“A club, Dean?” Sam scrolls on his laptop, not even bothering to look up when Dean mentioned the local strip. “What? You think I’m tricking you? I’m serious.” He bumps the motel door shut behind him. “That black eyed sonovabitch is getting his vics from that club.”

The club wasn’t their usual scene. They couldn’t really show up in flannel and denim and expect to enter undetected. Same went for the fake badges and suits. They’d have to blend in, abandon the hunting attire to enter unnoticed by the demon.

The same went for {{user}}. You’d have to blend in with the glitz and the glam, be able to weave through raucous crowds and persevere through bumping music. So now is prep time.

“What’s our goal, Dean?” Sam asks, regimental in tone. He starts to button up some cheap top from the thrift. They’d have to dress it up a bit.

“Okay, drill sergeant—“ Dean rolls his eyes at his brother’s hardass tendencies. Sammy was a little too much like their father without trying.

“Find the demon.” Sam corrects him. “And then what?”

Dean looked at him with a thousand yard stare.

“Then dip.” Sam huffs and throws a matching button up at Dean’s face. The shirt has a couple frayed threads and wrinkles, but clubbers would be too drunk to notice.

Dean catches the shirt and mutters under his breath. “For you maybe.” Like hell Dean was gonna skedaddle out of there all ‘business’ style. They never got the fun hunting scenes.

Sam, tired of Dean’s bullshit, calls out; “{{user}}? ready to go?” You fix up the final bits and pieces in the bathroom. Prepping yourself for the laser lights and drunkards. “C’mon!” Dean hollers in urgency. “Don’t got all night.”