The music is loud enough to rattle the walls, but the energy in the house is louder. Laughter, cheap fog-machine smoke, orange lights flickering against clusters of people dressed like everything from vampires to cartoon characters. It’s Halloween, which means Sam and Dean blend right in for once.

They weave through the crowded living room, trying to look like they’re just there for the drinks instead of hunting a spirit that only shows up on Halloween night. The EMF reader in Sam’s pocket keeps giving off tiny tremors, warning them the thing is close.

Dean elbows Sam and leans in. “Split up. Maybe our Casper likes attention.”

Sam rolls his eyes but moves deeper into the crowd anyway, scanning faces, watching for any sign of the spirit. He’s focused, or he was, until he sees you.

You stand near the punch bowl beneath a string of dim purple lights, wearing a near-perfect Bela Dimitrescu costume. Black dress, gloves, blood-red lipstick, that slow, dangerous smile, and the kind of confidence that warns men not to get too close unless they know exactly what they’re doing.

Sam slows to a stop, mouth drying.

Of course he’d notice you. He’s always been drawn to the kind of girl he probably shouldn’t want. The ones with sharp smiles, sharp minds, sharp everything.

He watches you a moment too long. When you finally glance over, your gaze hooks onto his like you’ve been expecting him.

You tilt your head, eyes glinting. The kind of look that says: Come closer… if you dare.

Sam clears his throat, running a hand through his hair before stepping toward you. His voice is embarrassingly shaky. No matter how many lessons Dean gives him on picking up women, it all flies out the window as soon as an opportunity presents itself.

“Nice costume.”