Chapter Text
“And now our bodies are oh so close and tight
It never felt so good, it never felt so right
And we're glowing like the metal on the edge of a knife
Glowing like the metal on the edge of a knife
Come on, hold on tight
Well, come on, hold on tight.
Though it's cold and lonely in the deep dark night
I can see paradise by the dashboard light.”
Meatloaf – “Paradise By The Dashboard Light.”
The smell of burnt ozone and the toxic, acidic tang of ectoplasm clung to Dean’s skin; a stubborn reminder of the ghost they’d just salted and burned in a derelict mine shaft outside Reno. Even after twenty minutes under scalding water, he could still swear he felt traces of it lingering in the back of his throat, metallic and sour. The hunt had been a nasty one. Narrow tunnels, collapsing timber supports, and a spirit angry enough to throw ancient, rusted mining equipment around like it was made of foam. Just another Tuesday.
He scrubbed a towel over his shoulder, the steam of the motel shower failing to wash away the grit of the hunt. Fine dust still seemed embedded beneath his fingernails, and a dull ache pulsed between his shoulder blades where he'd slammed into a support beam during the ghost’s final tantrum. The ancient plumbing rattled behind him as he shut off the bathroom light, plunging the tiny room into the jaundiced glow of a flickering bedside lamp.
The motel itself looked like it had given up sometime around 1987. The wallpaper peeled in curling strips from nicotine-yellow walls, and the air conditioner groaned in the window with all the determination of a dying animal. Outside, neon from the vacancy sign bled through the curtains in intermittent flashes of red and blue, painting the room in shifting shadows. Somewhere beyond the thin walls came the muffled sound of a television and the distant rumble of traffic rolling along the highway.
Dean stepped out of the bathroom, smelling faintly of cheap motel soap, gunpowder, and victory. It wasn't exactly a cologne, but it'd do. He expected to find Sam stretched across one of the beds, half-asleep and nursing a headache after the long drive back to town. Instead, his brother was already dressed, perched on the edge of the mattress with his laptop balanced on one knee. The glow of the screen cast sharp angles across his face, highlighting the brooding crease settled between his eyebrows.
Dean's good mood faltered slightly. That look usually meant one of three things: a new case, bad news, or research rabbit holes that would keep them awake until sunrise. Given their luck, it was probably all three.
Sam didn't even glance up when Dean entered the room. His eyes remained fixed on the screen, jaw tightening as he scrolled through whatever had captured his attention. The silence stretched for a moment, broken only by the rattling air conditioner and the faint buzz of neon outside. Dean tossed the towel onto a chair and frowned.
“Tell me that's porn,” he said. Sam's expression didn't change.
“Not even close.” And just like that, Dean knew the night wasn't over.
"Burger joint. Now," Dean commanded.
"I'm just finishing the research on the next lead," Sam replied without looking up.
"The lead can wait. I need grease and something that alcoholic burns my throat."
Twenty minutes later, Dean leaned back in a plastic booth, a double bacon cheeseburger in one hand and a mountain of fries in the other. He chewed slowly, the salt hitting his tongue, while Sam picked at a salad, looking like he was mourning the loss of a library.
"We need to move on tomorrow," Sam said.
"Tomorrow is tomorrow. Tonight, we unwind."
Dean didn't wait for a rebuttal. He caught Sam by the sleeve and steered him out of the diner before his brother could launch into another lecture about responsibility, caution, or any of the other buzzkills Dean was currently ignoring. The bell above the diner's door jingled behind them as they stepped into the warm Nevada night.
The town's main street was nearly deserted. Neon signs buzzed in dusty storefront windows, painting the pavement in pools of electric colour. Somewhere in the distance, a train horn wailed through the darkness. The desert air carried the lingering heat of the day, mixed with exhaust fumes and the faint smell of dry earth. It should have been quiet.
Instead, Dean's attention was already fixed across the street.
A battered neon sign flashed erratically above a squat building wedged between a pawn shop and a boarded-up convenience store. Half the letters had burned out years ago, leaving LU KY'S glowing in uneven shades of pink and blue.
"There," Dean announced, pointing towards the building. Sam followed his gaze and immediately looked exhausted.
"Absolutely not."
"Absolutely yes."
Without breaking stride, Dean crossed the street.
