Written by: gooberlanes13

Edited by: KariGorsuch

Gilded ceilings. Champagne flutes. A live quartet playing something soft and tragic. But underneath the glitter and gold, this place reeked of blood, old magic, and sharper intentions.

Dean leaned in close as we moved through the crowd, his hand low on my back, fingers brushing bare skin through silk like he knew exactly what he was doing.

"You keep looking at me like that," he murmured, voice low and rough near my ear, "and I'm gonna forget we're supposed to be stealing something."

I arched a brow without missing a step. "You keep touching me like that, and I might forget I'm still pissed at you."

He grinned, that classic Dean smirk—cocky as ever. "You still on the Lilah thing?"

"Mmhmm," I hummed. "That. And the growing list of other dumbass decisions."

He scoffed, amused. "Come on, sweetheart, admit it—you like having reasons to glare at me. You've got that murder stare down to a damn science."

"You would know," I muttered. "You've been in the lab long enough."

Dean let out a low chuckle, the kind that always pulled something out of me no matter how irritated I was, and shifted in front of me as we reached the edge of the dance floor. Instinctive. Blocking the view, watching my six like it was second nature.

"She's a piece of work," Dean muttered, eyes still on the woman in green.

"Which one?" I asked. "Auction host, or the mystery woman currently haunting Sam's entire soul?"

Dean let out a short breath—half laugh, half warning. "Both. But I meant the one pretending she's not still into me."

I arched an eyebrow. He nodded left. I followed his gesture and spotted her—tall, elegant, stationed near the bar. She wasn't subtle. Her eyes kept dragging over Dean's frame like she was sizing up a prize, then flicking to me like I was the obstacle.

I leaned in slowly, lips brushing close enough to his jaw that I felt him go still. "You're not as charming as you think you are."

He didn't miss a beat. "And you're not as immune as you want to be."

Smug. Warm. Dangerous.

I was halfway through forming a scathing reply—something flippant, something I didn't mean—when everything shifted.

The air turned colder. Thicker.

Wrong.

I felt it before I saw him—like some instinct that had never really healed over. That quiet voice in the back of your skull screaming run.

Then a voice slid behind me, smooth and cold, like a knife wrapped in velvet.

"You wear that skin better than I expected."

My body locked.

Dean straightened at my side instantly, already tracking movement.

I turned.

And there he was.

Tall. Composed. Dressed in a suit that tried too hard to be ordinary. But his eyes—those I remembered. Black, bottomless, and cruelly curious.

He tilted his head, like I was some half-burned canvas he was shocked to see still hanging.

"You don't remember me," he said, smooth as glass. "But I remember you."

My voice came out flat. Cold.

"Funny. I remember the screaming."

His smile sharpened, cutting through the glitter of the room.
"Damien," he said, like he was handing me a loaded weapon. "In case you were curious who the last one standing was."

Dean's hand was already moving—low and quiet, fingers brushing the edge of the blade beneath his jacket. His body shifted in front of mine with instinctive precision.

"You've got three seconds to walk away," he said, voice like gravel under pressure.

"Easy, Romeo," Damien drawled. "I'm not here to start something. Just wanted a look. See how our girl turned out."

"She's not your anything," Dean snapped, tone cold enough to cut steel.

Damien didn't flinch. Just met the glare with infuriating calm. "You think she's free of us? Of her?"

My stomach twisted. My breath caught.

"Eve," I said, barely above a whisper.

He grinned wider, eyes glinting with something mean and satisfied. "There it is. And look,"—his gaze flicked across the ballroom, toward Sam and Bri—"you brought her. She's been waiting. And forgiveness?" He clicked his tongue. "That's not really her color."

I didn't look away. "Tell her to get in line."

Damien leaned in, just close enough for the chill of him to crawl across my skin.

"Enjoy the party while it lasts," he murmured. "You and your little dream team? You won't survive the night."

Dean stepped in before I could move, a wall of muscle and fury between us. His shoulders squared, jaw clenched.

"We'll take our chances," he said, voice edged with iron.

Damien gave a wink like we were in on some private joke. Then he melted into the crowd, leaving nothing behind but the echo of threat.

And just like that—the spell broke. I could finally breathe.

Dean didn't turn right away. Just stood there, jaw set, eyes scanning the direction Damien had vanished into the crowd.

"You good?" he asked, still not looking at me.

"No," I said truthfully. "But I will be."

He finally turned, gaze steady and sharp. "I won't let him near you again."

"You planning to glue yourself to my side all night?"

Dean's hand slid back to the small of my back. "Only if you say please."

I opened my mouth to throw something back—something smart, probably sharp—but the air shifted before I could. Perfume arrived first. Laughter followed. The kind you could choke on.

