A/N: This takes place during the fourth season of The Mentalist and the seventh season of Supernatural. These two have so much baggage at this point, it was interesting just scratching the surface.

Oil and Water

Grace reached up and smacked Dean over the head.

"Ow!" He exclaimed in more surprise than pain.

She didn't respond, only sent him a steely glare as she passed in front of him. Sitting in the couch across from the grieving widow, Grace attempted to salvage what was left of the interview.

Absently, Dean rubbed at the back of his head. He allowed the agent to continue her job, but he did so with a sour expression.

Working together had been against both their requests. Dean, because the woman appeared to hate him from the get-go. Grace, because she swore this man had shown up drunk on her doorstep once. Not that she was going to tell Lisbon that. Her personal life had gotten tangled up enough in her professional, she didn't need to drag anything else out for everyone to see.

But, seriously, how the hell could he be a federal agent?

He certainly was no Craig.

Bitterly, she reminded herself that that could be a good thing. Craig had been a wolf beneath the wool of a good agent. This guy was a lug of a child with a decent face. Her opinion solidified when the woman began to request they leave her home, her tearful eyes piercing into the man behind her.

She didn't know she was getting paid to babysit.

As they exited the home and walked down the cracked sidewalk, she muttered as much in his direction.

"Believe me, this isn't my idea of a good time either." Dean snapped back.

Grace stopped walking, waited for him to turn to her.

"This isn't supposed to be a good time. We're working, this is our job-"

"Yeah, I know," Dean interjected.

"You want a good time?" Grace continued over him. "Go to a strip club or whatever hole you seemed to have clawed yourself out of. Don't waste my time and energy, energy that I could be using to find this killer and make sure he pays for what he's done."

Dean tilted his head at her choice of words, his interest piqued. "You mean by arresting the man and putting him behind bars." It was meant as a question, a test of sorts to verify that her job (although she didn't know it) differed from his. She was the law, she was righteousness and good and all that crap that came with the badge. He was the line drawn between monsters and people, his moral compass skewed and gnarled to the point not even he knew where North pointed at times.

She held her words behind pressed lips, her eyes glittered.

Rage.

He knew that one all too well.

"Either get your act together or don't bother getting in the car." Were her cold words of choice.

He could have sworn earlier this morning that he had been the one with problems.