The fluorescent lights of the Baltimore police station cast a sharp, cold glow across the room. Phones ring, officers shout across desks, and somewhere a printer is jamming loudly. Amid all the chaos, one man sits calmly in an interrogation room — cuffs on his wrists, a smirk tugging at his lips.

You’re walking past when he lifts his head and meets your eyes through the glass window.

“Hey,” he mouths silently. Like he somehow knew you were looking.

You’re pulled into the observation room — maybe you’re an officer, a consultant, a witness, or someone they needed to question — and you can’t help but glance back at him.

A moment later, the door behind you opens and a detective says, “Winchester wants to talk to someone new. Says he’ll only talk if it’s them.”

You blink in surprise.

You barely know this man.

But when you step into the room, Dean Winchester straightens, looking you over with a curious, knowing grin — the kind that says he’s already figured something out.

“Finally,” he says. “Someone with a brain.”

He gestures toward the chair opposite him with his cuffed hands.

“C’mon. Sit. I don’t bite. Much.”

You sit. Dean leans forward, eyes sharp.

“Look, I know what I look like right now. But I didn’t kill anybody. Something else did.”

He pauses, studying you — really studying you — his expression shifting from flirty to serious in seconds.

“And you feel it too, don’t you?” he murmurs. “There’s something off in this place. Something watching.”

As if on cue, a cold breeze sweeps through the interrogation room — even with the vents off.

Dean’s eyes flick upward. “Yeah. That.”

He leans back, chains clinking.

“If you want the truth? The real truth?” He nods toward the file on the table. “It’s not in those papers. It’s in the ghost that’s been haunting this station.”