Written by: gooberlanes13

Edited by: KariGorsuch

"Dress, hair, makeup..." I muttered, ticking off the list on my fingers as Bri and I locked the bathroom door behind us. Dean and Sam were changing in the room, and we wanted zero interruptions. "Or makeup, dress, hair?"

Bri snorted and yanked the last garment bag free, letting it drop dramatically into the tub with the other. "This feels unnecessarily ceremonial."

"It is a high-society auction ball filled with Hell-adjacent psychos," I said, joining her at the edge of the tub. We tilted our heads in unison, eyeing the gowns like weapons laid out before battle.

Bri's was midnight blue, the kind of deep shimmer that looked like the sky an hour before a storm broke. The neckline dipped low enough to make Sam's night, and the slit up the side was pure strategic mischief. The material clung like liquid silk and caught the light with flecks of sapphire.

The best part? Easy to peel off—if the mission went well. Or if it didn't.

Mine was all black. No nonsense, no apologies—covered in onyx gems that caught the light like shattered glass. It hugged everything and flared just enough at the hem to hint at elegance before delivering a swift kick to the face. Slit to mid-thigh, subtle shoulder pads. Structured. Deadly.

"Black and blue," Bri said quietly.

"The same colors these assholes are about to be," I replied, and gave her a pointed look before turning her to face the mirror. "Now. Hair."

She hesitated, eyes flicking to mine in the glass. "What are you doing?"

"Beach waves," I decided aloud, fluffing my nearly dry hair. "We already showered, so we've got a head start."

Bri raised a brow. "Was that a hint?"

"I'm not saying you smelled like crypt dust," I said, plugging in the curling iron and tossing her a teasing grin. "I'm saying tonight we'll be shoulder to shoulder with the undead elite—better we don't get mistaken for the scenery."

Bri snorted but didn't argue as I started brushing out her hair.

"Okay," she said after a beat, biting her bottom lip in thought. "Curl it. Leave it down."

"Delicious." I grinned, eyeing the curling iron like it was a loaded weapon. "Let's glam up and give Hell something to stare at."

"Oh—before we get started," Bri said, cracking the door open just enough to reach for her bag, which sat conveniently outside.

We both jumped as two exaggerated, fake screams echoed from the room. Classic.

"Please," Bri rolled her eyes, slamming the door shut again. "We've seen dicks before."

I snorted as she locked the door with a definitive click, then tossed me a small box before claiming the little bench I'd dragged in earlier from the room. It landed with a soft thud in my palms.

Bri grinned at me through the mirror as I cracked it open.

"Really?" I laughed, pulling out a silver StraightTalk flip phone like it was a diamond ring. "My very own burner? You shouldn't have."

"Just a hunch," she said smugly.

I clutched it to my chest and fanned myself like I was overwhelmed with emotion. "How did you know?"

"It was actually Sam's idea," Bri said, and I blinked.

"Sam?" I asked, genuinely surprised as I started brushing out a section of her hair and wrapped it around the hot barrel of the curler.

"Yeah," she shrugged, watching me in the mirror. "He asked if you ever replaced the one from Cripple Creek. When I said no, he wouldn't drop it—insisted you needed another."

I paused for half a second before shrugging, smiling. "That's... kind of sweet."

"He's worried about you," she added, more quietly now, fiddling with her fingers.

I smirked, not looking away from the mirror. "Why? I'm in the prime of my life."

"You're dead, sweetie."

"Exactly," I whispered, grinning as Bri burst out laughing again.

I returned to curling her hair, pleased with the bounce of the last strand. "That's sweet of him," I added casually. "But honestly, his concern should be focused on you and how utterly wrecked he's gonna be when he sees you in that dress."

"Eve." Bri's voice went sharp as I reached for another section of hair.

"I'm just saying," I grinned, tugging the strand straight and curling it smoothly, "It's been, what—Missouri? Has there been any late-night 'research' since?"

She groaned and slapped my thigh lightly. "Focus on the hair."

I wiggled my brows. "Focusing. But if you end up pinned to the wall by a moose of a man tonight, I'm taking credit."

"You're insufferable."

"You're welcome."

That's when her eyes went wide for a second and her shoulders tensed beneath my hands.

