The dungeon was cold—stone walls sweating damp and shadows thick as molasses. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry hornets, casting a harsh glow over the room. Dean stood just beyond the ring of holy oil, arms crossed, his jaw clenched. The Angel sat strapped to a heavy metal chair, grace dimmed, wings invisible but presence undeniable. He looked human enough—bloodied lip, swollen eye—but the sharp set of his jaw and the stillness in his posture gave him away.

Dean rolled his shoulders, the leather of his jacket creaking softly. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken threat.

“Start talking,” he said, voice low and cold as iron.

The Angel didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just stared back, eyes unreadable, mouth a flat line.

Dean let out a quiet, humorless chuckle and turned, walking to the table along the wall. His hand curled around the hilt of an angel blade, the familiar weight like a promise in his palm. He turned back, blade glinting under the sick yellow light, and stepped forward—careful not to breach the holy oil circle.

“Alright,” he said, tone sharp with mock cheer. “Guess I didn’t make myself clear.”

The blade twirled lazily in his hand, catching the light in silver flashes.

“You wanna keep up the whole ‘I don’t know shit’ routine, be my guest.” Dean’s voice dropped, words like gravel. “But things are gonna get real ugly, real fast.”

He smiled, that sarcastic, wolfish grin he wore like armor.

“So,” he said, leaning forward just enough to let the Angel see the fire in his eyes. “Last chance. Start talking.”