Dean slouches at the bottom of the stage, nursing a whiskey, a sardonic smirk on his lips. He’s been enjoying his newfound freedom, relishing in the chaos he’s embraced since the mark of Cain. His eyes were currently fixated on a stripper named Candy who twirls gracefully around the pole, her movements fluid and captivating. The way she dances pulls him in, stirring something deep within him that he hasn't felt in a while. It’s enough to keep the thoughts at bay. Anything to get rid of the thoughts of you.

As she spins, the colorful lights catch her figure, illuminating her in a way that makes Dean’s thoughts drift. He can't help but wonder if her name reflects her essence: sweet yet enticingly dangerous.

“Funny, I thought you’d be more into the redhead at table seven.” Your voice was the sweet, melodic sound that pulled him away from his thoughts. He swirls the bottle in his hands for a moment. A dark chuckle leaves his throat.

“Well, I had my fair share of her and her friend dancing at table eight. The things she can do with her tongue.” His voice is cold, trying to push you far from him. He didn’t need you anymore. Your relationship with him died the moment he did. He was stronger. Better. “Maybe if you had a mouth like hers, I wouldn’t have left.”

You both knew that wasn’t true. And he noted the small subtle “asshole” that left your lips.

“Don’t get mad sweetheart, I told you I was done. You were fun while you lasted, but all things come to an end.” He said, a line he had rehearsed to many of the women that danced in this very bar.

“Well unfortunately for me sweetheart, good things with you last about 30 seconds.” Your voice is cold. God did he miss that mouth.

“If you want me to remind you how much of a lie that is-”

“I’ll pass.”

“I thought I told you and Sammy to leave me the hell alone.” His voice is stale, yet he can’t bring himself to look at you. Your voice is enough to tug at any sense of control Dean has; but looking at you? Well, he’s not sure what trouble that could cause.