Written by: gooberlanes13

Edited by: KariGorsuch

"Do you really think this is going to work?" Bri's voice was low, edged with something sharp—maybe doubt, maybe fear. She leaned forward against Bobby's desk, arms crossed tight.

I barely glanced up from the crossroad demon lore spread across my lap. "What do you think?"

Bri exhaled sharply, rolling her eyes like she already knew the answer but didn't want to say it. "I think Dean thinks it's going to work."

"After everything we've seen, you're still questioning this?" I smirked, watching her fingers tighten around the pen she'd been fidgeting with.

Bri hesitated, twirling the pen, staring at it like it held the answers. "I just... I don't know. Demons don't make deals without a catch." Her voice was quieter now, but the doubt was creeping in. "And if it does work, at what cost?"

That was the million-dollar question.

She looked at me again, and I saw it—the hope in her red-rimmed eyes, the way she wanted me to say yes. That Sam would walk through that door any second now, whole and breathing.

I wished I could tell her that.

Instead, I exhaled sharply, my gaze drifting to the entryway—Dean's leather jacket hanging off the hook like a ghost of him still lingering here.

"I don't know." My voice was barely above a whisper. "I can't even look at him, Bri. Can't talk to him."

Across from me, I felt her stiffen. The weight of uncertainty pressing down on both of us.

I let the moment stretch, letting the weight of it settle between us before I exhaled sharply. My eyes flicked back to the entryway, and slowly, a mischievous grin tugged at my lips.

"What?" Bri's brows furrowed as she leaned forward, trying to catch my gaze. When she followed my line of sight, confusion deepened across her face. "What are you looking at?"

"Want to go for a drive?" I asked suddenly, snapping the dusty old book shut and setting it on the desk.

Bri blinked, caught off guard. "A drive?"

"Yeah." I smirked, springing to my feet. I nodded toward the entryway, silently urging her to follow. She hesitated, but curiosity got the best of her.

As we stepped into the hall, I stole a glance out the window. Dean and Bobby were still in the backyard, burning trash in the fire pit, their figures silhouetted against the dim orange glow. They'd been out there for at least twenty minutes—probably long enough.

Bri's confusion deepened when she saw me reach up on my tiptoes, slipping a hand into the pocket of Dean's leather jacket. "Eve..." Her voice lowered, glancing over her shoulder like she half-expected him to materialize behind us. "What are you doing?"

I twirled the Impala's keys around my finger. "Going for a drive."

She gaped at me. "But that's Dean's baby."

I grinned. "Last time I checked, he's my boyfriend. And I have dibs."

Bri shot me a deadpan look, but I could see the fight against a smirk. I tossed her jacket at her chest and stepped back, letting the screen door slam behind me.

"Now or never," I challenged, walking backward toward the car. "Are you in or out?"

Bri's lips parted, eyes darting toward the backyard again. The echo of the screen door had probably reached them by now—it was only a matter of time before one of them came to check. She needed to decide fast.

She groaned. "Eve..."

I was already moving. "Too late!" I giggled, yanking open the driver's side door of Baby, sliding into the front seat.

"He's going to kill us."

"Not us." I shot her a wink as she begrudgingly mirrored me, sliding into the passenger seat. "Just me."

She barely had time to click her seatbelt before I turned the ignition. Normally, I'd let Baby warm up, but time wasn't on our side. I threw the car into reverse, easing out of the parking spot before shifting into drive.

Bri looked around nervously. "We're so dead."

I laughed, gripping the wheel. "Then let's make it worth it."

The tires spun, kicking up gravel as we tore down the driveway.

The neon sign flickered above us as I eased Baby into the lot of a dive bar just off the main road. The kind of place where the floors were probably sticky, the jukebox warbled out classic rock that had long since seen its prime, and the regulars could smell fresh blood a mile away.

Exactly what I was looking for.

Bri sat stiffly in the passenger seat, arms crossed tight. "This is a terrible idea."

"Then why'd you get in the car?" I smirked, cutting the engine.

She groaned but didn't move. I didn't give her a chance to back out—I was already out the door, striding toward the entrance like I belonged there. The heavy wooden door creaked as I pushed it open, and the scent of cheap whiskey and stale cigarette smoke wrapped around me like an old jacket.

I could hear Bri hesitating behind me, but she followed. She always did.

The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place that felt like it hadn't changed in decades. A handful of patrons were slumped over their drinks, their gazes flicking up just long enough to size us up before going back to their own misery. The bartender didn't even bother looking as we slid into a booth near the back.

Before we could order, two guys at the bar took notice.

One of them—lean, dark-haired, and carrying himself like he owned the room—didn't waste time before heading over. His eyes flickered between me and Bri, but it was obvious where his attention landed. His brother—similar in looks but softer around the edges—followed at a slower pace, like he wasn't sure if this was a good idea.

"Didn't think I'd see new faces in this dump." The first guy grinned, resting an elbow on our booth like he'd been invited.

His eyes lingered on me. "What about you? Got a name?"

I swirled my drink, barely looking up. "Eve."