Lucky's looked like it had been built from the wreckage of a 1950s carnival and a lumber yard. The exterior was a patchwork of weathered timber, rusted sheet metal, and decades of questionable renovations. The front windows were so coated in grime that the lights inside appeared smeared and dreamlike. Music leaked through the walls in muffled bursts of distorted guitar.
The moment Dean pushed through the door; the bar swallowed them whole.
The air tasted of stale tobacco, spilled rye, and desperation. Years of cigarette smoke had stained the ceiling a sickly yellow despite the statewide smoking bans, and the floor stuck slightly beneath every step. Wood-panelled walls groaned under the weight of faded beer advertisements, yellowed photographs, and hunting trophies whose glass eyes reflected the dim lights with unsettling intensity.
A jukebox in the corner screamed "Rock You Like a Hurricane" through speakers that had probably blown out sometime during the Clinton administration. The bass rattled the bottles behind the bar. Every few seconds, laughter erupted from a crowded poker table near the back before dissolving into arguments about cards and money.
Dean felt instantly at home.
A bartender with sleeves of faded tattoos polished glasses with the enthusiasm of a hostage. Two weary truckers occupied one end of the bar, nursing longnecks and staring into middle distance. Near the pool tables, a handful of locals looked like they'd been sitting in the same seats every night for the last twenty years. Dean scanned the room, his hunter instincts automatically cataloguing exits, blind spots, potential threats, and anything unusual. Then his attention drifted toward the dance floor.
And stopped.
She was a spark in the dim light.
The crowd seemed to part around her without realizing it. Dirty-blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders in loose, messy waves, catching flashes of neon as she moved. The pink and blue lights painted shifting colours across her skin, making her look almost unreal against the bar's dark interior. She wore a fitted black tank top beneath an oversized red flannel shirt left hanging open, one sleeve slipping carelessly down her shoulder. Denim shorts revealed long, tanned legs disappearing into a pair of well-worn cowboy boots. Nothing about the outfit should have stood out in a Nevada dive bar.
Yet somehow, she commanded every inch of space around her.
She moved with an effortless confidence that bordered on dangerous. Not flashy. Not performative. Predatory. Like someone completely aware of the effect she had on a room and entirely unconcerned by it. Her hips swayed lazily to the rhythm of the music, and a faint smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth as though she was sharing a private joke with herself.
Men watched her.
Women watched her.
Even the bartender glanced her way when he thought nobody was looking.
Dean caught himself staring and immediately decided that was someone else's problem. A slow grin spread across his face.
"Oh, man."
Sam followed his line of sight. The expression on his brother's face suggested he knew exactly what was about to happen.
"Dean."
"I'm going in," Dean muttered.
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Dean, we're supposed to be keeping a low profile."
"Low profile doesn't mean dead."
"It absolutely doesn't mean whatever this is."
Dean straightened his jacket and flashed the kind of smile that had gotten him slapped almost as often as it had gotten him phone numbers.
"Just one drink."
"You said that three towns ago."
"And I was technically correct."
"That's not how technically works."
Dean ignored him completely.
"Watch and learn, Sammy."
Sam sighed heavily and leaned against a support pillar, already preparing himself for the inevitable disaster. Experience had taught him that when Dean Winchester said watch and learn, the learning experience was usually his own.
Dean slid through the crowd, weaving between dancers and drinkers with the easy confidence of a man who had spent half his life talking his way into trouble. His boots thudded against the sticky floor, each step accompanied by the pounding bass from the jukebox. The smell of beer, sweat, cheap perfume, and cigarette smoke clung to the air like a second skin. The closer he got, the more the rest of the room seemed to fade into the background. She wasn't just attractive. She was magnetic. People gravitated toward her without realizing it. Conversations faltered when she passed. Eyes followed her movements instinctively. It wasn't merely beauty—though she had plenty of that. There was something else underneath it. A confidence so complete it bordered on dangerous.
Dean knew dangerous.
Dangerous was usually his type.
As the Scorpions wailed through the speakers, she turned slightly, her hips swaying with the beat. The neon lights painted streaks of crimson and electric blue across her skin. For a moment she looked less like a woman dancing in a dive bar and more like some fever dream the desert had cooked up after midnight. Dean stepped into her orbit. Not crowding her. Not pushing. Just close enough for her to notice. Close enough to let her feel the heat of him.
