fallen angels, demons, and the devil herself

The soft rumble of the Impala’s engine outside her apartment had become a sound she knew by heart. She would tell herself not to look through the window. But she always did. There he’d be, leaning against the driver’s door with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, looking exhausted. Like he’d spent weeks carrying the weight of the world.

He never knocked twice.

“You awake?” he’d ask when she opened the door.

“You knew I would be.”

And just like that, the distance between them disappeared for a night. Pizza boxes left open on the coffee table, old movies neither of them actually watched. Conversations that wandered from stupid jokes to childhood memories, to hunts that almost went wrong, to dreams neither of them dared believe could ever happen.

Sometimes he’d fall asleep on her couch before making it to her room. Yet, their bodies would always find together some time throughout the night. He’d wake before sunrise, already pulling on his boots. Every single time. 

“You don’t have to leave yet,” she would whisper, still wrapped in a blanket. Dean would pause and for one impossible second, she’d think he might stay. Then he’d force that familiar crooked smile onto his face.

“I do.” No explanation, just those two words.

He’d press a lingering kiss to her lips, grab his keys, and disappear before the sun had fully risen. The only proof he’d been there was an empty coffee mug in the sink and the faint scent of leather and motor oil that lingered long after he’d left.

She tried convincing herself not to wait for him anymore. She dated other people when he was gone for months. Ignored his messages. Promised herself that the next time the Impala rolled into her street, she wouldn’t answer the door.

Then, weeks later, headlights would sweep across her curtains. And despite everything, her feet would carry her to the door. Because somehow Dean Winchester always knew exactly when to come back. Just never how to stay.

One rainy night, as he stood in her doorway with damp hair and shadows beneath his eyes, she looked at him for a long moment before speaking.

“You only ever come here when you’re running from something.” His jaw tightened.

“I’m not running.”

“No?” She folded her arms. “Then why do you always leave before morning?”

Silence stretched between them. The rain tapped against the windows. Finally, Dean looked down at the floor.

“You know this is complicated.” Her chest ached.

“Because of my dad?” 

Dean was her father’s best friend. The man who had carried her on his shoulders when she was little. The one who taught her how to throw her first punch, change a tire, and drive stick in the Impala after weeks of relentless begging.

He wasn’t supposed to look at her differently. (Y/n) wasn’t supposed to notice the gray beginning to dust his stubble. Or the way his voice dropped when he said her name. Or how lonely he looked when he thought nobody was watching

He kept quiet, ran a hand through his hair, and stared at her with those green eyes until she sighed and let him in; once again. An hour later, empty takeout containers littered her coffee table. Dean sat with one arm stretched across the back of the couch, his head tipped toward her as she talked about her week. He listened more than he spoke, smiling at the parts she didn’t even think were funny.

“You disappeared for five weeks,” she eventually said quietly.

“I know.”

“No call.”

“I know.”

“No text.”

Dean rubbed a hand across his face.

“I know.”

Her frustration had been simmering for weeks, and now it spilled over. It felt ugly, too cutting, too intense. “You vanish, Dean.”

He looked away.

“I had a job.”

“You always have a job.”

“You know what my life is.”

“And what am I?” Her voice cracked despite her best effort. “Some place you stop when you get tired of running?”

His jaw tightened at her words. “Don’t.”

“No.” She stood, putting space between them while anger began to drip from her words. “Answer me.”

Dean rose too. The apartment suddenly felt too small, the room too cold

“I come here because it’s the one place I don’t have to think, don’t have to play some role. Don’t take this from me.” His eyes finally snapped back to her. They were full of something he’d spent months trying to bury. “It matters too much.” 

The words stole the air from the room. She laughed once, bitterly. “You keep pretending this is easier than it is.”

His shoulders sagged. For the first time since she’d known him, Dean looked defeated, head hanging, hands balled into fists.

“You make me forget,” he admitted. “For one night I forget all the things waiting for me out there. And then morning comes and I’m reminded of the years between us, the memories, the promises.”

She reached up before she could stop herself, brushing her fingers lightly over the bruise on his jaw. His hand found hers, almost cautiously, as though he expected her to pull away. She didn't.

“You know I don’t care about the age gap or you being my dad’s best friend. All I care about is you, Dean.” A long silence stretched between them.

“So simple,” he murmured.

