Sam watched Dean burst through the door of their motel room and head for the bathroom.

"You figure it out?" he called.

"Yeah," Dean replied, "going on a date."

Sam looked at the bathroom door from the bed, the research in his lap forgotten. "With who?"

"With Gen," came the far away answer.

Sam closed the laptop and shifted to the bottom of the bed. "You sure that's a good idea?"

"Yeah," Dean shrugged, coming out of the bathroom to sort some clothes, "Why not?"

"Dude. You seriously can't imagine why not?"

Dean shrugged and frowned at his bag, not looking at Sam. He didn't feel like being talked out of this, but suddenly realised how long it was until 8pm. "We're doing dinner so you'll have to look after yourself." He grabbed some things and went back to the bathroom, closing the door for a long hot shower.

Sam looked at the floor and after a few moments shook his head. Dinner. Not a movie, or drinks, but dinner. He went back to his research and decided he didn't actually have to care about this screaming can of worms. Which it was. In his opinion, Gen was too sensible for Dean and she'd probably ask for a higher standard of boyfriend than he could be. But, of course, there's only so much anyone could ask of a hunter, and that's Gen's situation too. Maybe she didn't have mainstream expectations about whatever she could- "Nope," Sam shook his head again, "Not my monkey. Not my circus."

A long time later, Dean emerged from a steaming bathroom.

After a while Sam asked "You wearing aftershave?"

"Yup."

Damn, Sam thought, if I can't smell it from here he must be really trying. Shit.

Meanwhile, Gen had gotten to the task, going through her routine of prettying up her lot as best she could. Her brain had been running a quiet commentary of risks and insults in the back of her mind. Having finished everything neck-upwards she looked in the mirror at the full effort and suddenly noticed how nervous she was, how unsure. Her insecurities had hijacked the night already. The initial treatment would be music. She popped her phone in the dock and picked something to blow away the dorkiness. Got to Give it up would surely dig up some of her mojo, whatever that looked like. She was worrying about the future when she should be replaying last night.

Sam and Dean heard the music start up. It was a bit awkward. When Dean glanced at Sam he shrugged a frown. "It's not bad," he said quietly.

Suddenly, there was a dense double bang, and a muffled Ah Shit!... F***! Gen had hurt herself on the bed, apparently, and it had thumped against their shared wall. They waited for more… "I'm okay!" she called out.

Dean stared blankly at the spot the sound had come from. He pointed at Gen's room. "There is no mystery about what happened last night, is there?"

"Nope," Sam replied flatly.

Dean nodded to himself. "Okay … good to know…"

Soon enough, it was 7:30 and Dean was ready. Maroon shirt over black t-shirt, jeans and boots being all else he had short of FBI gear. He wasn't going fine dining just yet. He settled in to read something, anything, to still his nerves. Anything to keep him from trying to pinpoint where those nerves came from.

When he heard high heels hit the floor next door, he said to Sam, "She's got her shoes on, I'll see you later."

"Hey Dean," Sam said, trying to catch him.

Dean sighed, "Yeah Sam" as he grabbed his jacket. What depressingly sensible advice do you have today? he thought.

"Have fun, " Sam said and flashed a kind smile. Dean peered at him. "She's pretty awesome," Sam added, and looked back to his screen.

Dean's eyebrows bounced in surprise. "I'm not stealing your thunder here, am I?" Just a quick check.

"No! 'Course not!" Sam laughed, "I just… you know, if you're gonna date, don't waste it."

"Thanks," he nodded, "I'll keep in touch," and he left.

Gen opened her door before Dean had finished knocking. "I heard you leave your room," she explained.

Dean nodded, a soft smile forming. She was wearing her trench coat over her dress, done up and cinched at the waist. With her hair and makeup, she looked rather 50s. She was suddenly very, very pretty.

Gen locked up the room and Dean gestured down the path toward the car some yards away. He hadn't seen her walk in these heels before, or seen her walk like this. His distraction meant that when she remembered something, stopping in his path, he slammed right into the back of her, hair in his face, bumping her forwards.

"Sorry!"

"Sorry!"

"Sorry… I thought I forgot something," she said, closing her small purse, "but it's here… silver pocket knife."

"Is that a warning?" he asked.

Gen considered… "Yes!" She smiled cheerily. He smiled back and kept walking.

When they got to the car, Gen getting there first, Dean didn't open the door for her. She was relieved.