"Dean?"

That voice.

Silk dipped in venom.

Lilah.

I turned just as she approached—long legs, expensive heels, confidence that reeked of old money and self-delusion. Her dress was designer, her smirk sharper than her stilettos, and her eyes didn't even blink in my direction.

She went straight for Dean, like I wasn't even there.

"God, you clean up well," she purred, her fingers trailing up his arm with practiced ease. "Still allergic to bowties, I see."

Dean gave a dry chuckle. "You always did like me a little unraveled."

"Oh, I still do." Her fingers lingered. "Though I admit... tux or not, I figured you'd be flying solo tonight."

I smiled—sweet and sharp as sugar glass—and stepped in, just slightly. My hand slid across Dean's chest like it belonged there.

"He didn't," I said brightly. "But it's cute that you thought he might."

Lilah's gaze finally flicked toward me, slow and assessing—like I'd just materialized out of thin air. She gave me a look that dripped with condescension and designer perfume.

"And you are?"

"Jett," I said, sweet as poison. Then, with a smile, "Eve. Dean's plus one—in every way that matters."

Dean coughed behind a grin that was trying hard not to turn smug. Lilah's lashes fluttered, just once. Her smile tightened.

"Well," she said, straightening a bit. "Nice to see you haven't lost your taste for... lively company."

"And you haven't lost your habit of circling things that don't belong to you," I replied, still smiling, but with teeth now.

Lilah's eyes narrowed just a touch. She stepped in closer, voice soft but laced with venom. "Enjoy the party, Eve. Just know—Dean has a habit of getting bored."

I leaned in, matching her tone perfectly. "Then it's a good thing I'm not boring."

Dean cleared his throat, very deliberately. "Thanks for the invite, Lilah. We'll catch up another time. Preferably not at knifepoint."

She gave him one last look—half challenge, half pout—then turned and walked off, heels clicking like a warning bell as she melted into the crowd.

Dean let out a breath he'd definitely been holding and turned to me. His brows lifted, impressed. "Remind me not to get between you two again."

I arched a brow. "You wouldn't survive it."

His mouth twitched into a grin. "That was... kinda hot."

"You're lucky I didn't rip out her throat."

Dean's eyes sparkled, full of trouble. "Very lucky. Though, for the record, I wasn't gonna let her get more than ten words in before you stepped in."

I folded my arms, but I couldn't stop the smirk tugging at my lips. "Uh-huh."

Dean raised his glass, tipping it toward mine with that familiar gleam. "To surviving exes and knife-like comebacks."

I clinked his glass. "To keeping you on a leash."

He leaned in, eyes darker now—warm, teasing, but edged with something else. "I love that attitude," he murmured, voice low. "You giving me hell... kind of makes the time we've got feel—"

He stopped.

Mid-sentence.

His grin faltered, didn't quite reach his eyes anymore.

And there it was—that shift in the air. That weight in his voice he didn't mean to drop. Something unspoken that suddenly felt heavy enough to break the floor beneath us.

I blinked. "What?"

Dean's expression twitched. Subtle, but I saw it. His mask slipping just for a breath.

"I just meant—" he started, already backpedaling.

Too late.

I narrowed my eyes. "What about the time we've got?"

He didn't answer.

Didn't need to.

That silence? It spoke louder than anything he could've said.

"Dean."

He dropped his gaze. Just for half a second. But it was enough.

My chest tightened like a vice. "How long?"

His mouth opened—but before the truth could fall out, Bri's voice cut in like a blade, breathless and sharp.

"Guys—we've got a problem." She was striding up fast, her heels loud over the music. "That woman on stage—Sarah? She's not who she says she is. I think she's—"

I turned on her like a storm breaking loose. "How long have you known?"

Bri froze. Her face blanched—and I saw it. Saw the flicker in her eyes as they darted past me, saw the way guilt took shape and settled in her silence.

"Eve—"

"How long?" I asked again, low and lethal.

She didn't answer.

Didn't need to.

I looked between the two of them, my jaw tight, every breath feeling like it scraped against broken glass. I placed my champagne glass onto a passing tray with careful precision, turned on my heel, and walked away.

Dean didn't call after me.

Didn't make a scene.

But I felt him. The weight of his stare pressing into my back like a hand half-reaching, aching to stop me, but not brave enough to try.

The crowd parted around me. Whether it was the look on my face or the scent of something volatile bleeding off me, I didn't care. Let them think I was dangerous. Tonight, they'd be right.

I found the hallway leading toward the restrooms and shoved the door open harder than I meant to. Inside, the mirrored walls bounced the fury back at me like a funhouse of betrayal.

I gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white.