"Relax," I chuckled, giving her shoulder a light pat. "We've been so busy being depressed, we haven't noticed anything good sneaking in."

"Dark jokes tonight, huh?" she arched a brow, grinning at me through the mirror.

"Always," I said, matter-of-fact. "You've gotta be comfortable being dead to blend in with the dead." I held up the curling iron like a pointer, as if giving a TED Talk on postmortem adaptability.

"Learn that on your own, did ya?" she quipped.

I just stuck out my tongue, and she winked back.

For a while, the air quieted. About ten minutes passed in that calm, comforting kind of silence—the kind where nothing had to be said. I transitioned to hairspray duty, fluffing her curls, making sure the volume hit just right. Not too tight, not too loose. Soft glam chaos.

Bri stood to start her makeup, and I passed the torch—or rather, the mirror.

"I'll help with the eyeshadow," I offered, spinning my curling iron into position to start on my own waves. "But you're on your own with eyeliner and mascara. I'm not about to get blamed for the loss of an eyeball."

Bri laughed softly, settling in. But then her smile dimmed slightly. She stopped midway through applying her liner, brush in hand, and turned to face me.

"Eve," she said, voice gentler now. "Has Dean talked to you? Like... really talked?"

"About?" I blinked, watching her reflection more than the curling iron. "This is the second time you've asked me if Dean's said something. What's going on?"

"Eve—"

"Bri." I cut her off, setting the curler down and turning to face her fully. "What is it?"

She hesitated, eyes flicking to the mirror and back again. "He just... has something to tell you."

I arched a brow. "He's had plenty of time."

I turned back to the mirror, smoothing out a wave with the brush, trying to keep the tension from creeping into my voice. "Is it... bad?"

Our eyes met again in the reflection. Her expression was softer than usual—but there was something behind it. Something tight. Something grim.

My heart tugged just a little before she finally said it.

"No."

That was all.

I blinked, lips parting at the simplicity. "Okay." I said slowly, processing the word like it came with a manual I didn't get.

I spotted the mascara in her hand and snatched it smoothly, swapping it with another.

"What's the difference?" she asked, a touch bored. Maybe trying to pull us back into neutral ground.

"One's regular," I pointed at the tube I'd taken. "The one I gave you is waterproof."

"Are we planning on crying tonight?" she asked, blinking like she wasn't sure if I was serious.

"You never plan to cry, Bri." I said lightly, fluffing out a curl and checking for symmetry. "It just happens."

She started to reply, but paused as I added, "Also, they're calling for rain."

Her gaze softened again—like she expected me to say something else. Something heavier.

"What?" I blinked up at her.

"Just making sure we're on the Sam—same page!" she burst into a fit of giggles before finishing the sentence. "Get it? Sam-same."

I groaned, smirking as I popped her thigh lightly. "We haven't even started drinking yet..."

"Hey!" Sam's voice boomed through the door, making both of us jolt. "We're dressed and ready—are we waiting on you, or should you call a cab?"

"Cab!" Bri and I yelled in perfect sync.

There was a beat, then Dean's voice cut in, low and distinct. "Your invites are on the coffee table."

"Okay, sweetheart!" I called sweetly through the door, and Bri snorted beside me.

Dean didn't respond—of course he didn't—but Sam's amused, "See you there," echoed faintly before the door thudded shut behind them.

"I love messing with him," I muttered, grinning at the thought.

"So you love him?" Bri shot back, catching me off guard as I ran a brush through my curls, loosening them into those perfectly imperfect beach waves.

"What?" I nearly choked on the sip of water I'd just taken, blinking at her.

"It's a simple question," she said too casually, passing me the nude eyeshadow like it was just another day in the apocalypse.

"That is anything but simple," I fired back, though my voice lacked conviction.

Bri turned slightly from the mirror, a little flustered as she waved the brush at me. "Come on, Eve."

I chuckled and took it from her, leaning in to blend soft browns into her lids with practiced ease.

"You've put yourself in physical danger for Dean," she said after a moment, quieter now. Her voice carried more weight than teasing. "Wait—no. You sacrificed yourself for him."

"'Tude," I smirked, pointing the eyeshadow blending brush at her, grinning when she instinctively flinched.