She looked up and their eyes met. Dean flashed a slow, practiced grin. The one that had gotten him free drinks, motel keys, and slapped across the face on more than one occasion.
"You're killing that song," Dean said, his voice a low rumble beneath the music. The corner of her mouth twitched and she stopped moving. Not because he'd interrupted her. Because she'd chosen to. The distinction mattered. Her eyes were a startling shade of blue. Not soft blue. Not sky blue. Electric. The kind of blue that felt sharp enough to cut through a lie. She looked him over slowly, starting at his boots and working her way upward. Her gaze lingered on the faded jeans, the leather jacket, the broad shoulders, and finally settled on his face. Dean was accustomed to women either smiling or blushing under that kind of scrutiny, but she did neither. Instead, she studied him with detached interest like a mechanic evaluating an engine. Or a hunter deciding whether a trap was worth setting.
"You think you can keep up," she asked, "or are you just here to narrate?"
Dean laughed. Now that was new. Most women either rolled their eyes at his opening lines or pretended they were charming, but she'd fired back immediately.
"I've got a few moves that might surprise you." One perfectly shaped eyebrow lifted.
"Is that a promise or a threat?"
Dean took a step closer.
"Depends how you like your surprises."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then she laughed. Short, sharp and genuine. Dean felt a small surge of triumph. He'd earned that one. She closed the remaining distance between them with effortless confidence. A subtle scent drifted toward him. Vanilla, warm skin. And something else. Something metallic. Dean frowned internally. Gun oil? The thought flashed through his mind and disappeared just as quickly. Plenty of people around here owned firearms. Nevada practically handed them out with driver's licenses. Still, it wasn't a scent he usually associated with women in bars. Before he could dwell on it, she tilted her head slightly, studying him with open amusement.
Dean let his gaze wander. The tank top, the flannel, the denim shorts and the long stretch of tanned legs disappearing into battered cowboy boots. He smirked.
"Those shorts are skin-tight." Her expression remained unchanged. "How do you even get into them?"
A lesser woman might have blushed, or scoffed or thrown a drink. Instead, she leaned forward until her lips were only inches from his ear. Dean felt warm breath brush his skin. His pulse immediately kicked up a gear.
"You can start by buying me a drink." Dean grinned.
Jackpot.
"Now we're talking."
He guided them toward the bar, slipping through the crowd as if they owned the place. People instinctively moved aside, creating a path through the sea of bodies. The bartender looked up as they approached and already seemed resigned to whatever nonsense was about to unfold.
"Two beers."
The bottles arrived moments later, cold enough to bead with condensation. Dean slid one toward her and she caught it effortlessly. No hesitation. No coy smile. No thank-you. Just confidence. She took a long pull from the bottle, her throat moving as she swallowed. Her eyes never left his. Dean found that oddly distracting and even more oddly arousing. Most people looked away eventually. She didn't.
"I'm Dean."
"Mykie." Dean paused with his own beer halfway to his lips.
"Mykie?" The name felt unusual enough to make him blink. "That's a new one. Not exactly traditional."
She leaned an elbow against the scarred mahogany bar. The wood was sticky from decades of spilled liquor and bad decisions.
"It's a nickname." Her shoulders lifted in a casual shrug. "I hate my real name, and my surname's Michaels. Mykie seemed easier."
Dean chuckled. "Let me guess. Something princess-y? Isabella? Maybe Victoria?"
"Nope."
"Okay, then. Gertrude." She barked out another laugh.
"Absolutely not." Dean snapped his fingers.
"Damn. Thought I had it." The neon lights overhead reflected in her eyes as she took another sip of beer. Then a slow smile spread across her face. Not flirtatious. Calculating. The kind of smile Dean usually saw right before someone raised the stakes.
"Tell you what, Dean." Uh-oh. "You look like a gambling man." Dean leaned back against the bar.
"I've bet on worse odds than this."
"I believe that." Something in her tone suggested she really did. She nodded toward the pool tables occupying the back corner of the room where a handful of locals were finishing a game beneath flickering green lamps.
"Let's make a deal." Dean followed her gaze.
"A game of eight-ball."
Now he was interested.
"You beat me, and I'll tell you my real name."
