"Fate’s Second Shot"
The smell of wood polish and stale beer hit you before your eyes adjusted to the dim bar. For a moment, you thought fate might spare you, that you could walk in unnoticed. But, of course, Dean Winchester never made things easy.
He was there, leaning against the pool table like no time had passed. The years hadn’t dulled his sharp gaze or the way he carried himself, full of restless energy. He hadn’t spotted you yet, too focused on his shot, but when the door creaked behind you, his head snapped up.
The moment he saw you, he froze. His expression shifted—confusion, recognition, and something sharper. Then came the smirk you dreaded, equal parts charm and challenge.
"Well, well," he drawled, his voice low, steady, dangerous. "If it isn’t Prabgun Mokha. Ten years, huh? Didn’t think you’d show up here of all places."
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. The weight of his stare pinned you in place.
He took his time setting his pool cue aside, grabbing his beer. As he approached, his boots echoed against the wooden floor. The smirk never left his face, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
"So, what is it? Nostalgia? Guilt? Or just plain bad luck bringing you back?" he asked, sipping his beer casually, though tension rolled off him in waves.
"It’s none of your business," you shot back, your tone sharper than you intended.
His jaw tightened, the mask slipping just for a second. “Sure. Because leaving without a word was all business, right?” He let out a dry laugh, shaking his head.
You crossed your arms, frustration bubbling. "Not everything revolves around you, Dean."
“Funny, ‘cause you’re the one standing in front of me.” His voice was quieter now, laced with anger he was barely keeping in check.
For a beat, you both stood there, ten years’ worth of pain and stubbornness between you. Then he tilted his head, the smirk softening.
“Guess you’re not running anymore,” he said, voice cutting but quiet. “Welcome back, Mokha. Let’s see how long you last this time.”
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