Mark—because that was the kind of name he looked like he had—leaned in, his confidence unwavering despite my clear lack of interest. "So, Eve," he drawled, fingers idly tapping against the tabletop. "What brings a girl like you to a place like this?"

I took a slow sip of my drink, then set it down with a soft clink. "The ambiance."

Beside me, Bri stifled a laugh.

Mark either didn't notice or didn't care. He just smirked. "Most people come here looking for a good time." He leaned in, his voice dropping an octave. "You looking for a good time, sweetheart?"

I turned my head then, locking eyes with him, my smirk razor-sharp. "Depends. You got a '67 Impala parked outside?"

His brows pulled together slightly, confusion flickering across his face. But before he could answer, the hazy murmur of the bar was sliced clean through by the heavy thud of boots on worn floorboards.

A presence—unmistakable, crackling with heat and irritation—loomed behind me.

"Funny," a gravelly voice drawled at my back. "Because I do."

Every hair on my body stood on end.

Dean.

I turned slowly, my breath catching, my gaze dragging upward—and there he was, standing just behind my chair. All leather and sharp eyes, frustration curling tight around him like a barely restrained storm.

But it wasn't just him.

Beside me, Bri sucked in a sharp breath, her entire body going still. My gaze slid past Dean to the figure standing just behind him.

Sam.

Alive.

The world shrank down to that single impossible moment. My fingers clenched against the table's edge, the air lodged somewhere between my lungs and my throat.

Bri moved before I could even process it, scrambling to her feet. "Sam?" Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper, disbelieving.

He exhaled like he wasn't sure what to say, his expression shifting between relief and uncertainty. But Bri didn't wait. She launched herself at him, arms locking tight around his waist, gripping him like he might disappear again if she let go.

Sam froze for half a second before something in him cracked wide open. He held onto her just as fiercely, his face burying into her hair, his entire frame shaking with the weight of being real again.

I swallowed hard, my throat tight. He was here.

The deal worked.

"Take the 'Stang." Dean's voice was rough, unreadable, his eyes never leaving Mark.

Sam nodded silently, his gaze flickering to mine, filled with something heavy—understanding, maybe. Then, without a word, he took Bri's hand, guiding her toward the door. I watched them disappear into the night, barely registering the tight coil in my chest.

Then—low and amused—a chuckle.

Mark.

"Well, well," he mused, lounging back in the booth, his smirk crawling across his face. "Didn't realize your girl needed a babysitter."

Dean didn't move. Didn't even blink. But his shoulders—his entire posture—shifted. Loose. Relaxed. Dangerous.

Mark, the dumbass, either didn't notice or didn't care. "You always show up like this, or just when she's having a conversation?"

Dean exhaled sharply through his nose, like he was really trying to be patient. "Buddy, I don't know what the hell you think you were doing here, but—"

Mark leaned back, stretching his arms out across the booth like he had all the time in the world. "Just talking, man. Eve and I were getting to know each other." He glanced at me, smirking. "Weren't we, sweetheart?"

I didn't answer. Didn't even look at him.

Dean's jaw ticked.

Then he was moving.

Fast.

He grabbed the front of Mark's shirt, yanking him forward so hard the table screeched against the floor.

Jack—the brother—flinched. The bar stilled. Conversations quieted.

Dean's voice dropped to something low, razor-sharp. "You must not be real bright, so I'll make this simple. You don't know her. You don't talk to her. And if I ever see you anywhere near her again—" He leaned in, his lips curling into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I'll make sure you really regret it."

Mark swallowed, his eyes flicking from me to Dean, realization dawning fast.

Dean shoved him back into the booth—casual, like Mark weighed nothing. Mark barely managed to recover, shifting in his seat, exhaling shakily. The smirk was gone.

Dean's attention drifted—not to Mark, not to the bar.

To me.

His eyes flicked down, landing on my hand where it rested on the table—right next to the Impala's keys.

His fingers flexed at his sides. "Keys. Now."

I didn't move.

Dean's eyes darkened. His frustration was there, simmering just beneath the surface—but there was something else, something sharper, deeper. Not just anger.

He stepped in, bracing his hands on the table, leaning close—too close—until the space between us was practically nonexistent.

"You ignoring me now, sweetheart?" His voice dropped low, teasing—a slow, deliberate prod under my skin.

I kept my face blank. My fingers curled around the keys, but still, I didn't look at him.

Dean huffed out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "Oh, so we're doing this?"

Silence.

His jaw ticked. He reached—not for the keys, but for me.

Fingertips brushing against mine, just barely, just enough.

Heat. Contact. Intent.

The touch sent a jolt up my arm, sharp and searing, but I didn't flinch. Wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

Dean exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly, studying me. Not annoyed anymore—intrigued. Calculating. Like I was some impossible puzzle he was determined to figure out.

His voice dipped lower, rougher. "You really think ignoring me is gonna work?"

My stomach twisted, my grip on the keys tightening.

Dean leaned in just enough that his breath ghosted across my cheek. "Tell me to back off."

