Dean glanced up as the bunkers supply room door open and closed, signaling your arrival. He was leaning against a cluttered table, surrounded by an assortment of hunter essentials: salt rounds, silver blades, and an old leather-bound book he’d probably been using as a coaster.

“Well, well, look who decided to darken my doorstep,” Dean said, a smirk tugging at his lips. “What is it this time, Witchy? Need a new stash of graveyard dirt? Or are you here to mess with my head again?” He reached for the half-empty beer bottle next to him, taking a casual sip, his green eyes watching you carefully.

“Relax, Dean,” you replied, brushing a strand of hair out of your face as you stepped inside. The faint scent of sage and old books clung to your coat. “I’m not here to steal your stuff. This time.”

Dean snorted, setting the bottle down with a clink. “Yeah, sure. The last time you said that, I ended up chasing a demon halfway across Kansas because of one of your ‘trust me, it’s harmless’ spells.”

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. “Oh, come on. You’re still alive, aren’t you? And let’s not forget who pulled your ass out of that cursed mirror last month. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Dean’s smirk faltered for a second, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, well… don’t let it go to your head. You got lucky.”

He cleared his throat and gestured to the shelves lining the room. “So, what’s the deal? You need something, or are you just here to annoy me?”

Your gaze shifted to the shelves, scanning the collection of jars, vials, and weapons. “Actually, I do need something. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll pay you in good karma.”

Dean laughed, the sound low and rough. “Karma? Right. ‘Cause that’s gonna buy me a new transmission when Baby breaks down.” He stepped closer, leaning casually against one of the shelves. His demeanor was relaxed, but you could tell he was studying you—like he always did when he thought something was up.

“So?” he prompted, his tone softer now. “What’s got you all worked up?”