Chapter 17: Roadhouse Introduction
[Highway 80 West — October 15, 2005, Afternoon]
Bobby Singer's voice crackled through Dean's phone speaker, gruff and practical as always.
"You boys should stop by the Roadhouse. Ellen Harvelle runs it—hub for hunters, good intel, better whiskey. If you're looking to expand your network, that's the place to start."
Dean glanced at Sam, then at the rearview mirror where Ethan's truck followed a car length behind. "Bobby, we've got a third wheel these days. You know about that?"
"The Spirit-Bearer." Bobby's tone shifted—careful, evaluating. "Yeah, I've heard things. Demons talking, other hunters noticing. Something new in the game."
"He's solid. Saved our asses more than once."
"Doesn't mean Ellen will roll out the welcome mat. She's got instincts sharper than mine, and she doesn't trust things she can't classify." A pause. "Bring him anyway. Better to establish contact now than have hunters coming after him later because they heard rumors."
"Understood. Thanks, Bobby."
The call ended. Dean merged onto the highway leading toward Nebraska, and the Impala's engine hummed its familiar rhythm.
[Harvelle's Roadhouse, Nebraska — October 15, 2005, Evening]
The Roadhouse sat in the middle of nowhere like a beacon for lost souls. Neon signs advertised beer brands Ethan had never heard of. A dozen vehicles crowded the gravel parking lot—trucks mostly, the kind that had seen hard miles and harder owners.
Inside, the air smelled like wood smoke and old leather and something underneath that Ethan's Sin Sense immediately recognized: blood. Not fresh—dried into the walls over years and decades, the accumulated residue of violent people doing violent work.
Hunters. Everywhere.
They sat at tables and lined the bar, rough men and women with scarred hands and wary eyes. They looked up when the door opened, assessed the newcomers with professional speed, then returned to their drinks and conversations.
"Winchester brothers," someone muttered. Recognition rippled through the room—not hostile, but not entirely friendly either. The Winchester name carried weight in hunting circles.
Dean moved through the crowd with the ease of someone who'd grown up in places like this. Sam followed, more cautious, scanning faces for potential threats. Ethan brought up the rear, letting his senses sweep the room.
Guilt everywhere. These people had killed—monsters, yes, but killing left marks regardless of justification. The Spirit hummed with recognition, acknowledging kindred purpose wrapped in different methods.
The bar was tended by a woman in her forties, dark hair streaked with gray, features that suggested she'd been beautiful once and was now something more useful: formidable. She dried glasses with methodical efficiency, watching everything without appearing to watch anything.
Ellen Harvelle.
She saw Dean first, and something flickered in her expression—recognition, memory, maybe old grief. "Winchester boys. Heard you were running with your daddy's old cases."
"Ellen." Dean's voice carried respect, the tone of someone addressing an elder in the trade. "Bobby sent us."
"Bobby Singer knows better than to send strays to my door without warning." Her eyes moved past Dean, past Sam, and landed on Ethan.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
"You're new," Ellen said. "And you don't feel right."
Ethan met her gaze. "I've been told."
"What are you?"
The question cut through the ambient noise. Other hunters were watching now—conversations dying, attention focusing on the stranger who'd walked into their sanctuary.
"Something that kills monsters," Ethan said. "Same as everyone here."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the best one I've got." He didn't look away, didn't flinch from her assessment. "I hunt evil. I've been doing it for about six weeks now, working with Sam and Dean. Whatever else I am—and I'll be the first to admit I'm not entirely sure myself—that's the core of it."
Ellen's expression didn't soften, but something shifted behind her eyes. She'd seen enough hunters to recognize sincerity, even when it came wrapped in mystery.
"Sit down," she said finally. "Don't cause trouble. And don't expect me to trust you just because the Winchester boys vouch for you."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
They took a table near the back—good sightlines, clear path to the exits, the kind of positioning that came naturally after weeks of hunting together. A young woman appeared almost immediately, carrying a tray with three glasses of whiskey.
"On the house," she said. "Welcome to the Roadhouse."
Jo Harvelle.