Dean smiled. Simple enough. He was pretty good at pool. Hustler good from years on the road, stuck in run town places like this whilst John was out on a hunt when Dean was a teenager and Sam was just a kid. He leaned forward, swagger returning in full force.
"And if you win?" Mykie's smile widened. For the first time all evening, Dean felt a faint ripple of warning instinct stir somewhere in the back of his mind. The smile wasn't flirtatious anymore. It was dangerous.
"If I win," she said softly, "I take you out for a ride."
The words hung between them: Heavy, loaded and impossible to misunderstand. Dean felt heat coil low in his stomach; a familiar rush of anticipation. The burger he'd inhaled an hour ago suddenly felt like a distant memory as every instinct told him exactly where this conversation was headed. Most of those instincts had gotten him into trouble before. That had never stopped him.
His grin widened. "Deal."
Across the room, Sam looked up from his beer just in time to see them heading toward the pool tables. The expression on his face suggested he was already preparing for the worst. Experience had taught him that whenever Dean Winchester thought he'd won the jackpot, the universe usually had other plans.
They moved to the pool table, drawing attention almost immediately. A few regulars drifted closer, beers in hand, sensing either a hustle or a train wreck. In a place like Lucky's, either was worth watching. Mykie rolled her shoulders once before taking her position at the head of the table. Then she broke. The crack of the cue ball echoed through the bar like a gunshot. The rack exploded apart, solids and stripes scattering across the green felt in every direction. Several balls dropped instantly into pockets, earning a low whistle from one of the truckers watching nearby. Dean's grin faltered.
"Okay," he muttered. "Not bad."
Mykie shot him a look over her shoulder.
"Not bad?"
Dean shrugged. "I've seen better."
"Sure you have."
The game quickly became something more than a casual bet. Dean realized that within the first three shots. She wasn't simply good. She was ruthless. Every movement was economical and precise. She circled the table with an athlete's balance, studying angles before striking with near-perfect confidence. Balls disappeared into pockets one after another while the small audience around them grew steadily larger. Dean found himself concentrating harder than he'd intended. He leaned over the felt, narrowing his eyes as he lined up a difficult bank shot. The cue struck cleanly and the ball ricocheted off one rail. Then another. Then dropped neatly into the corner pocket. A few spectators offered appreciative nods.
Dean straightened with a satisfied smile. "Told you."
Mykie's gaze lingered on him for a moment. Not on the shot, but on him. Something flickered behind her eyes before she looked away.
"Nice shot," she said.
Dean smirked. "I know."
A corner of her mouth twitched.
"Too bad it won't save you."
The confidence in her voice should have annoyed him. Instead, it made him want to beat her even more. Ten minutes later, he was beginning to suspect she'd earned that confidence. The game narrowed to its final moments and only the black eight-ball remained. The bar seemed quieter now, the crowd leaning in collectively as Mykie studied the table. Dean kept his eyes firmly on her. The angle wasn't impossible, but it wasn't easy either. Most players would have taken a moment to think. She didn't. She chalked her cue and stepped forward.
Then she fired.
The eight-ball rolled across the felt with surgical precision before disappearing cleanly into the corner pocket. The room erupted into cheers and groans. Dean stared at the empty pocket. Then at her. She was already setting her cue aside. The triumphant smile on her face made it clear she hadn't doubted the outcome for a second.
"Looks like we're going for a ride," she said. Dean sighed dramatically.
"Can't believe I got hustled."
"You absolutely got hustled."
"Fair."
The crowd gradually dispersed as the excitement faded. Sam caught Dean's eye from across the room and shook his head. Dean answered with a grin. Sam looked even less impressed. All he’d wanted was a quiet night after the hunt, but tonight was going the way it always went: Sam left at the bar whilst Dean went off to get laid.
A few minutes later they stepped outside, the Nevada night wrapped around them immediately, cooler than before. Quieter. The sounds of the bar became muffled behind closed doors, replaced by the distant hum of traffic and the occasional chirp of insects from somewhere beyond the edge of town. The parking lot stretched beneath dim yellow lamps, gravel crunching beneath their boots as Mykie led him toward a vehicle parked near the far edge of the lot.
