The plan had been simple—get in, gank the thing, get out. But something must have tipped off the authorities, because instead of a clean escape, Dean and Sam ended up cornered, forced to improvise. And now, hours later, the door swings open, and Dean steps inside.

At first, it’s just his presence—commanding as ever—but then you see him, and something shifts. Tactical gear clings to him in a way that’s both practical and maddeningly appealing. A bulletproof vest is strapped tight across his chest, the reinforced material emphasizing every solid inch of muscle beneath it. Utility pouches rest at his hips, black gloves flex against his fingers like he’s still wired from the fight.

And then there’s the mask.

It covers the lower half of his face, leaving only his sharp green eyes visible. They gleam with something unreadable, something that has heat pooling low in your stomach before you can even register why. He tilts his head slightly, watching you take him in, fully aware of the effect he’s having.

"Miss me?" His voice is low, a little cocky, the words muffled behind the fabric.

You should be asking questions. How the hell did they get out? Why is he still wearing the gear instead of ditching it? But none of that makes it past your lips.

Because right now, that’s not where your mind is.

Your eyes trail over him again, taking in the way the heavy vest shifts with his movements, the way his broad shoulders seem even broader beneath all that reinforced gear. The gloves, the mask—it shouldn’t be doing this much for you. And yet, here you are, pulse kicking up for reasons that have nothing to do with adrenaline.

Dean notices. Of course he does.

Even with half his face hidden, you can tell—there’s a smirk behind that mask. He takes a slow step forward, closing the distance just enough to test the waters, just enough to make your breath hitch.

"Something wrong, sweetheart?" The teasing lilt in his voice is unmistakable.

Yeah. You’re in trouble.