Ethan recognized her from his knowledge of the show, but nothing had prepared him for the reality. Mid-twenties, blonde hair pulled back, features that combined her mother's sharpness with something softer underneath. She moved through the bar with practiced ease, clearly comfortable in this world of hunters and violence.
"You're the guys Bobby mentioned," Jo said, lingering at their table. "And you—" she looked directly at Ethan "—you're the mystery nobody can figure out."
"Word travels fast."
"In hunter circles? Everything travels fast. Especially news about something new." Her eyes swept over him with the same assessment her mother had used, but younger, less practiced, more curious than cautious. "What's it like? Being whatever you are?"
"Complicated."
"That's not an answer either."
"I'm consistent that way."
Jo almost smiled. Almost. "I'm keeping my eye on you, mystery man."
"Smart." Ethan lifted his glass in a small salute. "I'd do the same."
She moved away to serve other tables, but Ethan caught her glancing back more than once. Cataloging. Evaluating. Running her own threat assessment the way her mother had taught her.
Dean leaned across the table. "Making friends already?"
"Making observations." Ethan sipped the whiskey—better than he'd expected, smooth with a hint of smoke. "This place is exactly what Bobby described. Intel hub. Hunter network. If we want to expand our reach, this is where we do it."
"And Ellen?"
"Doesn't trust me. Shouldn't trust me—she doesn't know what I am." Ethan set down his glass. "But she's willing to wait and watch before deciding. That's more than fair."
Sam was studying the crowd, researcher's instincts cataloging faces and conversations. "There's information here. Cases, connections, things we couldn't find on our own. If we can establish ourselves as part of the network..."
"Then we've got backup when we need it," Dean finished. "And early warning when something big is coming."
"Exactly."
They spent the evening working the room. Dean played pool badly—intentionally, Ethan suspected, using losses to build rapport with other hunters. Sam found the research corner, where a man named Ash ran intel analysis from a laptop that looked like it had been assembled from spare parts and prayers.
Ethan stayed at the bar, nursing his whiskey, letting the hunters come to him.
Most didn't. They watched from a distance, whispered to each other, formed opinions without engaging directly. A few approached—veterans curious about the newcomer, young hunters trying to prove themselves by testing the unknown quantity.
He answered their questions honestly when he could, deflected when he couldn't, and slowly, carefully, established himself as something other than a threat.
By midnight, the crowd had thinned. The serious drinkers remained, the ones who had nowhere else to be, and Ethan found himself alone at the bar with Ellen Harvelle.
"You handled yourself well," she said, not looking at him. "Didn't push. Didn't show off. That's more than most hunters manage."
"I'm not most hunters."
"No. You're not." She finished drying a glass and set it with the others. "Bobby says you're solid. The Winchester boys trust you. That counts for something."
"But not enough."
"Not yet." Ellen finally met his eyes. "You come back here, you follow my rules. No starting fights. No showing off whatever it is you can do. No putting my people at risk."
"Understood."
"And stay away from my daughter."
The statement hung in the air. Ethan heard the history behind it—Bill Harvelle's death, Ellen's fear of losing Jo the same way, a mother's protective instincts wrapped in hunter pragmatism.
"I have no intention of involving Jo in anything dangerous," he said carefully. "But she seems like the type who makes her own decisions. I don't think either of us can protect her from that."
Ellen's expression flickered. Pain, acknowledgment, resignation. "You're probably right. Doesn't mean I have to like it."
"No, ma'am. It doesn't."
Author's Note / Promotion:
Your Reviews and Power Stones are the best way to show support. They help me know what you're enjoying and bring in new readers!
You don't have to. Get instant access to more content by supporting me on Patreon. I have three options so you can pick how far ahead you want to be:
🪙 Silver Tier ($6): Read 10 chapters ahead of the public site.
👑 Gold Tier ($9): Get 15-20 chapters ahead of the public site.
💎 Platinum Tier ($15): The ultimate experience. Get new chapters the second I finish them . No waiting for weekly drops, just pure, instant access.
Your support helps me write more .
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/fanficwriter1