“It could be.”

He gave a small, sad smile. “No.”

The word hurt more than she expected. She started to step back, but Dean caught her wrist. His thumb brushed against her pulse.

“I’m sorry.” His gaze dropped to her lips for the briefest moment before snapping back to her eyes.

“We can’t keep doing this,” she spoke quietly. “This has to end, Dean. I won’t survive otherwise.”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His grip loosened, giving her every chance to walk away. Instead, she closed the distance. The kiss was hesitant for exactly one second. Then weeks of distance, missed phone calls, unsaid apologies, and impossible feelings crashed together all at once.

His hand slid to her cheek, and hers tangled in the front of his shirt as if she was afraid he’d disappear before she could convince herself he was still real. When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested together, both of them breathing a little harder. Dean closed his eyes.

“One last night is all I’m asking for,” he whispered.

She didn’t answer. (Y/n) stared at him for at least ten seconds before nodding her head, hoping to cover the hurt laced in her gaze. He followed her to the bedroom, the familiar path he had walked too many times to count. 

It didn’t take long for their clothes to hit the floor, one by one the layers were stripped away. Lips found skin, fingers found roots to tug on, hearts found a similar beat. One last night. One last high. One last kiss. The house of cards was about to collapse, and there would be nothing but hurting memories afterward. 

“Dean,” she panted his name, pressing herself closer to him while he lingered between her thighs. He cherished her taste, let it linger on his tongue while his arms had a tight grip around her thighs. He was set on pushing her over the edge with his mouth first, needing to watch her fall apart without being distracted himself. 

She shook as her orgasm rose, pulsing through her like a second heartbeat. His name left her, her fingers tugged on his roots, but his gaze never wavered. It stayed glued to her trembling body until her first high let go of her. 

“Condom?” She shook her head at the question. 

“Not if it’s our last time.” She had always asked for extra protection, not daring to wonder if he spent his weeks away around other women. But tonight she couldn’t care, tonight she needed all of him. 

Dean kept quiet at that. He moved up her body, lips leaving kisses every now and then, and then entered her, slowly, cautiously. Both moaned at the sensation, bodies adjusting after all that time apart. 

“Fuck,” it was a deep breath leaving him. He moved slowly, taking his time while she kept her legs wrapped around him. Their bodies met with every thrust, he was set on leaving marks as if he wanted to make her remember this for the next weeks. But (y/n) was sure her heartbreak would do a good job of reminding her anyway. 

“Atta girl, fuck, my pretty girl, you feel so good like this.” Tears gathered around her lashes, she tried to blink them away, but without luck. They began to drip down her cheeks while he kept moving, oblivious to them at first. It felt as if watering a grave, an empty home with a soul no longer there, yet the love remained, like it always would. 

The second he looked down at her, eyes no longer closed, his pace began to falter. He wiped the tears away with his thumb, but he kept quiet, not speaking words she needed to hear, confessions, promises, nothing. 

Her walls fluttered around him, even though she fought against the sensation. She didn’t want to cum yet, didn’t want to end it this quickly, but his fingers began to circle her bundle of nerves, pushing her over the edge once again.

Dean fucked her through the high, eyes not leaving hers while chasing his own release. He pulled out of her seconds before letting go, painting her stomach white with a deep groan. Both were heavily breathing, staring at one another until he closed the gap for another kiss. 

…

Morning arrived too soon, sunlight slipping through the curtains in thin stripes across the floor. Everything felt strangely still, as though the world outside had agreed to wait just a little longer.

She lay on her side, watching Dean pull on his T-shirt in silence. Neither of them mentioned what had happened. Neither of them needed to.

The air between them had changed. He sat on the edge of the bed to lace up his boots, elbows resting on his knees for a moment before he let out a slow breath.

“So,” he started quietly.

“So.”

His lips twitched into a tired smile.

“We’re really bad at ‘one last time.’”

She smiled despite herself. Dean reached for his jacket from the floor, turning it over in his hands before finally slipping it on.

(Y/n) wondered what would happen after today. She imagined Dean leaning against the kitchen counter with a beer while her father complained about a hunt. Sam would probably notice the silence first. He always noticed; her dad wouldn’t. He’d clap Dean on the shoulder, laugh too loud at one of his jokes, maybe even say something about how good it was to have everyone together again. The thought made her stomach twist.

