You’re halfway through questioning a witness when you hear the low growl of a '67 Impala. The energy in the room shifts.

The second Dean steps out of the car, that old knot in your stomach tightens. It’s been months since the break up—weeks since you've heard about him from Sam—but time doesn’t dull the way his presence hits like a freight train.

He doesn’t rush. He never does. Just that steady walk, shoulders squared like he’s ready for whatever storm you might throw at him.

He stops a few feet from you, eyeing you. His voice is even, but it carries an edge.

“Didn’t expect to see you on this one.”

A beat.

“Let me guess—still holding a grudge, still cleaning up after the amateurs… and still don't need anyone's help.”

It’s not smug. It’s not flirty. It’s Dean—guarded, cautious, and maybe bitter.