"Holy shit! That's Dean Winchester!" Shorty's voice was hoarse with disbelief.

Surprised, Hank turned to look at the man flirting with the bartender. From the look on her face, there was no doubt whose bed she'd be in that night. "Huh. Thought he was dead."

"He was."

Hank frowned at his shaken partner. "What the hell are you talking about? Either you're dead or you're not." He jabbed a finger at the bar. "He ain't."

"He damned well was dead," Shorty insisted. "Bobby Singer himself told me."

"Oh, yeah?" Hank turned back to stare at the walking dead man. Looking pretty good for a corpse, the man was whispering into the ear of the giggling bartender. "Well, we should have a talk with him about that."

As Hank started to rise, Shorty hissing frantically at him to stop, the man at the bar turned suddenly to face them.

A tremor ran over Hank. Staring into those cold green eyes was like having a double-barreled shotgun leveled at him.

Worse.

Staring into those eyes, Hank was more than ready to believe the rumors about Dean Winchester's death and rebirth. He was ready to believe anything at all.

Careful to move slowly, very careful not to move his hands, he sank back down into his chair and turned his attention back to his beer.

Dead or not, this was not a man to mess with.