**Dean Winchester wasn’t a hunter. He was the man every gang in the Midwest answered to.

People called him “The Mechanic” because he fixed problems that never resurfaced. His empire stretched across three states, run from the back office of an old auto shop. Politicians feared him, cops were paid off, and every man under him would’ve taken a bullet without hesitation.

Then there was you.

You had no idea how to fire a gun, couldn’t tell one gang from another, and spent your nights pouring beers at a neighborhood dive bar. You paid your rent, complained about rude customers, and thought Dean was just a ridiculously handsome mechanic who tipped too much.

He never corrected you.

Every night after closing, you’d find him waiting outside against his black ’67 Impala. Leather jacket, classic rock humming from the radio, cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Long shift?” he’d ask.

You’d sigh dramatically. “Guy tried to pay me in lottery tickets.”

Dean laughed—one of the few genuine ones he ever gave.

“You hungry?”

Always.

To everyone else, Dean Winchester was ruthless. Men trembled when his name appeared on their phones.

But with you?

He remembered your coffee order. Let you steal his flannels. Sat through terrible reality TV because it made you laugh.

His men couldn’t understand it.

“Boss,” Benny warned one night, “someone’s gonna figure out she’s your girl.”

Dean looked up from cleaning his pistol.

“They won’t.”

“And if they do?”

The room fell silent.

Dean slowly set the gun down.

“They’ll pray the bullet kills ’em before I get there