One year.

He only has a year.

The words rang in my skull like a curse.

I stared at the woman in the mirror—blood-red lipstick, flawless skin, a dress that belonged to someone who could smile through secrets and seduce through silence. My hair was pinned like I belonged in this ballroom of gods and monsters.

But I didn't feel beautiful.

I felt lied to.

Almost used.

And worst of all...

I felt stupid.

A knock came at the door.

"Eve."

Dean.

Of course it was Dean.

"Go away." I snarled, glaring at the door through the mirror.

"You know that's not happening."

His voice wasn't smug. It wasn't coaxing. It was low. Rough. Tired.

But I didn't care.

"You should've told me," I said, voice tight. "You should've let me decide what I wanted to do with that truth."

"I wanted to," he said after a beat. "I just... I couldn't look at you and say it."

"Coward," I muttered.

A pause.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Probably."

I closed my eyes. My jaw ached from how hard I was clenching it. There was something sharp lodged beneath my ribs and it wouldn't let me breathe.

"I didn't want to waste whatever time we've got left," Dean said, voice barely above the hum of the hallway light. "Didn't want you looking at me like a countdown."

I gripped the edge of the sink harder.

"That's not your call."

"I know," he said. "Believe me, I know. But if you'd looked at me different—if you started treating me like I was already gone—I don't think I could've handled it."

My throat burned.

"You watched me cry about this," I whispered. "You let me beg you not to do it. And you went and did it anyway—then didn't even have the nerve to tell me you're on a goddamn timer?"

Silence.

"I didn't know how to say it," he said quietly, like that was worth anything now.

I bit back the scream climbing up my throat. Dug my nails into my palms until I saw stars.

The faucet squeaked. Cold water hit my face. I avoided my makeup out of muscle memory, not vanity. Straightened my spine. Smoothed the silk of my dress like I could fix everything cracked beneath it.

Piece by piece, the mask slid back into place.

And when I opened the bathroom door, he was still there.

Dean took a step back, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his shoulders tight—like he expected a punch. Guilt clung to him like smoke. Still so stupidly beautiful it made me hate him just a little.

I walked past him without a word.

He followed, one beat behind. That was Dean—always trailing just close enough to catch you if you broke, but never close enough to stop it from happening.

"The silent treatment again?" he said, his voice gentler than I deserved. Than he deserved.

I didn't look at him. Didn't speak. Didn't flinch.

Because if I cracked now—if I let myself unravel, even a little—I wasn't sure I'd be able to stop.

We returned to the ballroom where the auction was already in motion. Paddle numbers raised. Glittering spotlights roved. Whispers drifted like smoke as priceless objects slid across velvet-covered displays.

Eyes tracked us—some curious, some dangerous.

None of them mattered.

Bri spotted me instantly. She peeled away from Sam to intercept, her expression tight with panic—and something else.

"Eve—" she started.

I smiled at her.

It wasn't warm.

It wasn't forgiving.

It was a blade dressed like a smile.

"Let's just get through this," I said, my voice smooth as polished glass.

Bri didn't answer. She didn't have to. The guilt in her eyes screamed loud enough.

I stepped past her, returning my focus to the front of the room. The next item had just been wheeled out—a silver-bladed dagger encased in ancient glass. The auctioneer rattled off numbers. Each paddle raised shifted the air, the tension ratcheting tighter. Old magic buzzed under the surface, pressing behind my eyes like a storm about to break.

And then I felt him.

Didn't need to turn. That oily coldness, that wrongness in the bones—I hadn't forgotten.

"Trouble in paradise?" came the low purr beside me.

I didn't flinch. Just turned my head slightly.

And locked eyes with the devil in a tux.

Damien.

Of course.

He looked smug.

Like someone who'd watched a crack splinter from a distance—and decided to come enjoy the wreckage up close.

"I thought I smelled mold," I said flatly.

He chuckled, slow and deliberate. "Still got bite. Good. Would've been a shame if he dulled you down."

I arched a brow. "Don't worry. You'll be the first to know if I'm going soft."

His gaze slid down the line of my dress, then across the room—toward Dean, still near the stage, mid-conversation. But his eyes kept shifting. Back to me. Watching.

Damien smiled wider.

"Careful," he murmured. "He's making his way over. Might want to reel in the charming banter."

"Is that what this is?" I asked, tilting my head. "You trying to flirt with the girl who buried your friends?"

His smile never faded, but his eyes darkened. Just a fraction.

"Oh, I wouldn't call it flirting, sweetheart." He leaned in slightly, voice dropping. "This is... a preview."

"Of what? You monologuing before I break your jaw?"

I took a breath—tight, sharp—trying to keep my fangs tucked in.

