Written by: KariGorsuch

48 Hours Before the Ball

The gym was too clean. No dust, no clang of weights hitting rubber mats, no stale scent of overexertion. Just mirrors gleaming under recessed lighting and machines that looked untouched. I stood barefoot on one of the mats, hands wrapped tight, sweat glistening across my collarbone.

The heavy bag swayed in front of me, my knuckles already sore from the last round of frustration I'd taken out on it. I pulled back for another punch.

"You always hit like you're trying to make something bleed," Sam said from behind me.

I didn't startle. Of course he was here. Of course he found me.

I landed a final punch and stilled the bag with both hands. "You offering yourself up?"

He stepped onto the mats barefoot, his black shirt clinging to his chest, hair damp from a run. He looked good. Too good for 6 a.m.

"Maybe," he said, his voice low, a little amused. "Wanna spar?"

We didn't need warmups. We circled each other, the space between us crackling. I went in first, jabbing fast, testing him. He dodged, blocked, countered. The dance began.

Then he caught my wrist, spun me, and I went down hard, the mat catching my back. He straddled my hips, pinning my arms above my head.

"Gotcha," he said, breath hot.

I stared up at him, heart pounding, adrenaline tangling with something slower, deeper.

"I could flip you," I murmured.

He grinned. "You could try."

So I did.

With a twist of my hips and a sharp pull on his wrists, I reversed our positions. He grunted, surprised, as I landed atop him, pinning him down instead. My thighs bracketed his waist. My breath mingled with his.

"Well," he said, looking up at me, eyes dark. "Now what?"

I leaned in, brushing my nose against his. "Now I decide if letting you up is worth it."

His brows lifted slightly. "And?"

I paused, letting my weight settle a little more into his lap, heart thunderous.

Then I smirked. "It's tempting."

He shifted beneath me, just enough to remind me how closely we were pressed together. His hands slid from where I'd pinned them, fingers curling loosely around my wrists instead—testing the tension, not breaking it.

"You trying to kill me before we even make it to the ball?" he asked, voice lower now, rougher.

"I thought you liked a challenge."

"I like you," he said simply, like it wasn't a weapon of a sentence.

My breath caught. He felt it. I saw it in the flicker of heat in his eyes.

Before I could answer, before I could even think, his hands slid to my hips, fingers curling just under the hem of my tank top. Not demanding. Just asking.

I leaned down slowly, our foreheads nearly touching. "We've got forty-eight hours."

"Plenty of time," he murmured, tilting his head until his mouth brushed the corner of mine.

But I didn't kiss him.

Instead, I pushed up with a quick twist, rolling off him and landing in a crouch beside him before he could catch me again.

"Better keep your focus, Winchester," I said, breathless.

He sat up, smiling like he knew exactly what I was doing—and that it wouldn't work forever.

"Trying," he said. "You're not making it easy."

36 Hours Before the Ball

Dean was snoring, starfished across one bed like he'd just lost a bar fight—mouth open, one arm dangling off the mattress, the other curled around a pillow like it owed him money. Eve was in the bathroom curling her lashes and humming something off-key, blissfully out of tune and totally unbothered by the symphony of Winchester snoring behind her.

I stood near the window, absently fiddling with one of the earrings we picked out yesterday. Gold with a faint blue gem—just enough menace to feel like me. The city shimmered below, glass and noise and waiting trouble.

The door creaked open.

Sam stepped in, holding two paper cups and a bag that smelled faintly of cinnamon and sin. His shirt was rumpled, jeans slung low like he'd thrown them on with half a thought. Still somehow looked like something out of a slow-burn novel.

"One of these is coffee, the other tea," he said, stepping over a pair of Dean's discarded boots. "Guess which."

I didn't even blink. "I don't guess. I take."

I held out my hand. He passed the cup to me, letting his fingers drag against mine longer than necessary. That familiar jolt shot through my wrist, like static, like memory. I narrowed my eyes at him over the rim of the cup as I took a sip.

Perfect. Of course it was.

He bit down on a grin, leaned his shoulder against the wall. "How do you still look like you're plotting someone's death in yoga pants?"

"Because I am," I replied, deadpan.

He raised a brow, eyes flicking to the curve of my hip, the waistband of the pants riding low on my stomach. "Anyone I know?"

"Wouldn't you like to find out."

