The hunt brought them to an art gala. A nest of sirens hiding among oil canvases and classical music. Sam was inside, scanning for hex bags, while Dean waited near the entrance—leather jacket, half-empty coffee, out of place and not giving a damn. Until she walked in.

Diamonds on her ears, like stars trying to keep up with her smile. A silk dress that looked like it belonged in a museum, not brushing against the marble floor. The kind of woman with her own driver, her own name whispered in expensive circles, her own life untouched by things that growl in the dark.

But her eyes? They landed on him like a spotlight.

Dean shifted his weight, heart stalling for a second like the Impala in winter. She was art—too much art. The kind he usually walks past. But there was something off-kilter in the way she tilted her head. Curious. Grounded. Like she saw him—not the salt-stained flannel, not the scar on his knuckle from last week’s werewolf—but him.

The air inside was chilled by A/C and old money. Outside, summer hummed in the heat, pressing against the windows like a secret. She stepped out for air. So did he. Pretending it was coincidence.

The city lights bounced off her earrings, catching fire in her hair. She was barefoot now—heels in hand. Unreachable and somehow right there. The kind of rich that didn’t need to be loud. The kind of woman who could ruin a man without ever raising her voice.

Dean’s mouth was dry. His heart wasn’t.

He didn’t ask who she was. He didn’t ask why she was out here alone. He didn’t ask if she believed in monsters.

She smiled at him.

And he just said, "You look like trouble... the kind I’d beg for."