"I'm just saying," Bri chuckled, watching me switch out the shade for something a little deeper. "You two danced around it forever... then whatever happened in Casper before you were taken?"

"Yeah," I muttered, drawing the word out as I focused on her eyelids, checking for symmetry.

"What was that about?" she asked casually.

I grinned at the memory—sharp and a little stupid in hindsight.

"Just me calling him a manwhore," I said matter-of-factly, smirking when she laughed. "Told him I liked him. He liked me. And I wasn't about to be another notch on his belt."

"Damn, Eve." Bri tilted her head, clearly impressed.

"He just kept pushing and pulling," I said with a low growl, finishing the blend and grabbing the mascara. "Mixed signals, half-truths, typical Winchester charm."

Bri smiled and sat still, trusting me enough to let a wand of potential ocular doom near her lashes.

"I get that. I saw," she murmured, lashes fluttering delicately under the brush.

I dusted a touch more shadow along her crease, then leaned back to assess the final look. "You should've seen how tore up he was when you were gone."

"Tore up, huh?" I blinked, trading spots with her as she reached for the heels perched next to the tub.

"He tore that apartment apart," she added, sitting on the edge. "You name it—he did it. Broke the mirror. Threw a chair. Didn't say a damn word the whole ride out."

I paused in the mirror as I started on my eyeliner, the silence stretching just enough to hum with something heavier.

"Why are we having a Hallmark moment?" I asked eventually, the corner of my lip twitching up.

"That," Bri said, standing and returning to the counter with a smile that was a little too knowing, "that's why."

"What?" I blinked, brow raised.

"That was a Dean-freaking-Winchester question," Bri said with a sly smile, eyes narrowing on me.

"Your point?" I shrugged, playful. "He's my boyfriend. Mannerisms are part of the package deal."

She shot me a look that could've curdled milk, but it only made me grin harder.

"It's the way he looks at you when he thinks no one's watching," Bri said, voice softer now, more real. "Or the way you do."

"He's hot. Do you blame me?" I snorted, trying to steer the conversation away from the suddenly deep end.

"Eve..." Bri said my name like a warning and a prayer all at once. Her eyes lifted from the tile floor, and when they met mine, I felt the air shift between us.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

But nothing came out.

Whatever words I thought I had got stuck somewhere between my chest and my conscience. She saw right through me, like she always did. The same way she always caught on to things about me before I even had a clue.

And she was right.

Again.

I rolled my shoulders, brushing the weight off with a quiet breath. "Well," I sighed, voice lighter than my chest felt. "This is going to be nerve-rackingly wicked."

"It'll be a blast," Bri said, and then, after a beat: "Until the actual blasting starts."

I snorted as we turned to our dresses, the fabric cool and impossibly smooth as we slid them over our heads and reached to help zip and adjust. Small, practiced movements. Half ritual, half armor.

"Fuck," Bri whispered as we turned back toward the mirror.

I was a second behind her, finishing the clasp at the back of her gown—and then I saw it too.

Us.

Still, breathless, and shining like danger wrapped in silk.

"...We look—" she started.

"Beautiful," I said before she could finish, the word catching in my throat as it settled into the air.

We smiled. Not just at the mirror, but at each other. And then we turned and fell into a hug—no words, no jokes, just warmth.

""Let's do this," Bri exhaled, voice just barely shaking.

"Hey." I smirked, catching her arm before she reached the door. "All you gotta do is scream my name—I'll be there."

"I'm not scared..." she muttered. Then, after a pause: "Okay, compared to what we were doing this time last year—it's a hell of a career shift."

"We got this." I cupped her face gently, pulling her forehead to rest against mine for a breath. "We're here. Together. That's all we need."

"You're awfully confident," she said, arching a brow. "Especially for someone who totally ignored both of your prep plans."

I frowned.

"Dress, Makeup, Hair or Dress, Hair, Makeup," she deadpanned, shaking her head with a mock glare.

We both cracked up.

"Freaking genius," she muttered as we stepped out of the bathroom and into the suite, the mood finally shifting from sentimental to mission-ready. "Knife or Sig?"

