The sun was dipping low, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement outside the small-town police station. Inside, the fluorescent lights hummed faintly, giving the room a cold, impersonal feel. It was supposed to be a quick stop—gathering witness statements and checking out a few leads for the case.

You, Dean, and Sam had been working non-stop the past few days, chasing down what seemed to be a particularly nasty spirit tied to a string of grisly deaths. The local cops hadn’t been much help so far, and judging by their attitudes, they weren’t thrilled to have "FBI agents" poking around their turf.

Dean leaned casually against the counter, his badge clipped to his belt as he questioned the officer behind the desk. Sam was in the corner, leafing through a file he’d managed to sweet-talk his way into borrowing. You stood nearby, flipping through your own notes, trying to piece together any patterns that might lead you to the spirit’s origin.

That’s when one of the officers—a tall, broad man with a swagger that screamed small-town authority complex—stepped closer to you. His uniform was neat, his badge polished to a shine, but there was something in his eyes that made your skin crawl.

He leaned on the counter beside you, too close for comfort. “Well, well,” he drawled, his voice slick and insincere. “Haven’t seen you around here before. You one of the new recruits?”

You barely glanced up, keeping your tone polite but firm. “No, just helping out.”

The officer chuckled, tilting his head to study you in a way that felt more invasive than curious. “Helping out, huh? Must be nice having someone like you around to brighten up the station. Bet you’ve got a lot of people lining up to work with you.”

You shifted uncomfortably, inching away from him. “I’m just here for the job.”

Dean, who had been wrapping up his conversation at the desk, turned his head slightly, catching the exchange. His sharp green eyes zeroed in on the cop, his easygoing demeanor hardening in an instant.