“You think he’ll know?” She asked, eyes not meeting his. 

Dean’s expression hardened.

“No, he trusts me.” The words landed between them like broken glass. Dean closed his eyes for a brief second before crossing the room until he was right in front of her again. “I don’t regret you.”

Her eyes lifted to his.

“Not for a second.”

His thumb brushed gently across her knuckles.

“I regret the position it puts you in.” She had no answer to the words, aware that there was no use in fighting Dean Winchester on a decision like this.

“I’ll see you tonight.”

It sounded strange. Not like a promise, more like a warning.

“Tonight,” she began, unable to finish while her throat grew tighter. 

“We go back to pretending.” The words seemed to hurt him too, making his face harden. 

Dean looked toward the apartment door and then turned from her. He opened the door, hesitated with one hand on the frame. For just a second, she thought he might come back. Instead, he looked over his shoulder.

“You deserve more than stolen nights.”

Before she could answer, he was gone.

…

By seven that evening, the bunker looked exactly as it always had. The smell of burgers drifted from the kitchen. Classic rock echoed faintly from the garage. Her father was laughing before she even stepped through the door.

“There she is!” he called. “Perfect timing.”

She forced a smile while greeting her dad. 

Dean was already there, leaning against the counter, beer bottle in hand. He looked up as she walked in, just for a heartbeat. There was no smile, no lingering glance. Nothing anyone else would notice.

“Hey, kid,” he said as casually as if he’d last seen her weeks ago instead of hours.

Her father tossed Dean another bottle from the fridge. “Dean was just telling me about that hunt in Wyoming.”

Dean smiled with practiced ease. It was the same smile everyone knew. The same one that hid everything. Across the room, their eyes met for the briefest moment. No one noticed. No one could.

The soft rumble of the Impala’s engine outside her apartment had become a sound she knew by heart. She would tell herself not to look through the window. But she always did. There he’d be, leaning against the driver’s door with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, looking exhausted. Like he’d spent weeks carrying the weight of the world.

He never knocked twice.

“You awake?” he’d ask when she opened the door.

“You knew I would be.”

And just like that, the distance between them disappeared for a night. Pizza boxes left open on the coffee table, old movies neither of them actually watched. Conversations that wandered from stupid jokes to childhood memories, to hunts that almost went wrong, to dreams neither of them dared believe could ever happen.

Sometimes he’d fall asleep on her couch before making it to her room. Yet, their bodies would always find together some time throughout the night. He’d wake before sunrise, already pulling on his boots. Every single time. 

“You don’t have to leave yet,” she would whisper, still wrapped in a blanket. Dean would pause and for one impossible second, she’d think he might stay. Then he’d force that familiar crooked smile onto his face.

“I do.” No explanation, just those two words.

He’d press a lingering kiss to her lips, grab his keys, and disappear before the sun had fully risen. The only proof he’d been there was an empty coffee mug in the sink and the faint scent of leather and motor oil that lingered long after he’d left.

She tried convincing herself not to wait for him anymore. She dated other people when he was gone for months. Ignored his messages. Promised herself that the next time the Impala rolled into her street, she wouldn’t answer the door.

Then, weeks later, headlights would sweep across her curtains. And despite everything, her feet would carry her to the door. Because somehow Dean Winchester always knew exactly when to come back. Just never how to stay.

One rainy night, as he stood in her doorway with damp hair and shadows beneath his eyes, she looked at him for a long moment before speaking.

“You only ever come here when you’re running from something.” His jaw tightened.

“I’m not running.”

“No?” She folded her arms. “Then why do you always leave before morning?”

Silence stretched between them. The rain tapped against the windows. Finally, Dean looked down at the floor.

“You know this is complicated.” Her chest ached.

“Because of my dad?” 

Dean was her father’s best friend. The man who had carried her on his shoulders when she was little. The one who taught her how to throw her first punch, change a tire, and drive stick in the Impala after weeks of relentless begging.

He wasn’t supposed to look at her differently. (Y/n) wasn’t supposed to notice the gray beginning to dust his stubble. Or the way his voice dropped when he said her name. Or how lonely he looked when he thought nobody was watching

He kept quiet, ran a hand through his hair, and stared at her with those green eyes until she sighed and let him in; once again. An hour later, empty takeout containers littered her coffee table. Dean sat with one arm stretched across the back of the couch, his head tipped toward her as she talked about her week. He listened more than he spoke, smiling at the parts she didn’t even think were funny.

