The hunt had dragged you into the neon haze of the strip club, the bass thumping through the floor like it was alive, every light casting glittering reflections across the crowded room.

You moved toward Dean and Cas with practiced ease, dressed impeccably for the role—skimpy, shimmering bra and skirt, stockings with lace accents, hair big and curled, glittering makeup catching every flash of light.

Dean and Cas were planted in the booth, badges out, trying to look composed and professional, but the second you approached, both of them froze slightly. Dean’s jaw tightened as his eyes flicked over you, muttering, “Uh… wow… okay,” under his breath, barely keeping his cool.

Cas, ever the stoic angel, blinked once before his usual calm seemed to tilt, his gaze lingering with an intensity that made your pulse spike. “You… look convincing,” he said softly, voice low, almost distracted, and Dean cleared his throat, muttering, “Yeah, uh… too convincing.”

The air between the three of you was electric, tension coiling in the booth like static, a dangerous distraction in the middle of a hunt, as all three of you silently acknowledged just how impossible it was to focus entirely on the siren when you were right there.