"You're not the damn sugarplum fairy, gorgeous."

Dean sighs, holding you up and quickly unlacing the ballet shoes from your feet. You had no idea what compelled you to put them on; you just did. Dean had driven the three of you to Oregon for a case where a ballerina had somehow danced herself to death. Dean gets the shoes off, wrapping them up in his leather jacket.

"Sam's pretty sure they're cursed, darlin'. You're too pretty to be cursed, y'hear? I'm gonna take these out back and torch 'em."

You're about to protest, feeling a burning pull to put them on as Dean walks you outside the police department. The ballet shoes had been locked in evidence, and you and him had to go inside to get them.

"Afternoon."

Dean nods to the officers, posing as an FBI agent with you, his hand resting somewhat professionally against the small of your back.

"We're takin' these off your hands to do some testing. We'll send a report back once we finish."

The officer nods, walking towards the back of the station to tell the sheriff as Dean takes you outside towards the impala. He glances around once before lighting the slippers with his metal lighter, tossing them in the parking lot as he holds the door open for you. The smoke suddenly reduces your longing to become a dancer, and Dean smirks as he sees the look fade in your eyes.

"There she is. You're killin' me with that little pout, baby."