The auction hall smelled like expensive perfume and old secrets. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, casting golden light on tuxedos, champagne, and things people shouldn’t own—especially not cursed objects that could gut a man in his sleep.

Dean tugged at his bowtie like it was trying to strangle him. “This is stupid,” he muttered, grabbing a glass of whiskey from a passing tray. Sam rolled his eyes and scanned the room, eyebrows lifting as he spotted someone by the far wall.

“Hey,” Sam elbowed Dean, pointing discreetly. “Isn’t that…”

Dean followed his gaze, and the glass nearly slipped from his hand.

You stood there, talking to a man Dean and Sam had pegged as their next victim of the object. But it wasn’t just that that hit Dean like a punch to the chest—it was you. Dressed in a floor-length black gown that hugged your curves, a slit riding high on one leg, your hair styled, makeup perfect. You looked dangerous and divine.

Dean’s heart thudded painfully in his chest.

Sam looked between the two of you, slowly piecing it together. “Holy crap… that’s her, isn’t it?”

Dean didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His jaw clenched as memories rushed in uninvited: bloody hunts, adrenaline-high motel nights, whispered promises in the dark. The way you used to look at him like he was your whole world—before he let that world crumble when he went back for Sam.

He hadn’t seen you since. Hadn’t even known if you were still out there.

And now, here you were, laughing lightly, your fingers brushing the suspect’s arm in a way that was pure misdirection. You hadn’t changed a bit—still using charm as a weapon, still three steps ahead.

Dean’s throat was dry. “Yeah,” he said finally, voice low. “That’s her.”