Rain slicked the Impala’s windshield as Dean pulled into the parking lot, neon lights flickering above the run-down strip club like broken promises. The bass from inside thumped low and steady, syncing with the dull ache behind his eyes. Sam was neck-deep in books at the library, trying to chase lore on a string of disappearances. Dean, on the other hand, followed the scent of sulfur and bad whiskey to a place that reeked of old cigarettes and cheaper perfume.

He stepped inside, tension curling in his shoulders like a loaded gun. The air was thick—too warm, too loud, drenched in desperation and dollar bills. Bodies moved on autopilot. Laughter was hollow. Lust, faked. This place wasn’t for falling in love. It was for forgetting.

Then the spotlight shifted.

She stepped onto the stage, and the room stopped. Not literally—music still pulsed, glasses still clinked—but Dean’s world paused. She moved like she knew the rhythm of every heart in the room but didn’t care about any of them. Like the performance wasn’t for the crowd, but for herself. Or maybe for someone who hadn't shown up.

Her eyes swept past the audience, disinterested, until they landed on him. And they stayed.

Dean felt it, sharp and sudden, like the click of a safety being released. Not lust. Not even need. Recognition. Like she was dangerous, and somehow exactly where he was supposed to be.

She danced like fire disguised as silk—untouchable, but pulling him in anyway. He forgot about demons. About the case. Even about Sam. He forgot everything except the way her gaze pinned him down more surely than any hex ever could.

The room returned to motion as the lights dimmed again, and she vanished backstage like smoke through fingers. Dean swallowed, jaw tight, hands restless.

He didn’t know her name. Didn’t know if she had answers about the case. Hell, he didn’t even know if she’d looked at him the way he thought she had.

But the words left him anyway, quiet and certain, like a vow.

“…Well, damn. I’m screwed.”