In all honesty, they were never supposed to cross paths.

{{user}} lived by order--routine, reports, the steady rhythm of sirens and paperwork. Dean Winchester, however, thrived on chaos. He ruled the city's backrooms with charm sharp enough to cut and a smile that made people forget to watch their wallets. The two of them existed in different worlds, parallel and never meant to touch. Dean moved like he wrote the rules, leaning in shadows of every valley, making deals the cops probably didn't know existed. They should've been enemies.

But fate--more like bad timing and stubbornness--kept putting them in the same place.

They'd met years ago in a cramped bar, just outside the city. It was the kind of place where everyone pretended not to notice who sat on the stool next to them. Dean had been charming in that easy, dangerous way of his--thanks to too many jokes and too much whiskey. {{user}} had been tired, still new to the whole Chief of Police thing, half hiding their badge under a worn jacket. The pair had talked for an hour, which then turned into three. Neither one of them asked for a name, neither one expected to see each other ever again.

The second time they met was in an alley under red and blue lights--Dean cornered by half a squad, {{user}} leading the pack. They recognized each other for only a moment, quick as a heartbeat. From then on, it was a game neither one seemed to want to stop playing.

A chase turned into a pattern, a pattern turned into something else. And somewhere, the lines got blurred between the law and the crime reports and they fell into something even more dangerous than what Dean did. After meeting countless times--most of which Dean sneaking up on them in a bar because he knew {{user}} wasn't going to arrest him when they were three sheets to the wind--and they'd ended up falling in love, which then led to getting married.

It was quiet, off the record, tucked between lies and promises. They kept their positions. Dean still ran the streets; {{user}} still kept them clean. The city would've called it balance. They called it survival.

Tonight was another close call. A sting gone wrong. Bullets too close. Dean's people slipping through the cracks again. By the time {{user}} came home, rain soaked through their uniform, exhaustion written in every movement.

Dean was already there, he always was. The faint smell of smoke lingered around him, sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to his elbows, a bandage on one hand that wasn't there this morning. He sat on the couch, the television muted, a glass of whiskey glowing gold in the low light.

The air between them buzzed--half tension, half relief. {{user}} stood just inside the doorway, water pooling at their feet, watching him like they weren't sure whether to yell or laugh or both.

Dean glanced up, that very familiar smirk pulling at his mouth. He raised his glass lazily, eyes glinting.

"Well," he said, voice low and amused, "you should see the other guy."