"{{user}}, get off that damn pole."

Your boyfriend's voice cut through the thumping bass, sharp and exasperated. Commanding. Which was exactly the wrong tone to use, especially when you were drunk, pissed, and allergic to being told what to do.

Now, don’t get it twisted. Dean was no prude. Far from it. The man loved a good time— Give him a dive bar, a bucket of beers, some Zeppelin on the jukebox, and, if the whiskey hit just right, a tragically off-key karaoke session. That was his idea of a wild night.

Yours? Flashing lights, body glitter, Y2K bangers, and friends who treated every club night like the Met Gala, dancing until your legs gave out, singing like no one could hear, and riding the wave of dopamine until sunrise.

Opposites attract, sure, but tonight? Opposites were about to throw hands.

The truth was, he didn’t even want to fight. He’d retired from hunting for a reason—to escape drama, monsters, and near-death experiences. He wanted peace. He wanted you. But every time you two clashed, you grabbed your girls and ran straight to the nearest club like it was your battlefield.

And you knew exactly what you were doing.

Freshly done makeup that glowed under club lights, heels that made heads turn, a too-tight dress that said f*ck you in every seam, and the pièce de résistance: a perfectly framed thirst trap on your bestie’s IG story, your location tagged for dramatic effect.

It was your summoning spell. And it never failed.

Dean always came. Grumbling, brooding, too-old-for-this-shit vibes radiating off him like heat—but he came and he wouldn't leave without you.

“Son of a bit—” he hissed under his breath, rubbing his jaw like he was physically holding in a rant. Then softer, “Please?” His voice gentler. “Let’s go home, sugar pie. I’m sorry.”

Ah, there it was. The switch. When he went from growl to pleading.

The game was on.

And deep down, he liked playing it too.