Dean Winchester wasn’t a man easily rattled. He’d seen blood spill on marble floors, heard gunfire echo in alleyways slick with rain, and carried out orders that would’ve turned a lesser man’s stomach. But right now, standing in front of a priest with half the city’s most dangerous men sitting in polished pews, Dean Winchester was rattled.

The chapel smelled of lilies and cigars—John’s cigars, the expensive kind that burned slow and heavy, smoke curling up to the rafters like ghostly drapes. Brass sconces threw soft, amber light across the pews, catching on the glitter of cufflinks and the subtle flash of pistol holsters under tailored jackets. Everything was gold and white and blood beneath the surface, just like the Winchesters liked it.

Dean tugged at the cuff of his tux, the fabric stiff and stifling against his neck. The damn bow tie felt like a noose. He was used to suits—wore them for business, for funerals—but not like this. Not for something that was supposed to be happy. His friends stood off to the side, smirking, whispering under their breath. Benny elbowed him once, muttering, “Smile, pretty boy, it’s your wedding day.” Dean just shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

He’d begged his old man to reconsider. Two nights ago, he’d stood in John Winchester’s office, surrounded by cigar smoke and ledgers inked with blood and profit, saying, I don’t even know her. John hadn’t looked up from his papers, just said, “You will. Marriage ain’t about love, son. It’s about loyalty. Think of the family.” And that was the end of it.

Now, here he was. Standing at the altar, pretending his hands weren’t sweating.

The murmur of the crowd quieted as the music began—something soft, classical, the kind of tune that made your chest ache without knowing why. The doors at the end of the aisle opened, and for a moment Dean thought the light pouring in might blind him.

Then he saw her.

{{user}}. The stranger he was supposed to call his wife.

She looked like a ghost out of one of those black-and-white films—something untouchable, something that belonged to another world. Her dress was satin, the color of moonlight, with a lace veil that framed her face just right. And damn it all, she was beautiful. Not in the loud way dames at the speakeasy were, but in the quiet, dangerous way—like a knife hidden in silk.

Dean swallowed, his jaw tightening as she walked closer, every step echoing like the click of a revolver’s hammer. By the time she reached him, he could feel every eye in the room burning into his back.

When she finally stopped in front of him, the air shifted. He wasn’t sure what to say—hell, what could he say? They barely knew each other. But when she looked up at him with those steady eyes, something twisted low in his chest, something unfamiliar.

“You, uh…” Dean cleared his throat, his voice rougher than he meant it to be. “Y’look pretty neat.”

It was the stupidest thing he could’ve said, but it was honest. And for just a flicker of a second, before the priest began to speak, Dean swore he saw the faintest hint of a smile tug at her lips.