." He shot Dean a cocky grin. "And trust me, it's a helluva lot more fun than getting my ass kicked by the undead."

Dean huffed a laugh, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, well, at least one of us is enjoying their retirement."

Ash shrugged.

"Hey, I take my wins where I can get 'em." He glanced toward the bar, eyeing the woman he'd been chatting up earlier. "Speaking of which… think I left some unfinished business."

Dean smacked the table lightly, letting out a sigh. He knew he'd already taken up too much of Ash's time—and frankly, the less he had to be around the old horn-dog, probably the better.

"I'll let you get back to it, then." He stood, grabbing his jacket. "Try not to have a heart attack, pal."

Ash grinned, leaning back in the booth.

"Don't you worry about me, kid. My heart's got plenty of fight left in it—just like the rest of me." He winked. "Besides, if I go out, I'd rather it be with a smile on my face and a lady in my lap, not screaming in a damn haunted cabin."

Dean chuckled, shaking his head as he started toward the door. "Yeah, yeah. Take care, Ash."

Ash lifted his glass in a mock toast.

"You too, kid. And hey—if you ever get tired of chasin' ghosts, I hear S-Mart is always hiring."

Dean shot him a look over his shoulder but didn't bother with a comeback. Instead, he pushed open the door and stepped into the night, the weight of his conversation with Ash settling in as he made his way back to the Impala.

Dean stopped just before stepping outside, glancing back toward the bar. Sure enough, Ash was already back in his element, arm slung around the woman's shoulder as he leaned in, probably spinning another ridiculous story to impress her. Dean shook his head, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

For all his quirks, Dean liked the guy. Ash was rough around the edges, but he'd been through hell—literally—and still found a way to keep going. That kind of stubbornness was something Dean could respect.

As he pushed open the door and stepped into the cool night air, one last thought crossed his mind.

Man… Sam would hate him.

Dean climbed into the Impala, the familiar creak of the leather seat beneath him grounding him for a moment. He pulled the door shut, letting out a breath as he reached for his seatbelt, clicking it into place. The bar's neon sign flickered in the rearview mirror, casting a dim glow across the dashboard.

Pulling his phone from his pocket, he thumbed over to his contacts, stopping at Sam. His finger hovered there for a moment, but Ash's words echoed in his head—consider yourself lucky with what you have.

Sam got out. He had a normal life now. Dean wasn't about to drag him back into this mess. Not yet.

With a sigh, he locked the screen and shoved the phone back into his pocket.

Tomorrow, he'd call Dad again. If he didn't get an answer, he'd head to Lawrence himself.

Turning the key in the ignition, the Impala roared to life, the deep rumble of the engine settling something in his chest. He reached for the cassette case, flipping through the tapes before settling on one. The familiar opening chords of Back in Black filled the car as he shifted into drive.

With one last glance at the bar, Dean pulled out of the gravel lot and onto the open road, disappearing into the night.

Back inside the bar, Ash was in the middle of laughing at his own joke, the woman beside him humoring him with a half-hearted giggle as she sipped her drink. The place was still buzzing with conversation, the low hum of classic rock playing from a jukebox in the corner.

Ash reached for his beer, but before he could take a sip, the overhead lights flickered—just once. Quick. Barely noticeable.

But he noticed it.

His fingers tightened around the bottle for half a second before he forced himself to relax, plastering an easy grin back onto his face. Probably just a bad wire. It was an old building, after all.

Then, in the far corner of the bar, a drunk at a table near the restroom let out a low, slurred chuckle. His head was down, forehead nearly touching the sticky wood of the table, but his shoulders shook with laughter. At first, it just sounded like a guy who had one too many.

But then the laugh grew. Deepened. Warped.

Ash's grin faltered.

The woman beside him said something—he didn't hear it. His focus was on the drunk, whose body had gone still. The man's hands twitched against the tabletop, fingers curling, nails digging into the wood.

Ash exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Aw, hell."

Hope you all enjoyed it, it was fun to make. I may end up coming back to this specific crossover later on, but it will probably be a different fic entirely!