“You disappeared for five weeks,” she eventually said quietly.

“I know.”

“No call.”

“I know.”

“No text.”

Dean rubbed a hand across his face.

“I know.”

Her frustration had been simmering for weeks, and now it spilled over. It felt ugly, too cutting, too intense. “You vanish, Dean.”

He looked away.

“I had a job.”

“You always have a job.”

“You know what my life is.”

“And what am I?” Her voice cracked despite her best effort. “Some place you stop when you get tired of running?”

His jaw tightened at her words. “Don’t.”

“No.” She stood, putting space between them while anger began to drip from her words. “Answer me.”

Dean rose too. The apartment suddenly felt too small, the room too cold

“I come here because it’s the one place I don’t have to think, don’t have to play some role. Don’t take this from me.” His eyes finally snapped back to her. They were full of something he’d spent months trying to bury. “It matters too much.” 

The words stole the air from the room. She laughed once, bitterly. “You keep pretending this is easier than it is.”

His shoulders sagged. For the first time since she’d known him, Dean looked defeated, head hanging, hands balled into fists.

“You make me forget,” he admitted. “For one night I forget all the things waiting for me out there. And then morning comes and I’m reminded of the years between us, the memories, the promises.”

She reached up before she could stop herself, brushing her fingers lightly over the bruise on his jaw. His hand found hers, almost cautiously, as though he expected her to pull away. She didn't.

“You know I don’t care about the age gap or you being my dad’s best friend. All I care about is you, Dean.” A long silence stretched between them.

“So simple,” he murmured.

“It could be.”

He gave a small, sad smile. “No.”

The word hurt more than she expected. She started to step back, but Dean caught her wrist. His thumb brushed against her pulse.

“I’m sorry.” His gaze dropped to her lips for the briefest moment before snapping back to her eyes.

“We can’t keep doing this,” she spoke quietly. “This has to end, Dean. I won’t survive otherwise.”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His grip loosened, giving her every chance to walk away. Instead, she closed the distance. The kiss was hesitant for exactly one second. Then weeks of distance, missed phone calls, unsaid apologies, and impossible feelings crashed together all at once.

His hand slid to her cheek, and hers tangled in the front of his shirt as if she was afraid he’d disappear before she could convince herself he was still real. When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested together, both of them breathing a little harder. Dean closed his eyes.

“One last night is all I’m asking for,” he whispered.

She didn’t answer. (Y/n) stared at him for at least ten seconds before nodding her head, hoping to cover the hurt laced in her gaze. He followed her to the bedroom, the familiar path he had walked too many times to count. 

It didn’t take long for their clothes to hit the floor, one by one the layers were stripped away. Lips found skin, fingers found roots to tug on, hearts found a similar beat. One last night. One last high. One last kiss. The house of cards was about to collapse, and there would be nothing but hurting memories afterward. 

“Dean,” she panted his name, pressing herself closer to him while he lingered between her thighs. He cherished her taste, let it linger on his tongue while his arms had a tight grip around her thighs. He was set on pushing her over the edge with his mouth first, needing to watch her fall apart without being distracted himself. 

She shook as her orgasm rose, pulsing through her like a second heartbeat. His name left her, her fingers tugged on his roots, but his gaze never wavered. It stayed glued to her trembling body until her first high let go of her. 

“Condom?” She shook her head at the question. 

“Not if it’s our last time.” She had always asked for extra protection, not daring to wonder if he spent his weeks away around other women. But tonight she couldn’t care, tonight she needed all of him. 

Dean kept quiet at that. He moved up her body, lips leaving kisses every now and then, and then entered her, slowly, cautiously. Both moaned at the sensation, bodies adjusting after all that time apart. 

“Fuck,” it was a deep breath leaving him. He moved slowly, taking his time while she kept her legs wrapped around him. Their bodies met with every thrust, he was set on leaving marks as if he wanted to make her remember this for the next weeks. But (y/n) was sure her heartbreak would do a good job of reminding her anyway. 