Dean stopped.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
The cherry-red Camaro gleamed beneath the parking lot lights like a freshly unsheathed blade. Its flawless paint caught every flicker of neon from Lucky's sign, scattering ribbons of crimson, pink, and electric blue across the sculpted bodywork. The chrome trim shone bright enough to mirror the cracked asphalt beneath it, while the deep, glossy finish looked so meticulously maintained that Dean doubted a speck of dust had been allowed to settle on it for long. The car sat low and aggressive, all muscular lines and barely restrained power. It wasn't just a vehicle; it was a statement. A machine built to turn heads and leave tire marks on the pavement. Dean found himself instinctively slowing as he approached, his eyes tracing every polished curve and immaculate detail. The level of care on display was instantly recognizable to him—the same devotion, pride, and borderline obsession he reserved for the Impala. This wasn't somebody's transportation. This was somebody's baby. Mykie noticed his expression immediately.
"You like cars?"
Dean laughed.
"Like cars?" He slowly circled the Camaro. "I love this car."
For the first time all evening, she looked genuinely pleased by his reaction.
"Good." She clicked the unlock button. "Get in."
Dean opened the door and slid into the vehicle, still admiring the craftsmanship. The interior smelled faintly of leather, engine oil, and a trace of perfume that lingered in the upholstery. The world suddenly felt smaller. Quieter. The laughter from the bar seemed distant now and for a moment neither of them spoke. The charged energy that had been building all evening settled between them. Not uncomfortable. Just undeniable. Mykie leaned back against the seat and studied him and Dean met her gaze. Outside, the neon lights from Lucky's reflected across the windshield in shifting streaks of red and blue.
"So," she said at last, a faint smile touching her lips, "you always this confident?"
Dean chuckled. "Only when I'm losing."
"That's a terrible strategy."
"Hasn't failed me yet." The smile she gave him then was softer than the others. More mysterious. And somehow far more dangerous.
The flirtation evaporated, replaced by a raw, urgent hunger. Mykie didn't waste time. She lunged at him, her mouth crashing against his in a kiss that tasted of beer and desperation. Dean groaned, his hands finding the curve of her waist, pulling her flush against him. She was solid, her muscles humming under her skin. She broke the kiss, her breath coming in short, jagged gasps. She reached down, her fingers nimble and fast, undoing the button of his jeans.
"I've been wanting to do this since you walked up to me," she whispered.
Mykie pushed him back against the leather seat, the red flannel shirt sliding off her shoulders entirely. She stripped out of the tank top in one fluid motion, revealing breasts that were perfect and peaked, her skin glowing pale in the dim light of the parking lot. Dean’s hands roamed her body, gripping the backs of her thighs, pulling her up. She climbed over him; her denim shorts discarded in a heap on the floor mat. She straddled him, her legs locking around his hips, her skin hot against his. When she lowered herself onto him, Dean let out a strangled sound, his head hitting the headrest. She was tight, gripping him with an intensity that felt like a vice.
Mykie didn't move slowly. She began to ride him, her movements hard and fast, her back arching as she found a rhythm that threatened to shatter him. The car rocked on its suspension, the leather seats creaking under their combined weight. Dean’s fingers dug into her hips, leaving faint red marks on her tanned skin. He watched her, her head thrown back, her blonde hair whipping around her face, a look of pure, unadulterated pleasure etched into her features. She wasn't just taking; she was commanding. She leaned forward, her breasts pressing against his chest, her teeth grazing his earlobe. The friction was electric, a searing heat that built in the pit of his stomach. Every slide, every press of her pelvis against his, pushed him closer to the edge. He could hear the wet slap of skin on skin, the ragged symphony of their breathing filling the cramped space.
"You... you're incredible," Dean gasped, his voice breaking.
Mykie didn't answer with words. She increased the pace, her breath coming in rhythmic hitches, her body shaking with the effort. She gripped his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin as she chased the peak. The tension built until it was an unbearable weight, a coil winding tighter and tighter. Dean felt the surge begin in the base of his spine, a white-hot wave that crashed over him. He groaned loudly, his body stiffening as he hit his peak.
Seconds later, Mykie let out a sharp, guttural cry, her muscles contracting around him in a series of rhythmic pulses that left him breathless and spent. They lay there for several minutes, the only sound the ticking of the cooling engine and their synchronized, heavy breathing. The scent of sex and leather filled the small space. Mykie eventually pulled away, a small, satisfied smile on her lips. She reached for her clothes, sliding back into the denim shorts and the red flannel with a casual ease. Dean watched her, feeling a strange mix of exhaustion and admiration.
