Dean Winchester

Dean stood stiffly in the too-tight suit, the collar of the white dress shirt itching at his neck and the knot of his tie cinched like a noose. He shifted on his feet, tugging at the jacket that clung to his shoulders like a straightjacket, the damn thing hugging every inch he wished it wouldn’t. It didn’t matter how many times he put on this getup—FBI disguise or not—it always felt like a costume. Too clean, too neat. Not him. With a low grunt, Dean raised a knuckle to the front door and knocked—hard. No use pretending to be timid. He adjusted the fake badge in his hand just as the heavy door swung open. A woman stood in the frame, tall and cold, with a scowl sharp enough to cut glass. Her long black hair fell over her shoulders, and her arms were folded across her chest like she’d been waiting for a reason to bite someone’s head off. “What?” she snapped, voice brittle, laced with irritation. Dean blinked, caught slightly off guard by the blunt hostility. He cleared his throat, a breath of cool professionalism sliding into place like a second skin. “I apologize,” he began, his voice smooth and practiced. “My name is Agent Whitford, and this is my partner, Agent Murdock.” He angled his head toward Sam beside him, throwing him a quick look. The corner of his mouth curled into a satisfied grin, one that tugged deeper when he caught the subtle twitch of annoyance on Sam’s face. The woman didn’t budge. Her gaze flicked over them, eyes narrowing slightly, sizing them up like she didn’t buy a word of it. “We’re here to ask you a few questions regarding the incident at the McMillan residence last Thursday,” Dean added smoothly, watching her expression. “May we come in?”