“Atta girl, fuck, my pretty girl, you feel so good like this.” Tears gathered around her lashes, she tried to blink them away, but without luck. They began to drip down her cheeks while he kept moving, oblivious to them at first. It felt as if watering a grave, an empty home with a soul no longer there, yet the love remained, like it always would. 

The second he looked down at her, eyes no longer closed, his pace began to falter. He wiped the tears away with his thumb, but he kept quiet, not speaking words she needed to hear, confessions, promises, nothing. 

Her walls fluttered around him, even though she fought against the sensation. She didn’t want to cum yet, didn’t want to end it this quickly, but his fingers began to circle her bundle of nerves, pushing her over the edge once again.

Dean fucked her through the high, eyes not leaving hers while chasing his own release. He pulled out of her seconds before letting go, painting her stomach white with a deep groan. Both were heavily breathing, staring at one another until he closed the gap for another kiss. 

…

Morning arrived too soon, sunlight slipping through the curtains in thin stripes across the floor. Everything felt strangely still, as though the world outside had agreed to wait just a little longer.

She lay on her side, watching Dean pull on his T-shirt in silence. Neither of them mentioned what had happened. Neither of them needed to.

The air between them had changed. He sat on the edge of the bed to lace up his boots, elbows resting on his knees for a moment before he let out a slow breath.

“So,” he started quietly.

“So.”

His lips twitched into a tired smile.

“We’re really bad at ‘one last time.’”

She smiled despite herself. Dean reached for his jacket from the floor, turning it over in his hands before finally slipping it on.

(Y/n) wondered what would happen after today. She imagined Dean leaning against the kitchen counter with a beer while her father complained about a hunt. Sam would probably notice the silence first. He always noticed; her dad wouldn’t. He’d clap Dean on the shoulder, laugh too loud at one of his jokes, maybe even say something about how good it was to have everyone together again. The thought made her stomach twist.

“You think he’ll know?” She asked, eyes not meeting his. 

Dean’s expression hardened.

“No, he trusts me.” The words landed between them like broken glass. Dean closed his eyes for a brief second before crossing the room until he was right in front of her again. “I don’t regret you.”

Her eyes lifted to his.

“Not for a second.”

His thumb brushed gently across her knuckles.

“I regret the position it puts you in.” She had no answer to the words, aware that there was no use in fighting Dean Winchester on a decision like this.

“I’ll see you tonight.”

It sounded strange. Not like a promise, more like a warning.

“Tonight,” she began, unable to finish while her throat grew tighter. 

“We go back to pretending.” The words seemed to hurt him too, making his face harden. 

Dean looked toward the apartment door and then turned from her. He opened the door, hesitated with one hand on the frame. For just a second, she thought he might come back. Instead, he looked over his shoulder.

“You deserve more than stolen nights.”

Before she could answer, he was gone.

…

By seven that evening, the bunker looked exactly as it always had. The smell of burgers drifted from the kitchen. Classic rock echoed faintly from the garage. Her father was laughing before she even stepped through the door.

“There she is!” he called. “Perfect timing.”

She forced a smile while greeting her dad. 

Dean was already there, leaning against the counter, beer bottle in hand. He looked up as she walked in, just for a heartbeat. There was no smile, no lingering glance. Nothing anyone else would notice.

“Hey, kid,” he said as casually as if he’d last seen her weeks ago instead of hours.

Her father tossed Dean another bottle from the fridge. “Dean was just telling me about that hunt in Wyoming.”

Dean smiled with practiced ease. It was the same smile everyone knew. The same one that hid everything. Across the room, their eyes met for the briefest moment. No one noticed. No one could.

The soft rumble of the Impala’s engine outside her apartment had become a sound she knew by heart. She would tell herself not to look through the window. But she always did. There he’d be, leaning against the driver’s door with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, looking exhausted. Like he’d spent weeks carrying the weight of the world.

He never knocked twice.

“You awake?” he’d ask when she opened the door.

“You knew I would be.”

And just like that, the distance between them disappeared for a night. Pizza boxes left open on the coffee table, old movies neither of them actually watched. Conversations that wandered from stupid jokes to childhood memories, to hunts that almost went wrong, to dreams neither of them dared believe could ever happen.

Sometimes he’d fall asleep on her couch before making it to her room. Yet, their bodies would always find together some time throughout the night. He’d wake before sunrise, already pulling on his boots. Every single time. 