"Not a bad ride, Dean." she said, glancing back at him.
"I think I'm in love," Dean joked, though his voice was still raspy.
"Don't get sentimental. It ruins the vibe."
By the time they had redressed and made their way back toward Lucky's, the frantic energy that had crackled between them earlier had settled into something quieter. The adrenaline had faded, leaving behind a pleasant warmth that lingered beneath Dean's skin like the last embers of a fire. Gravel crunched beneath their boots as they crossed the parking lot, the neon sign above the bar buzzing lazily in the darkness. The moment they stepped through the doors, they were swallowed once more by the familiar atmosphere of the dive bar.
The music had changed. The Scorpions had given way to a slow country ballad, all heartbreak and whiskey-soaked regrets. The singer's mournful voice drifted through the haze of cigarette smoke and neon light, perfectly matching the dim glow of the beer signs hanging on the walls. Somewhere near the back, pool balls cracked together. Glasses clinked. Laughter erupted from a poker table before quickly dissolving into an argument. Lucky's Bar had settled into its late-night rhythm.
Dean's eyes immediately found Sam. His brother was exactly where they'd left him; leaning against the bar, one elbow resting on the scarred wood and a half-empty beer sitting untouched beside him. He looked like he'd spent the last hour contemplating the inevitable collapse of civilization. Or researching it. Possibly both.
Sam glanced up as they approached. His gaze moved from Dean's slightly dishevelled hair to the woman walking beside him. Then back to Dean. The look said everything, but Dean ignored it.
"You're back," Sam said flatly.
Dean spread his hands. "What gave it away?"
Sam's expression didn't change.
"Sam, meet Mykie." Dean slipped effortlessly back into his usual swagger, though he was privately grateful nobody could see how exhausted he suddenly felt. Between the hunt, the drive, the beer, and the unexpected turn of the evening, his body was beginning to remind him he wasn't twenty-five anymore. Sam offered a polite nod.
"Hi. I'm Sam."
Mykie extended a hand. "Nice to meet you."
The handshake lasted only a moment, but Dean noticed the way she studied Sam afterward. Not casually, but carefully, almost like she was cataloguing details or reading him.
"Let me guess," she said. "You're the brother with the brain." A faint smile tugged at Sam's mouth.
"Something like that."
"Thought so." Her bright blue eyes lingered on him for another second before she leaned against the bar. One boot hooked casually over the other as she folded her arms. Dean noticed Sam examining the calluses on her hands, the old scars on her knuckles and the way she constantly tracked movement around the room without appearing to. Hunters noticed things. Good hunters noticed everything.
"So," Sam said. "Mykie?"
She sighed dramatically. "Yeah, yeah. Everybody says that."
"It's definitely memorable."
"It's definitely fake." Dean pointed triumphantly. Mykie rolled her eyes.
"I told you already. It's a nickname."
"Then what's your real name?" Dean asked. "Come on."
"Nope."
Dean groaned. "You can't just drop that and expect us not to ask."
She took a sip of beer before turning toward Sam. "I'll give you a clue."
Dean immediately straightened. "Oh, we're doing clues now."
"My real name starts with a D."
Dean snapped his fingers. "Diana."
"No."
"Dorothy, Dolores, Dahlia, Delilah, Denise."
"No, no, no, no and no." Mykie smirked as Dean continued to throw out a string of names. She ran a hand through her messy locks and propped herself against the bar, a little smirk on her lips. She loved watching people try – and 99% of the time fail – to guess her name.
"Danielle."
"Still no." Mykie smirked. "I'm named after a famous author."
Dean blinked. Then pointed. "Danielle Steel."
The look Sam gave him could have stripped paint and Mykie barked out a laugh.
"That's genuinely embarrassing."
Dean looked offended. "What? She's a famous author."
"Not the one. Plus, you already guessed Danielle and I said no."
Sam gestured for Mykie to come closer. She leaned into him as he cupped his hands around her ear so Dean couldn’t see or hear anything. The name left Sam's mouth quietly and Mykie's eyebrows rose. For the first time all evening, Mykie's expression softened completely. A genuine smile spread across her face. Not the teasing smile or the flirtatious smirk. A real one. The kind that reached her eyes.
