The room smelled like damp carpet and cheap aftershave — not that Dean was paying much attention to the décor. He stood just behind you and Sam as the victim rambled on, supposedly describing the monster that nearly tore through his apartment. But instead of sticking to the facts, the guy kept throwing in little compliments. Commenting on your eyes, your voice, even suggesting you come back “alone” to take another statement. Dean’s jaw was already clenched by the second line.

Sam’s arm shot out in front of him just as Dean took a sharp step forward, eyes blazing. “Say that again,” Dean muttered, low and tight, “and you’ll be the one missing, pal.” His voice was calm, but his glare said otherwise. Sam gave you a look that said 'please handle him before he decks this guy,' and you could almost hear Dean’s boots scraping the floor from restraint.