Neither of them properly registered the silence, so full of nervous chatter were their heads. Gen was remembering the feeling of him bumping into the back of her, and how he'd caught her shoulders, his breath on her neck. Last night had been all too quick, and too dark. Dean was trying to recall the smell of her perfume, another new thing, and was flashing images of how he could get close enough to catch it again.

They pulled up to a restaurant. A nice one. Gen's heart quickened at the prospect. She'd expected something nice, but not nice nice. Dean paused a moment too, unsure if this joint wasn't silver service after all.

Screw it, he thought, we're doing nice.

In her moments of light panic, Dean had gotten to her door and opened it for her. She swore to herself over the romance of it; too much promise too soon. He swore to himself at the picture of her dark eyelashes flashing up at him, her slender legs swinging out together and he unconsciously held out his hand so she could stand like a lady, with her knees together. And now they were holding hands. Which she broke. So much swallowing.

With Dean's hand on the restaurant door, Gen snapped to her usual senses. "Wait! Wait, Dean," she said, taking a step back.

"What?" he asked, concerned.

"You realise, this will change everything," she checked, brows furrowing.

"Unlike the sex last night," he peered at her.

"You're opening a door for me. You'll take my jacket, and pull out my chair and order my something off the drinks menu. It's crossing a line we ain't coming back from."

"Do you not want me to do all that?" he asked, unsure of how to get it right.

Gen looked passed his shoulder and winced, thinking. She looked inside, and then sideways at him. "Do you want to? Is that how you do dates?" she asked, unsure too.

"I dunno! I don't date!" he exclaimed.

Gen slumped, and stuck her tongue out with an "ugh". Recomposing herself she ordered "Just do what you want to do, okay? You don't wanna do all the gentlemanly shit, then don't. We're not roleplaying, or anything."

"Right. No, we're just hanging out," he shrugged it off.

"Well, no," she clarified, "there's three sets of cutlery in there. It's no hangin' out." Dean shifted his weight, trying to recall how that goes. "Let's just do the grown up versions of us for a bit," Gen said, and they both nodded and yeah-sured at each other like that was a pretty good solution.

They went in, the head waiter taking Gen's coat, and were shown to their table. Where the waiter also pulled out Gen's chair and suggested a wine for starters.

They sat. They adjusted the silverware and silently noted the exits. Gen pressed her lips together a lot, blotting her lips. Dean looked beyond her a little, checking out the other customers (all at least half a generation older than them) but his eyes slipped sideways, back to her. She was doing that slow chicken nod, a slight back and forth. Yup.

"That dress," Dean broke first, "Wow."

"Thanks," Gen smiled. She thought of more to say. "It was carefully handpicked. Note the crease-resistant fabric, the sensible but complimentary length, the stretchiness and the added pockets." He had noted the stretch, and the length.

"The little black dress for hunters," he remarked, impressed.

"I don't know how you've gotten this far without one."

"I like," Dean waved his hands at his own shoulders to indicate, "this, the neck line."

Gen's dress had a deep and wide v-neck, showing off some softness but solidly keeping it all in. The anti-possession tattoo between her breasts was still well hidden. Barely an inch of fabric covered her shoulder, with a slight cap sleeve, and there were little gathered points just below the collar bones, narrow tabs pulling the fabric away from her décolletage.

"Yeah," Gen agreed, looking down at the outfit, "I've seen this style a bit before, but usually on a much squarer neckline. Something that goes with big lamb chop sleeves and shiny taffeta. Blergh circa '86. But this nice."

"Yeah."

More silence.

"Actually," she thought, pointing at Dean, "it reminds me of, um, Superman. You know, when he pulls his shirt open-"

"Oh yeah-"

"-revealing the costume."

"Yeah," Dean laughed a bit.

"SUPer Cleavage!" Gen gestured, mimicking the action. "It's a bird! It's a dame!"

He couldn't help joining in. "Saving awkward silences, one boob at a time."

Gen's laugh started with a slight raspberry, and Dean lost it for a moment.

"Oh, man," she sighed, "There's no way I can do elegant for two hours. Be a pal and tell me if I've got food on my face, yeah?"

"You do the same for me," he replied.

"No way," she smirked, "I'll need me a snack." When Dean's eyebrows went up and his face says Oh really, Gen looked around the room, chewing her smile. He leaned back in his chair, arms folded and decided that this was going to work. That this date was actually, really, going to happen.

Which meant that they couldn't pretend they were anyone else.