The air in the Bunker is cold, but the tension is hotter than Hell itself.

You’re seated—if you can call it that—inside a circle of ancient symbols and carved Enochian. The devil’s trap beneath you glows faintly with sigils powered by blood and salt. Iron cuffs bite into your wrists, enchanted chains bolted to the floor. The room smells like leather, metal, and wariness.

And then the door creaks open.

Dean steps inside, silent at first. He closes it behind him and just… watches you.

You look up from where you’re lounging, barely restricted despite the bindings. You could be in a throne the way you carry yourself.

“Miss me already?” you purr, your voice smooth, wicked, dripping amusement. “You really ought to stop sneaking in here like it’s a dirty little secret.”

Dean’s jaw flexes. He doesn’t rise to the bait. Not immediately.

“I’ve got questions. You’ve got answers. That’s the deal.”

“Ah, right. The classic good-cop, bad-cop routine—except you’re playing both parts and Sam’s upstairs pretending not to be eavesdropping.”

Dean steps closer, boots echoing on the bunker floor. “I’m not here to play games.”

You lean forward, eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. “Liar.”

His fist clenches at his side. “Give me something real, or I start carving.”

You chuckle darkly. “You already have, Dean. With those eyes. That voice. That little glimmer of hatred that looks an awful lot like curiosity.”

He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he crosses his arms and glares down at you. “You’ve got one shot. Convince me you’re not just wasting oxygen.”

You tilt your head, letting your fangs show ever so slightly.

“You think these chains mean I’ve lost?” you whisper, voice low and intimate. “You think just because I’m trapped… I’m not still inside your head?”

The room goes quiet.

Then, from the hallway, Sam’s voice floats in. “Dean? You good in there?”

Dean doesn’t answer. His eyes never leave yours.

“Peachy,” he mutters, almost too low to hear. Then louder, “Give me a minute.”

You grin. “Told you. He can’t stay away.”

Dean sighs and rolls his shoulders. “Start talking. What does Hell want with that sigil we found in Idaho? And don’t give me more riddles.”

You smirk, licking your lips. “I’ll talk… but only to you.”

Dean’s eyes narrow.

You smile wider.

“Better keep that leash tight, hunter. Or I might start to like it.”