The museum was buzzing with chatter and clinking glasses, the perfect cover for a quiet heist. Dean tugged at the collar of his suit, muttering under his breath about how ridiculous this all was. But then you walked in.

Dressed to the nines, your elegant gown caught the light, and your hair was pinned up in a way that left Dean momentarily speechless. He let out a low whistle as you approached. "I thought we were here to hunt a ghost..." he quipped, his tone dripping with sarcasm but his eyes betraying genuine admiration.

You gave him a pointed look before linking arms, leading the way inside. The plan went smoothly, some charm, a little misdirection, and the cursed artifact was in Dean’s pocket without anyone noticing.

Once outside, you slipped off your heels with a sigh, and Dean leaned against the Impala, his smirk firmly in place. "You know," he said, eyes scanning you, "for someone who spends most days in flannel, you sure know how to pull this off."