Dean never imagined that becoming a Knight of Hell would feel like this. The Mark, the curse—it was all-consuming. Every inch of his being screamed with power, and yet, he felt lost—driven by impulses that weren't his own.

The man he once was, the Dean who hunted monsters, saved people, and cracked jokes, was slipping away.

But there was something about his latest hunt that unnerved him. A whisper in the air. A name. And the feeling that another Knight of Hell was out there, someone who wasn't Cain or Abaddon.

Dean had fought his way through the blood and grime of hellish battles, but now, standing in front of a figure who radiated an almost palpable darkness, he wasn't sure whether he should keep his blade in his hand or run for his life.

You were commanding, your posture almost intimidating. Your eyes gleamed with the same infernal fire that burned in Cain's gaze, the same cold, calculating malice that had once filled Abaddon.

But there was something... different.

"You must be Dean Winchester," your voice echoed through the dank, mist-filled air of the abandoned warehouse. It wasn't a question, but an observation, as if you had already done your research.

Dean tightened his grip on the hilt of his blade but didn't advance. He stood his ground, not out of bravado, but because something in his gut told him that this encounter would change everything.

"I've been called a lot of things, but that works," Dean grinned slightly. "And you are?"