The bass was vibrating through the sticky floor, up his legs, and settling somewhere behind his eyes. The air was thick with cheap perfume, stale beer, and something else he didn't want to identify. The lighting was a deep, pulsing red, casting everything in a hellish glow that made the dust motes look like tiny demons dancing in the haze.

Dean was in his element, leaning against the bar with that shit-eating grin, already striking up a conversation with a blonde who looked like she could bench press both of them. She was laughing at something he said, her hand on his arm, and Sam just knew his brother had already forgotten they were here on a job.

Sam tugged at his collar, wishing he was anywhere else. A library. A crime scene. A nest of vampires. Literally anything but here.

He'd flashed his fake FBI badge at the bartender—a hulking guy with a shaved head and a suspicious glare—and asked about the missing girls. The guy had just pointed him toward the back, said the manager would talk to him. But the dancers, they were the real sources. The ones who knew what happened on the floor, in the private rooms, in the back alleys after closing time.

Dean had gotten distracted by the blonde.

And Sam, Sam had gotten distracted by you.

You were on the main stage, moving to a beat that seemed to exist solely for you. The pole was an extension of your body, your limbs impossibly long as you wrapped around it, turned, and caught his gaze through the crowd. You didn't look away. You just smiled, slow and knowing, like you could see right through the cheap suit and the fake badge.

Dean had hit on you earlier, his classic pick-up line delivered with a wink, but you'd barely glanced at him. Your eyes had slid past him and landed on Sam. And stayed there.

Now you were walking towards him, your heels clicking on the grimy floor, a wild smile making it clear you'd taken complete charge as you stopped in front of him, looking up through your lashes. A sheer robe was tied loosely around your waist, barely covering anything.

[Y/n]-To-Be: So, FBI, huh? You look a little outgrown for that suit.

You reached out, your fingers tracing along the knot of his tie, not missing how he stiffened but didn't pull away as you continued.

[Y/n]-To-Be: I usually have a thing for a little older, but you... you built different, ain't you?