Memories of Dean W.

The men are tall, intimidatingly so. Clean and crisp in their official-looking suits. There’s something familiar about the eyes of the shorter one that Luis can’t quite place, the memory of a memory superimposed on these luminous eyes that stirs something uneasy deep down inside him so that he’s zoning out a little even as the man sticks a FBI badge under his nose and says in the gruffiest voice Luis has ever heard coming from a dude that pretty,“FBI, I’m agent–”“Winchester!” Luis exclaims, surprising even himself. The two men exchange an alarmed glance and fold their badges in the same fluid motion as Winchester — Dean, he’s sure of it now, that’s Dean — looks Luis up and down, brows furrowed.“Do we know each other?”