“You don’t have to leave yet,” she would whisper, still wrapped in a blanket. Dean would pause and for one impossible second, she’d think he might stay. Then he’d force that familiar crooked smile onto his face.

“I do.” No explanation, just those two words.

He’d press a lingering kiss to her lips, grab his keys, and disappear before the sun had fully risen. The only proof he’d been there was an empty coffee mug in the sink and the faint scent of leather and motor oil that lingered long after he’d left.

She tried convincing herself not to wait for him anymore. She dated other people when he was gone for months. Ignored his messages. Promised herself that the next time the Impala rolled into her street, she wouldn’t answer the door.

Then, weeks later, headlights would sweep across her curtains. And despite everything, her feet would carry her to the door. Because somehow Dean Winchester always knew exactly when to come back. Just never how to stay.

One rainy night, as he stood in her doorway with damp hair and shadows beneath his eyes, she looked at him for a long moment before speaking.

“You only ever come here when you’re running from something.” His jaw tightened.

“I’m not running.”

“No?” She folded her arms. “Then why do you always leave before morning?”

Silence stretched between them. The rain tapped against the windows. Finally, Dean looked down at the floor.

“You know this is complicated.” Her chest ached.

“Because of my dad?” 

Dean was her father’s best friend. The man who had carried her on his shoulders when she was little. The one who taught her how to throw her first punch, change a tire, and drive stick in the Impala after weeks of relentless begging.

He wasn’t supposed to look at her differently. (Y/n) wasn’t supposed to notice the gray beginning to dust his stubble. Or the way his voice dropped when he said her name. Or how lonely he looked when he thought nobody was watching

He kept quiet, ran a hand through his hair, and stared at her with those green eyes until she sighed and let him in; once again. An hour later, empty takeout containers littered her coffee table. Dean sat with one arm stretched across the back of the couch, his head tipped toward her as she talked about her week. He listened more than he spoke, smiling at the parts she didn’t even think were funny.

“You disappeared for five weeks,” she eventually said quietly.

“I know.”

“No call.”

“I know.”

“No text.”

Dean rubbed a hand across his face.

“I know.”

Her frustration had been simmering for weeks, and now it spilled over. It felt ugly, too cutting, too intense. “You vanish, Dean.”

He looked away.

“I had a job.”

“You always have a job.”

“You know what my life is.”

“And what am I?” Her voice cracked despite her best effort. “Some place you stop when you get tired of running?”

His jaw tightened at her words. “Don’t.”

“No.” She stood, putting space between them while anger began to drip from her words. “Answer me.”

Dean rose too. The apartment suddenly felt too small, the room too cold

“I come here because it’s the one place I don’t have to think, don’t have to play some role. Don’t take this from me.” His eyes finally snapped back to her. They were full of something he’d spent months trying to bury. “It matters too much.” 

The words stole the air from the room. She laughed once, bitterly. “You keep pretending this is easier than it is.”

His shoulders sagged. For the first time since she’d known him, Dean looked defeated, head hanging, hands balled into fists.

“You make me forget,” he admitted. “For one night I forget all the things waiting for me out there. And then morning comes and I’m reminded of the years between us, the memories, the promises.”

She reached up before she could stop herself, brushing her fingers lightly over the bruise on his jaw. His hand found hers, almost cautiously, as though he expected her to pull away. She didn't.

“You know I don’t care about the age gap or you being my dad’s best friend. All I care about is you, Dean.” A long silence stretched between them.

“So simple,” he murmured.

“It could be.”

He gave a small, sad smile. “No.”

The word hurt more than she expected. She started to step back, but Dean caught her wrist. His thumb brushed against her pulse.

“I’m sorry.” His gaze dropped to her lips for the briefest moment before snapping back to her eyes.

“We can’t keep doing this,” she spoke quietly. “This has to end, Dean. I won’t survive otherwise.”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His grip loosened, giving her every chance to walk away. Instead, she closed the distance. The kiss was hesitant for exactly one second. Then weeks of distance, missed phone calls, unsaid apologies, and impossible feelings crashed together all at once.

His hand slid to her cheek, and hers tangled in the front of his shirt as if she was afraid he’d disappear before she could convince herself he was still real. When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested together, both of them breathing a little harder. Dean closed his eyes.

