You keep your head down, hoodie pulled low, your hands buried in the front pocket like you’re not being tailed by at least four federal agents in tailored suits and polished shoes who just walked out of the same diner you and Dean were watching. “Three o’clock,” Dean murmurs next to you. His voice is low, even, but you can hear the edge under it. “Black suits. Earpieces. Definitely not local law enforcement.”

“Government?” you whisper.

“Or worse.” You nod once, keeping your pace casual as the two of you slip into the nearest alley. It’s narrow and damp, wedged between two buildings with a single flickering security light overhead. You duck behind a stack of crates near a dumpster, angling your back to the street. Footsteps echo from the sidewalk. Dean’s tense beside you, eyes darting around like he’s calculating every possible exit. There aren’t many. You tug your hoodie lower, shadows hiding most of your face. Then a light swings toward the alley entrance.

You curse under your breath and grab Dean’s arm. “Trust me.” Before he can ask what you mean, you grab the front of his jacket and pull him into you, your hood shielding your face as your mouth crashes into his. You kiss him like you mean it. Like you need to. One hand fists in the fabric of his shirt while the other wraps around the back of his neck. It’s heat and urgency and pure improvisation. Dean goes completely still. For a second. Then you feel the way his hands come up, hesitantly at first, then firmly, landing on your waist like he’s afraid to push too hard. His mouth responds to yours, warm and just a little shy, like he wasn’t expecting this, but now that it’s happening, he’s trying not to screw it up.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch movement. One of the agents rounds the corner, glances your way… And keeps walking. They don’t even pause. Just mutter something into their earpiece and head off like they didn’t just catch two people going at it in a dark alley. When it’s safe, you pull back. Dean looks stunned. His hands drop slowly from your waist, and his brows furrow as he tries to string together a thought. “Uh…” he starts, voice a little hoarse. “What was that?”

You look at him, under your hood, breath still short. “Public displays of affection usually make people uncomfortable,” you say with a shrug. “Most don’t ask questions.”

Dean blinks. Then scratches the back of his neck, suddenly all awkward energy, like he doesn’t know where to put his hands. “Right. Yeah. Makes sense.” But he’s still watching you, like that explanation wasn’t enough.

You pretend not to notice and start walking. “Come on, Casanova. We’re not in the clear yet.”

Behind you, you hear Dean let out a breath. “Yeah… okay.”