"Knife," I answered instantly, catching her sarcasm but ignoring it as we traded weapons. The familiar weight of cold steel against my thigh was oddly comforting. "Hard to be scared of much when you're already dead."

"You're really going to lean into the undead jokes tonight?" Bri asked, fluffing the dramatic curve of her dress and tilting side to side to check the drape. She caught my gaze for a second, silently asking if it passed inspection.

I gave her a solid thumbs up, and she moved on with a satisfied nod.

We both made the final rounds—purses tucked, invites grabbed, lip gloss touched up just enough to catch the light but not scream for it.

"I might, but come on..." I gestured to myself as Bri rolled her eyes. "Our shawls are over there!" I pointed toward the suite closet.

Bri stepped over, grabbed both shawls off their hangers, and passed me mine. We draped them over our shoulders just as we slid out the door and into the hallway, heels tapping against the tile.

As we reached the elevator, I noticed Bri grinning down at her phone.

"What?" I chuckled, leaning a little to peek.

"Sam," she said through a cleared throat, turning the screen toward me. A photo of Dean filled the display—already halfway through a slice of pie.

"Jesus Christ."

"That checks out," I laughed as Bri smirked and snapped a quick selfie of us in the elevator, the glossy doors reflecting our silhouettes back like ghosts. She sent it off with a caption, then slid her phone into her bag.

"We look hot, dude," I muttered, still watching our blurry reflections shift with the elevator's descent.

"Right?" Bri grinned, her voice light, almost giddy—but I could feel the same tension thrumming under her skin that was building under mine.

By the time we stepped out into the lobby, the cab was already waiting—thanks to the boys being as over-prepared as ever.

The ride to the venue was smooth but quiet. The kind of quiet that was all nerves and unspoken questions.

Then the cab began to slow.

We both sat up a little straighter as the building came into view—and the air in the backseat changed.

The structure was massive. It didn't belong here—not among the aging apartments and half-lit city corners. It was a beast of glass and steel, looming against the Kansas City skyline like it had claimed this part of the city decades ago and dared anyone to say otherwise. Light spilled from its windows like liquid gold, the glass panes catching reflections from every streetlamp and neon flicker in a three-block radius.

It shimmered like it knew something we didn't.

A shiver crawled up my spine.

The place was too perfect.

Too clean.

Too smug.

I already hated it.

"Perfect place for a bunch of rich assholes to throw a ball," I muttered under my breath, mostly to myself.

The cab rolled to a smooth stop at the base of a wide marble staircase that looked like it had been built just to remind people they weren't worthy. My stomach twisted as I eyed the entrance. This wasn't my scene—hell, it was the antithesis of anything I'd ever willingly walk into. Yet here I was. Dressed like royalty, feeling like roadkill, and already aware that these heels might take me out before any demon had the chance.

Bri had already slipped out of the cab, practically gliding. I hesitated for a second longer before stepping into the night, letting the door shut behind me. The air was crisp, but it didn't help my nerves. My eyes scanned the upscale neighborhood—too clean, too staged. The occasional car rolled past, the odd couple on the sidewalk, all pretending like this was just another night.

But inside?

Inside was a different universe.

Bri caught my eye as she adjusted the fit of her dress. She flashed me that grin—the one that came out whenever she was about to lie her way into somewhere she had no business being.

"Ready for this?" she asked, voice laced with excitement and mischief like it was her favorite cocktail.

I rolled my eyes and pulled my shawl a little tighter around my shoulders. "I don't know about ready, but we're already here. Might as well make the best of it."

"Make the best of it," Bri echoed, taking the first few steps up with a lightness in her stride. "You mean steal a ring, flirt with danger, and maybe blow something up?"

I arched a brow. "Is there any other way to spend a Saturday night?"

We made our way toward the entrance, the low hum of chatter and the pulsing beat of music spilling through the cracks of the heavy wooden doors. When they opened, the interior of the ballroom hit me like a wave—bright, opulent, and almost unreal. Marble floors stretched beneath our feet, and gilded chandeliers hung above like something out of a fairy tale. Waiters, sharply dressed in crisp uniforms, glided by with trays of champagne, their presence almost ghostly in the midst of all the glittering excess. The whole place had the distinct scent of money and power—a sharp, almost metallic undertone.