"Bingo, baby." She pointed at Sam. "See? Smart one."
Dean looked between them. Completely lost.
"What?"
Neither answered.
"What is happening?"
Still nothing. Dean's confusion only made them both smile wider. Finally, Mykie leaned closer and patted his shoulder.
"You lost the game, remember?"
Dean groaned. "Oh, come on."
"No name for you."
"Sam, come on, help me out here." Sam took a sip of beer and shook his head.
"Not my problem."
"Traitor."
Mykie laughed again before her expression gradually changed.
The shift was subtle; almost imperceptible, but both Winchester brothers noticed immediately. The playful energy remained; the confidence remained. Yet something underneath hardened. Her posture had straightened and her eyes sharpened. The atmosphere around her seemed to tighten. Dean felt the realization before he consciously understood it. Mykie glanced around the room, checking exits, checking sightlines, checking who might be listening. When she spoke again, her voice was lower. Focused. Professional.
"Listen."
Dean's amusement vanished instantly.
"So far tonight," she continued, "I've watched the two of you scan every entrance in this place."
Sam went still.
"You sit facing doorways." Her eyes shifted to Dean. "You keep checking reflective surfaces."
Dean felt his muscles tighten.
"And both of you move like you're expecting something ugly to come crashing through the wall at any moment."
The air suddenly felt heavier. The noise of the bar faded into the background and Dean's hand drifted instinctively toward the concealed weapon beneath his jacket. Not enough to draw. Just enough. Mykie noticed immediately and her gaze flickered downward.
"Easy, cowboy." The corner of her mouth twitched. "I'm not a monster; in fact, I spend most of my time killing them."
Silence. Dean and Sam exchanged a glance. Years of hunting had created an entire language between them. Questions, warnings, possibilities; all exchanged in less than a second.
Sam broke the silence first. "You're a hunter?"
Mykie nodded. "Since I was nineteen." The answer came too quickly to be a lie. Too naturally.
Dean felt another piece of the puzzle click into place. The scars, the confidence, the scent of gun oil, the way she'd watched every room she'd entered and the way she'd carried herself. All the signs had been there.
"I've been tracking a vampire nest about three towns over," she continued. "Heard rumours the Winchesters were working nearby."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "You've heard of us?"
Mykie laughed. "Please. Everybody's heard of you."
Dean looked insufferably pleased with himself. Sam just looked tired.
"I just didn't realize you were this..." Mykie's eyes flicked toward Dean, a knowing smirk creeping onto her lips. "...entertaining."
Dean stared at her for a moment. Then the absurdity of the situation finally caught up with him. A beautiful woman, a classic muscle car, a pool hustle and now she turned out to be a hunter. Of course she was. Why would his life ever be normal?
"You're a hunter," he repeated, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Of course you are."
"You're not disappointed I’m not just some random girl in a bar?"
"Disappointed?" Dean stepped forward, his voice dropped slightly, the familiar confidence returning. "Sweetheart, you just became the most interesting thing in this entire state."
Mykie snorted. Then reached up and patted his cheek.
"Don't get ahead of yourself, Winchester." Her grin widened. "I still beat you at pool."
Dean pointed toward the tables. "Rematch."
"Not happening." Mykie replied, finishing the rest of her beer with a chuckle. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and placed the empty bottle on the table.
"Scared?" Dean asked with a smirk that could only be described as cocky beyond all belief. Mykie rose a brow, eyes running up and down his body before scoffing. "Please."
Dean continued to smirk at her, that signature smoulder slowly breaking down her composure until she pushed away from the bar.
"Buy me another beer first and I’ll consider it."
Dean immediately reached for his wallet and Mykie laughed and turned toward the bartender.
"I can't believe you actually let her hustle you." Sam grinned, finishing off his own beer.
Dean never looked away from the bar. "Shut up, Sam."
"You lost."
"I know."
"You got completely played."
Dean's grin only widened. For the first time all night, he sounded completely certain of himself.
"I won the long game, Sammy."
Sam sighed. Deeply. The kind of sigh that only came from being related to Dean Winchester.
Some things, apparently, never changed.