A beat passed, thick with something unsaid. The soft rustle of Eve's humming carried from the bathroom, masking the tension stretching between us like thread pulled too tight.

Sam finally broke it with a small huff. "You're gonna wreck that ballroom tomorrow."

I turned fully to him then, one hip against the windowsill. "What makes you think it hasn't already started?"

His gaze dropped to the necklace resting against my collarbone—another piece Eve had insisted on, something sharp and feminine and dangerous. His tongue darted out, wetting his bottom lip like he wasn't sure if he wanted to kiss me or lecture me.

He didn't do either.

Instead, he stepped forward, just once, enough to close most of the space. "What's your angle, Bri?"

"My angle?" I echoed.

"The whole 'silent threat in a cocktail dress' thing." His voice had softened, quiet and low. "You gonna flirt your way into the vault?"

I smiled slowly, darkly. "Only if I have to."

"And if I say I don't like the idea of anyone looking at you that long?"

I tilted my head. "Then you'd better look longer. Outstare them."

His mouth twitched. "That a challenge?"

"Everything with me is a challenge, Winchester."

Behind us, Eve let out a sudden yelp of frustration from the bathroom. "Why are fake lashes a form of medieval torture?!"

Sam didn't break eye contact. "I'd offer to help her," he murmured, "but I think I'm a little busy right now."

I sipped my tea, smirking. "Damn right you are."

24 Hours Before the Ball

The wind was colder up here, sharp and restless. Kansas City sprawled below us in a mess of neon and streetlight, a heartbeat of chaos humming beneath the surface.

Eve and I sat on the rooftop ledge, legs swinging over the edge like we didn't care about gravity. Between us sat a bottle of whiskey, half-drunk and warm from our hands. Neither of us had spoken for a few minutes. We didn't need to.

My dress for tomorrow hung inside, zipped into silence. It felt both too much and not enough.

Eve exhaled, long and slow, watching the city lights flicker like fireflies caught in a jar. "Remind me again why we're doing this?"

"Because no one else is dumb enough," I muttered, taking a swig from the bottle.

She smirked faintly. "And because we're the only ones who look good doing it."

That earned a short laugh from me. "You planning to seduce a demon prince or two?"

"Only if I get bored." She glanced over at me, her expression shadowed but soft. "You ready?"

"For the mission?" I asked, tipping the bottle toward her.

She took it, sipped. "For everything. The ring, the crowd, the risk. The way Sam looks at you when he thinks no one's watching."

I stilled, the wind tugging my hair across my cheek. "That obvious, huh?"

"You glow like you swallowed lightning," she said quietly. "It's a little obvious."

I didn't know what to say to that. Not really. So I reached for the bottle again instead.

She didn't stop watching me. "Do you trust him?"

"With my life," I answered immediately.

Eve nodded once. "And your heart?"

That one took longer.

"I don't know if I can afford to," I said finally, voice low.

She didn't push. Just nudged my shoulder with hers. "If anyone can survive heartbreak and still look hot at a black-tie auction from hell, it's you."

I snorted. "Thanks, I think."

We sat in silence for another long beat, city buzzing below, night curling around us like a held breath.

Then Eve leaned back on her elbows, looking up at the stars. "Let's not die tomorrow."

"Deal," I said, leaning with her. "But if we do—"

"I call dibs on haunting Dean."

I smiled. "Fair."

12 Hours Before the Ball

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting everything in a washed-out glow. Concrete and shadows—just the kind of place we gravitated to when things got too real upstairs.

Dean leaned against the Impala, arms crossed, chewing on a toothpick like it owed him something. I walked up slowly, footsteps echoing in the quiet, each one a fuse.

He glanced at me but didn't straighten. "If you're here to tell me I need more cologne for tonight, you're outta luck. I already smell fantastic."

I didn't smile. "You've been picking fights with everyone all day."

He shrugged, toothpick twitching in his mouth. "Maybe everyone's just being extra annoying."

I stopped a few feet away, arms crossed. "You know what I think?"

"Oh, I can hardly wait," he muttered.

"I think you're scared."

That made him look at me. His jaw flexed, eyes sharp. "Of what? Dressing up for a demon cotillion?"

"No," I said, stepping closer. "Of her. Of this. Of actually saying how you feel about Eve instead of playing it off with half-ass jokes and bravado."