I glanced at Bri, but she was already strutting ahead, her confidence unshaken by the grandeur of it all. It was like she belonged here—like she was born to walk in places like this. Honestly, I wanted to laugh.

There was something about her ease in all of this—the way she made it look so effortless—that made me feel like I was somehow behind the curve. But no matter how calm she seemed, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were walking into something way bigger than we'd anticipated.

We stopped just short of the entrance—two massive wooden double doors that stood between us and the unknown.

"Deep breath," Bri said with a huff, clearly as tense as I was. I hesitated but mimicked her anyway, my lungs filling with air like I could somehow steady myself for what came next.

"Okay... here we go," she muttered, giving the doors a small push.

A low rumble and the creak of old wood echoed through the hall, briefly drawing the attention of some curious onlookers. Heads turned our way, and in that brief moment, we caught sight of the Winchesters.

Bri's breath caught in her throat, and my eyes widened as we took in the sight of two sharply suited figures who looked like they had just stepped out of a GQ magazine. The moment felt like it froze, the room's noise turning into a muffled background hum as I observed the men who were already stealing every bit of attention.

But my focus wasn't on them, not entirely. My eyes darted over to Sam, seeking out the unreadable expression on his face as I tried to gauge his reaction to Bri. His gaze was locked on her—and not her face. No, his eyes were scanning her, traveling over every curve of her body like she was something he hadn't seen in a long time.

I watched the subtle tension in his jaw, the way his fists clenched at his sides as if he was trying to rein in whatever emotion was threatening to break free. That flicker in his eyes—the one I couldn't quite place—was unmistakable. It was raw. It was hunger. And the pull of it was undeniable.

I smirked as Sam finally met Bri's eyes, but my attention quickly shifted to my own personal storm as Dean turned toward me.

My breath caught in my throat. The moment his gaze landed on me, it was like the rest of the world ceased to exist. The room could have burned down around us, and I wouldn't have noticed. There was nothing but him, that intense, consuming look in his eyes as they raked over me. His gaze lingered, drinking in every inch, from the way the dress hugged my body to how the soft lighting made my skin glow.

His jaw tightened in a way that made my pulse quicken. That trademark cocky smirk of his faded, replaced by something deeper, something darker. Raw. Dangerous. His pupils dilated, and I could see the flicker of hunger there—something primal, unmistakable. I'd seen it before, but not like this. Not with this much intensity, this razor-sharp edge that made my chest tighten and my breath hitch.

Dean took a slow step toward me, his boots quiet against the marble floor, but I could feel the weight of his approach, like he couldn't get to me fast enough. His eyes dropped to my legs, lingered on my neck, and when they finally met mine again, there was no denying the heat that passed between us. It was like an invisible spark had ignited—fueled by a thousand unspoken things, a thousand memories—and the air between us became charged, crackling with the promise of what was to come.

"God, Eve—Joan..." His voice was rough, low—like he was struggling to keep himself in check. "You look... goddamn unreal."

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my composure, but it was damn near impossible. I could feel the heat radiating off him, could almost taste the tension building in the air between us. He was so close now, close enough that I could smell the faint trace of his aftershave—the same scent that always seemed to drive me crazy.

His hand brushed against my arm, and I could've sworn I felt it all the way down to my core. The simple touch was enough to make me dizzy. His eyes were locked on mine, and I could see the hunger there, unmistakable—like he wanted to rip the dress off me right then and there. And the worst part? I wasn't sure if I wanted to stop him... or let him.

Dean leaned in just enough so his breath tickled my ear. "I swear, Eve," he murmured, his voice husky, just above a whisper, "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're trying to kill me."

I didn't answer him right away. I couldn't—because if I did, I wasn't sure what would happen next. All I could do was hold his gaze, my heart pounding louder than the music in the background, knowing we were both dangerously close to crossing a line we probably shouldn't.

But damn it, we both knew that didn't seem to matter.

Without breaking the eye contact, Dean wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me closer. Together, we turned to see Bri and Sam, standing just as close, mirroring us with a knowing look. We exchanged a brief nod before, side by side, we stepped into the heart of the event—the dance floor and bar area.