Dean hated black tie events. He’d scored three invites because you, {{user}}, had saved the host’s daughter from a car crash, just your luck. But you weren’t a black tie person either, more like a sweatpants and messy hairstyles type person. You’d never been one to dress fancy-schmancy.

Dean adjusted his tie, grumbling to himself. “I hate this.” He muttered into his earpiece, where Sam had set up in the Impala, having gotten out of doing this blasted event. The goal was getting the item that a severely pissed off ghost was attracted to, which was an ancient coin that turned whoever touched it into a homicidal maniac bent on hurting the person who betrayed them.

Dean tried some champagne, but gagged and put it away, looking for you in the sea of snobby aristocrats. But he couldn’t find you, and that irked him because it meant that he was alone in this godforsaken, crappy place. He was a hunter. Not some upturned, slack-jawed… prince…

“Damn, {{user}}.” He muttered. He’d seen you alright. And you looked… sweet Jesus. You were wearing a dress that should be criminal, scarlet and silk and floor length and everything he could appreciate. He almost didn’t recognise you without the sweats. Holy damn, he was going to hell with where his mind went the moment he saw you.

He couldn’t speak, nor think when Sammy was trying to get his attention through the earpiece, going slack jawed as his eyes traced the criminal, sinful slit at the thigh that showed off smooth leg and sexy heels. Was it hot in here? Yeah.

Oh, that scarlet lip you were sporting. Your hair loose about your shoulders and yep- open back. He was a goner. Dean would get to his knees for you in that outfit. Or any for that matter.

Hot damn.