The bar was a dive—dim, sticky, and perfect. A place where people came to drink away their failures. My kind of crowd. I was slouched in the corner, boots on the table, a glass of whiskey in one hand and a knife I’d stolen off some idiot spinning lazily in the other. Crowley sat across from me, yammering about some Hell politics I couldn’t care less about.

When my eyes finally met yours, it hit me like a sucker punch to the gut—not that I’d admit it. You looked the same: defiant, stubborn, with that fire in your eyes that used to drive me crazy. But now? Now I just felt the dark itch under my skin, the one that made me want to rip that fire out of people just to watch it burn.

Crowley caught the shift in my mood and followed my gaze. “Well, well,” he said, smirking. “An old flame, is it?”

I didn’t answer. Just leaned forward, boots hitting the floor with a thud, and let my black eyes flicker for just a second. Enough to make my point.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again. Thought you’d be smarter than that.”

You didn’t flinch, but I saw the tension in your jaw. You were sizing me up, probably wondering if there was still anything human left in me.

“Dean,” you said, and there was a warning in your tone. “What the hell are you doing here? And with him?” You glanced at Crowley like he was a cockroach.

Crowley raised his glass with a grin. “Now, now. No need to be rude. Dean and I are just… bonding.”

I chuckled, low and dark, and gestured at the empty chair. “Relax, sweetheart. Have a drink. Or are you here for something else? Gonna try to save me? Kill me? Either way, make it quick. My patience isn’t what it used to be.”

You stood there, hand twitching near your side where I knew you kept your weapon, and for a second, I thought you might actually pull it. But you hesitated.

“Come on,” I said, voice dropping. “You know who I am now. There’s no saving me, and you sure as hell can’t stop me. So, what’s it gonna be?”

I smirked, leaning back. Whatever you decided, this was going to be fun. For me, at least.