I swallowed hard. Said nothing.

His fingers traced over mine again, slower this time. A whisper of friction. A spark.

"You won't, will you?" The words barely left his lips, but the weight of them settled into my spine.

Still, I stayed silent.

Dean let the moment stretch, let the tension thicken, let every damn second of it sink in before, finally, his fingers closed over the keys.

Smooth. Effortless. He plucked them from my grip, stepping back just as easily as he'd closed the space between us.

But he didn't leave.

Instead, he took his time.

His gaze dragged over me, slow, deliberate—memorizing. His tongue flicked over his bottom lip, just enough to make a point.

"Still not talking to me, huh?" His voice was low, teasing, but threaded with something darker. Something that warned I was pushing him just as much as he was pushing me.

I didn't answer. My fingers curled into my palms, nails biting into my skin as I fought against every instinct screaming at me to react.

Dean hummed, stepping closer, filling the space I hadn't even realized I left between us.

Heat.

Leather. Whiskey. That damn spearmint gum.

His fingers trailed up my arm—not quite touching, but burning just the same.

"You can keep pretending all you want," he murmured, lips brushing just shy of my ear. "But I know you, sweetheart. You feel this just as much as I do."

My jaw clenched.

Dean exhaled, amused. Smug.

"Still nothin', huh?" His mouth grazed the sharp edge of my jaw, the contact featherlight but sending a shock of heat through me like a live wire.

"Damn," he murmured, voice dipping lower. "If that ain't the sexiest thing I've ever seen."

I forced myself to hold still, even as my pulse pounded against my ribs.

Dean pulled back just enough to catch my eyes, his own dark with something hot and possessive.

"Come on," he coaxed, his voice hitting that gravelly drawl that wrecked me every damn time. "We both know you're leaving with me."

I didn't move.

His smirk deepened, like I'd just given him the best challenge of his life.

Then his hand lifted—slow, deliberate.

Fingers grazing over my hip before curling around my belt loop.

He tugged.

Not much. Just enough. Just enough to make me step forward.

A sharp breath hissed through my nose—furious at the way my body betrayed me.

Dean's eyes flashed with triumph.

His grip tightened for half a second.

Then—space. He stepped back, gave me room I wasn't even sure I wanted.

"Atta girl," he murmured.

Then he turned on his heel and walked out.

He didn't look back.

Didn't have to.

He knew he'd won.

Outside, the cold air bit at my skin, but it did nothing to cool the fire still burning under it.

I walked to the Impala without a word, planting myself against the passenger door, arms folded—refusing to get in.

Dean slid into the driver's seat, shoving the key into the ignition—only to pause.

His gaze snagged on the folded receipt by the gear shift.

He picked it up, scanning it, then huffed out a low, amused laugh.

His head tilted toward me, smug as hell. "You actually filled the tank?"

I didn't move. Didn't answer. Just stood there, silent, stubborn.

Dean hummed, fingers drumming against the wheel. Then—smooth as always—he pushed the door open and stepped out, shutting it behind him.

I should've moved.

Should've put some space between us.

I didn't.

Neither did he.

Instead, he crowded in, one hand bracing against the car beside my head, his body so damn close the heat of him seeped through my clothes.

His other hand skimmed down my arm, slow, unhurried—barely touching, but scorching just the same.

"You're killing me, sweetheart," he murmured, his lips a breath away from mine, his voice thick with something dangerous. "Always got something to say—always pushing back—except now. Now you're just standing there, making me work for it. You know exactly what you're doing, don't you?"

I swallowed hard.

Still didn't speak.

Dean chuckled, low and rough. Appreciative.

"Oh, you do," he murmured, his fingers skimming lower, tracing the curve of my waist before gripping—just hard enough to make my breath hitch.

Damn him.

His nose brushed the edge of my cheekbone, his breath sending a shiver down my spine. "You can keep pretending, baby, but I know exactly what you want."

My jaw clenched. I forced my breath steady.

Dean wasn't buying it.

"Go on," he coaxed, his voice a slow drag of whiskey and sin. "Give me something."

I didn't.

And that was all it took.

Dean's patience snapped.

His fingers curled tight at my waist, his body pressing flush against mine as his lips crashed against my neck—hot, possessive, and absolutely unforgiving.

A sharp inhale was all I managed before his teeth grazed, dragged fire in their wake.

My hands shot up, gripping his jacket on instinct, knuckles tight—but still, I refused to speak.

Dean pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, his own burning. Daring me.

"Still gonna keep quiet, huh?"

I exhaled sharply through my nose, my grip tightening on his jacket—a warning, a challenge, a mistake.

Dean felt it.

And he loved it.

His smirk turned downright sinful. "Alright, sweetheart," he murmured, voice low, teasing, dangerous.

Then—slow as hell—he leaned in again.

His lips brushed the corner of my mouth, featherlight, just enough to make me chase.

I didn't.

I wouldn't.

His hands roamed lower, fingers skating down my sides, pushing, testing, daring.

"Let's see how long that lasts," he murmured, heat curling around every syllable.