Dean looked away, jaw tightening further. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know exactly what I'm talking about," I said. "You're doing the same thing you always do—pretend you don't care until it's too late and someone's bleeding for it. Maybe this time you should try not screwing it up."

"I'm not screwing anything up," he snapped, then caught himself, voice dropping. "I'm just trying to get through the mission without losing anyone."

"And pushing her away is gonna help with that?"

His silence said enough.

I stepped in until we were nearly chest to chest. "Eve's not asking you to promise forever, Dean. She just wants you to stop pretending she doesn't matter."

He stared at me for a long moment. Then, quieter: "You think I don't know that?"

I let out a breath, shoulders softening just a little. "Then maybe stop acting like an ass and start acting like someone who gives a damn. You made that deal to bring Sam back—now fucking own up to Eve about it. You still haven't told her about your time limit, and I'm not going to."

That landed. His eyes darkened, jaw working like he was chewing back every excuse he'd ever leaned on. But he didn't say anything. Didn't deny it.

I waited a beat. "She deserves the truth. Before this whole thing goes to hell—before you go to hell."

Dean looked away, hands shoved deep into his pockets. "Yeah," he muttered. "I know."

I held his gaze for a second longer, then turned and headed for the stairs, the sound of my footsteps bouncing off concrete.

Behind me, his voice followed—quiet, but real. "Thanks... for not telling her."

I didn't turn around.

"Don't make me regret it," I said, and kept walking.

6 Hours Before the Ball – Hotel Room Kitchenette

The hotel's tiny kitchenette had no business smelling this good, but Dean had somehow coaxed magic out of a microwave and two mini pans. The table was cluttered with takeout boxes, plastic cutlery, and what looked suspiciously like an entire pie he'd managed to snag from somewhere.

Eve sat on the counter, one foot tucked under her, watching Dean with mild amusement as he carved out a generous slice of cherry pie and slid it onto a flimsy paper plate.

"So, is this, like... your death row meal?" she asked, eyeing the whipped cream can he'd pulled from the fridge.

Dean grinned, already loading it onto the pie like it was sacred ritual. "Nah, this is just foreplay."

Eve raised a brow. "Wow. The pie really is sacred, huh?"

"You have no idea," he said, deadly serious. "I've bled for pie. Died for pie. Would kill again for pie."

She leaned in, voice sweet and taunting. "Is that a warning?"

Dean froze.

She didn't steal a bite. She dipped two fingers into the whipped cream mountain and wiped them clean across his cheek.

Eve smirked, fingers still sticky with whipped cream. "What are you gonna do? Fork me?"

"That was your joke, not mine," Dean shot back with a wink.

Right then, the door opened with a soft click, and I stepped in with Sam just behind me. We stopped in unison at the sight of Dean with whipped cream smeared across his cheek and Eve crouched behind the counter like she'd just pulled off a heist.

"...Should we come back later?" I asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Depends," Sam said, eyeing Dean's pie. "Is this a food fight or foreplay?"

Dean glared, fork still raised. "She attacked me."

"With whipped cream," Eve clarified, grinning over the counter. "For science."

Sam walked over, casually plucked the pie plate from Dean's hands, and took a bite with a new fork. "Mmm. Totally worth dying for."

Dean looked personally betrayed. "Dude."

"You said you'd kill for pie," Sam said through a mouthful. "Didn't say you'd defend it."

I leaned against the counter, grabbing a spoon from the cutlery pile. "And here I thought you two were professionals. What is this, sugar-fueled foreplay before the end of the world?"

Dean opened his mouth to protest, but Eve popped up and licked a smear of whipped cream off her knuckle, smirking. "Let them have their pie, Bri. It's probably the last good thing we'll eat before walking into hell."

I shot Sam a glance. "Could say the same about him."

He took another bite of Dean's pie and shrugged like he hadn't just stolen his brother's soul in dessert form.

Dean slumped into a chair, looking devastated. "I can't believe this. My own brother. My best friend. Betrayed for crust and cherries."

"You say that like it's the first time," I said, tossing him a napkin.

Eve leaned over and wiped the rest of the whipped cream from Dean's cheek, deliberately slow. "Next time, don't talk dirty about pie unless you're ready for consequences."

Dean blinked. "I genuinely don't know if I'm turned on or offended."

"Why not both?" she teased.