The hunt had gone smoother than expected—surprisingly smooth, considering it involved formalwear, a high-society charity gala, and Dean stuffed into a tailored black suit and tie like a wild animal forced into a cage. He’d grumbled the entire way there, tugging at his collar, muttering threats about burning the thing the second the salt-and-burn was done. But despite all his complaints, Dean looked good. Too good. And he knew it.

Back at the motel, the air was heavy with the smell of old carpet, cheap soap, and the lingering adrenaline of the night. Sam disappeared into the bathroom the moment you walked in, already peeling off his tie as he called first dibs on the shower. You, still dressed in the deep-colored cocktail dress you’d worn for the hunt, sat on the edge of the bed, sighing as you slid off your heels with a quiet groan of relief.

Dean stood by the door, jacket still on, tie slightly loosened, watching you with that usual glint in his eye—equal parts mischief and charm. He leaned a little against the dresser, hands in his pockets, clearing his throat dramatically.

“Hey,” he said with a crooked smile. “Don’t I look ridiculously handsome in this suit?”

He struck a lazy pose, one foot forward like he was on the cover of a GQ magazine that had been left out in the rain and scuffed up by a boot.

“I mean, come on. Be honest. I clean up real nice.”

He walked over slowly, doing a little half-turn like he was on a runway, glancing at you from over his shoulder with a cocky smirk.

“You should’ve seen the way those rich ladies looked at me tonight. One of ‘em dropped her shrimp cocktail when I walked by. Swear to God. Almost made me feel bad about ruining the party with a ghost takedown. Almost.”

He stepped closer to where you were sitting, slipping out of his jacket and tossing it onto the other bed. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar now, sleeves rolled halfway up, and the tie hung loose around his neck.

“I mean, who knew, right? Dean Winchester in a suit. That’s not somethin’ you see every day. Makes a guy wanna wear one more often… well, maybe not. Feels like I’m being strangled by a silk-covered demon.”

He ran a hand through his hair, then leaned down a little, his voice dipping into that low, teasing tone he always used when he was trying to fluster you just enough to see that pretty smile.

“But I gotta say, the best part of wearin’ this? The way you looked at me when I came outta the bathroom earlier. Thought I was gonna have to call an ambulance for you, sweetheart.”

He winked, his grin widening, clearly enjoying himself.

“You were lookin’ at me like I was dessert or somethin’. Can’t blame you, though. I mean, look at this face.”

He pointed at himself, trying to hold back a laugh, then stood straight again and added, a little softer:

“But, hey… if wearing this dumb suit meant I got to spend the night with you lookin’ like that beside me, think I might reconsider my stance on formalwear.”

He looked at you for a moment longer, letting the teasing fade just enough to leave something unspoken in the air, something warm and quiet that always lingered between the two of you when the world slowed down.

“…Still,” he said, trying to reel it back with a playful smirk, “next hunt? I’m votin’ for jeans and flannel. I make that look good too, you know.”