"Of what's owed," he said, quieter now. Deadly calm. "William bled out trying to crawl after you. Jesse didn't even make it out of the nest. You took your freedom with their ashes. That kind of thing? Earns interest."

The air shifted. Again.

I didn't need to look. I felt him.

Dean—cutting through the crowd with that specific kind of controlled fury, the kind that meant he'd caught just enough of the conversation to want blood.

Damien, of course, noticed. His eyes flicked past me once, then settled back.

"Clock's ticking," he whispered. "And not just for him."

My fists clenched at my sides, fingers itching for steel I couldn't draw. Not here. Not yet.

"You looking to settle the score?" I asked, eyes locked on his. "Then stop hiding behind veiled threats and expensive cufflinks. I'll save you the trouble of waiting."

He leaned in, just enough for his breath to brush my cheek.

"I'm not here to fight, Eve," he murmured, voice like poison wearing perfume. "I'm here to watch. You made it out once. But this time? You're surrounded. You just don't know it yet."

Dean was moving closer now, expression unreadable—but his eyes burned. Controlled. Deadly.

I smiled at Damien, sharp and sweet as broken glass. "You've got two choices, Damien: walk away with your fangs... or don't."

His grin faltered—barely.

Then Dean's voice cut in from just behind me. Cool. Dangerous.

"This guy boring you, sweetheart? 'Cause I've got a silver knife and a shorter fuse than usual."

Damien stepped back, ever the performer. He gave a mock bow.

"By all means," he said smoothly. "Enjoy the rest of your evening. While you still can."

And then he vanished again—melted into the crowd like smoke trailing off a fire you thought was out.

I didn't turn to look at Dean right away.

But I felt him. That heat in his stare. The protectiveness. The fury stretched tight beneath the surface, worn like a second skin.

"You alright?" he asked quietly, like the question might undo everything else.

"No," I said, finally turning, letting my lips curve into a smirk. "But watching you puff your chest like a guard dog helped."

Dean exhaled—half a laugh, half a plea. "Didn't like that guy from the start—do you know him?"

My eyes tracked Damien's silhouette as it vanished into the swirl of gowns and shadows.

"That's..." The word caught in my throat. I swallowed it down and said, colder now, "That's one of the ones who turned me."

Dean's body went still—then taut with rage.

"What?" he snarled, already stepping past me, hand drifting toward where I knew he'd stashed a blade.

I caught his hand—hard—fingers lacing through his before he could move another inch. He stopped instantly, like the touch short-circuited him.

"Don't," I said, low and sharp. "We'll handle it later. One disaster at a time."

His jaw twitched, fury still humming under his skin. But he turned back toward me, hand tightening around mine like it grounded him.

And maybe I needed the grounding too.

But the moment cracked, too fragile to hold.

"Oh, so now you rescue me?" I said, arching a brow, letting the bitterness bleed in. "Is that part of the one-year plan?"

He flinched—just slightly—but I saw it. Felt it.

Guilt bloomed behind his eyes like something bruised and spreading.

"Shit. Eve, I didn't—"

"Didn't what?" I stepped in close, locking eyes with him. "Think I'd care? Or didn't think in general?"

Dean's jaw clenched so tight I heard the grind of teeth. His voice, when it came, was rough.

"I was trying to protect you."

"Try harder," I said, low and razored. "Maybe next time, don't lie in the process."

Silence stretched between us—hot, thick, and full of everything we weren't saying. Anger. Hurt. The stupid, impossible fact that I still hadn't let go of his hand.

Dean exhaled sharply and dragged a hand down his face, like he could wipe the last five minutes off with his palm. "That silver knife line? Wasn't just talk."

I gave him a slow, deliberate once-over. "Cute. Almost got me hot."

His mouth twitched—like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or kiss me or punch himself. "Almost?"

I leaned in—slow, deliberate—let my breath skim the curve of his jaw, my lips brushing the shell of his ear.

"You want to know what actually gets me hot?"

His answer came barely above a whisper. "Yeah."

I let the tension stretch until I could feel it pull in his shoulders.

"Honesty," I said, voice dipped in smoke.

He made a low sound in his throat—frustrated, hungry, wrecked.

I started to turn. But I didn't let go of his hand.

He didn't either.

We stood there like that—hands locked, breath tight, caught somewhere between fury and the kind of love that always ends in fire.

Dean chuckled under his breath, eyes still dark with heat. "You know, I really can't decide if the silent treatment or pissed-off-you is hotter."

I looked at him, the fire still simmering just under my skin. "You're playing with fire, Winchester."

He smirked. "Sweetheart, I haven't stopped since the day I met you."

And still—we didn't let go.