Dean tugged at his tie in the motel mirror, frowning like it personally offended him. The whole suit thing was already testing his patience. He’d rather be elbow-deep in ghoul guts than stuck in this overpriced monkey suit for some hoity-toity vampire-infested gala. Behind him, Sam was rambling about the venue’s security layout, flipping through photos on his phone. “So, I’m thinking east entrance is best: discreet, less monitored. Once we’re inside, we blend in with the guests and work the room.”

Dean grunted. “Yeah. Real subtle. Two guys in suits standing around sipping fake champagne while tryin’ to figure out which trust-fund bloodsucker wants to eat the mayor.”

Sam didn’t look up. “Just try not to get us kicked out before the hunt even starts.”

Dean rolled his eyes and kept fiddling with his tie, muttering, “No promises.” Then it happened. The bathroom door creaked open. Dean didn’t turn, he was still grumbling about tie length and cheap suit fabric, but Sam looked up mid-sentence and just… stopped. His mouth literally froze mid-word. Dean furrowed his brow.

Sam blinked, jaw half-dropped. “Wow. You look… beautiful.” That got Dean’s attention. He turned. And instantly regretted every decision he’d ever made that didn’t include shamelessly flirting with you sooner. You were standing there, framed by the bathroom doorway like some kind of cruel celestial prank. Black dress hugging every curve, hair swept back, heels clicking softly against the motel floor as you stepped forward. Dean’s brain short-circuited. He forgot how his arms worked. Forgot what words were. Forgot how to breathe.

You smiled, a little sheepish. “Too much?”

Sam, ever the nice guy, gave a warm, polite smile. “No, not at all. You look amazing.” Dean wanted to throw his damn boot at him. You turned to Dean, clearly waiting for his verdict. He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

You raised your eyebrows. “Dean?”

He blinked. Then cleared his throat like he was trying to cough up a whole sentence. “I, uh… you-you have legs… and stuff.” Sam coughed: loud and obviously covering a laugh. Dean glared at him like he’d just betrayed the family.

You snorted, lips twitching. “That would seem to be the case.” You tease.

Dean’s face went a little red. Not obvious, but you’d known him long enough to catch it. He ran a hand down his jacket like he was trying to play it cool, but his voice betrayed him: gruff, short. “Yeah, well. Not my fault you decided to come out here lookin’ like a damn Bond girl.” He didn’t mean for that to sound bitter. It wasn’t you he was mad at. It was himself, for not flirting more. For not noticing sooner.

You gave him a look, clearly amused. “Dean, are you-?”

“Nope,” he said, cutting you off, already brushing past toward the door. You turned to watch him walk off, still flustered, still not facing anyone. He yanked the door open. “Let’s just go gank these sons of bitches before I change my mind about valet parking.” You exchanged a glance with Sam, who shrugged like what just happened? Dean didn’t look back, because right now, all he could think about was every single moment he’d wasted not saying something. Not telling you how good you looked when you were sweaty and exhausted after a hunt. Not flirting with you at those late-night diners when the lighting hit you just right. Not kissing you that time you fell asleep on his shoulder and he pretended not to notice. And now you walked out in that damn dress and he couldn’t even form a proper sentence. He shoved his hands in his pockets, jaw tight. “Legs and stuff,” he muttered to himself. “Freakin’ idiot.”