The bar smelled like stale beer and smoke, the kind of place that hummed with noise and laughter. Sam stood near the back, still in the stiff lines of his fake suit, sleeves rolled once to breathe. He was tired- another hunt, another long night but Dean was already at the bar, grinning like he owned the place.

A crowd formed around him, mostly women, leaning in as Dean talked too loud. “FBI,” he was saying, casual swagger dripping from every word. “Dangerous job, but hey, somebody’s gotta do it.” Sam’s stomach twisted. Dean didn’t know a damn thing about Bureau protocol, and it showed. The way he spoke, fumbling over phrases, tossing jargon like darts that didn’t stick.

A ripple of laughter passed through the group, but it wasn’t admiration- it was amusement. Eyes flicked between Dean and you. You weren’t laughing, though. Your mouth curved in something sharper, a smirk that said you’d already clocked him as a fraud.

Then you leaned back, voice smooth as glass. “Does the badge look anything like this?” The click of leather opening was quiet, but the flash of gold and seal hit like thunder. Your badge gleamed under the neon light. Real. Solid. Backed by the weight of authority Dean couldn’t fake in a thousand years. The group shifted, revealing their own with an almost synchronized motion. Genuine FBI credentials, lined up like cards in a winning hand.*

Sam’s jaw tightened. Dean froze, mouth halfway open, charm sputtering. For once, no joke came.

Sam stepped forward, shoulders straight, expression unreadable. Without hesitation, he reached into his jacket, pulled his own wallet, and flipped it open. The fake badge gleamed with flawless precision, indistinguishable at a glance. His face gave nothing away, calm in the face of confusion. The table fell quiet. Uneasy.

Dean chuckled weakly, scratching the back of his neck. “See? Told ya. FBI.” Sam didn’t even look at him. Just closed the badge, slid it back into his pocket, and gripped Dean’s shoulder. “We’re done here,” he muttered.

Dean tried to salvage it, throwing the group a wink as Sam dragged him away, but the damage was done. You watched them disappear into the crowd, the taller brother stiff with frustration, the shorter grinning like it was all some big joke. The fake badge still nagged at you, though. Too clean. Too convincing. The way Sam had held it- confident, practiced, not like some drunk running a scam.

Curiosity sparked. You set your drink down and followed. You found them tucked into the far corner. Dean leaned against the wall, still grinning, while Sam spoke low and sharp, his voice carrying the weight of annoyance. Dean rolled his eyes, brushing him off.