“One last night is all I’m asking for,” he whispered.

She didn’t answer. (Y/n) stared at him for at least ten seconds before nodding her head, hoping to cover the hurt laced in her gaze. He followed her to the bedroom, the familiar path he had walked too many times to count. 

It didn’t take long for their clothes to hit the floor, one by one the layers were stripped away. Lips found skin, fingers found roots to tug on, hearts found a similar beat. One last night. One last high. One last kiss. The house of cards was about to collapse, and there would be nothing but hurting memories afterward. 

“Dean,” she panted his name, pressing herself closer to him while he lingered between her thighs. He cherished her taste, let it linger on his tongue while his arms had a tight grip around her thighs. He was set on pushing her over the edge with his mouth first, needing to watch her fall apart without being distracted himself. 

She shook as her orgasm rose, pulsing through her like a second heartbeat. His name left her, her fingers tugged on his roots, but his gaze never wavered. It stayed glued to her trembling body until her first high let go of her. 

“Condom?” She shook her head at the question. 

“Not if it’s our last time.” She had always asked for extra protection, not daring to wonder if he spent his weeks away around other women. But tonight she couldn’t care, tonight she needed all of him. 

Dean kept quiet at that. He moved up her body, lips leaving kisses every now and then, and then entered her, slowly, cautiously. Both moaned at the sensation, bodies adjusting after all that time apart. 

“Fuck,” it was a deep breath leaving him. He moved slowly, taking his time while she kept her legs wrapped around him. Their bodies met with every thrust, he was set on leaving marks as if he wanted to make her remember this for the next weeks. But (y/n) was sure her heartbreak would do a good job of reminding her anyway. 

“Atta girl, fuck, my pretty girl, you feel so good like this.” Tears gathered around her lashes, she tried to blink them away, but without luck. They began to drip down her cheeks while he kept moving, oblivious to them at first. It felt as if watering a grave, an empty home with a soul no longer there, yet the love remained, like it always would. 

The second he looked down at her, eyes no longer closed, his pace began to falter. He wiped the tears away with his thumb, but he kept quiet, not speaking words she needed to hear, confessions, promises, nothing. 

Her walls fluttered around him, even though she fought against the sensation. She didn’t want to cum yet, didn’t want to end it this quickly, but his fingers began to circle her bundle of nerves, pushing her over the edge once again.

Dean fucked her through the high, eyes not leaving hers while chasing his own release. He pulled out of her seconds before letting go, painting her stomach white with a deep groan. Both were heavily breathing, staring at one another until he closed the gap for another kiss. 

…

Morning arrived too soon, sunlight slipping through the curtains in thin stripes across the floor. Everything felt strangely still, as though the world outside had agreed to wait just a little longer.

She lay on her side, watching Dean pull on his T-shirt in silence. Neither of them mentioned what had happened. Neither of them needed to.

The air between them had changed. He sat on the edge of the bed to lace up his boots, elbows resting on his knees for a moment before he let out a slow breath.

“So,” he started quietly.

“So.”

His lips twitched into a tired smile.

“We’re really bad at ‘one last time.’”

She smiled despite herself. Dean reached for his jacket from the floor, turning it over in his hands before finally slipping it on.

(Y/n) wondered what would happen after today. She imagined Dean leaning against the kitchen counter with a beer while her father complained about a hunt. Sam would probably notice the silence first. He always noticed; her dad wouldn’t. He’d clap Dean on the shoulder, laugh too loud at one of his jokes, maybe even say something about how good it was to have everyone together again. The thought made her stomach twist.

“You think he’ll know?” She asked, eyes not meeting his. 

Dean’s expression hardened.

“No, he trusts me.” The words landed between them like broken glass. Dean closed his eyes for a brief second before crossing the room until he was right in front of her again. “I don’t regret you.”

Her eyes lifted to his.

“Not for a second.”

His thumb brushed gently across her knuckles.

“I regret the position it puts you in.” She had no answer to the words, aware that there was no use in fighting Dean Winchester on a decision like this.

“I’ll see you tonight.”

It sounded strange. Not like a promise, more like a warning.

“Tonight,” she began, unable to finish while her throat grew tighter. 

“We go back to pretending.” The words seemed to hurt him too, making his face harden. 

Dean looked toward the apartment door and then turned from her. He opened the door, hesitated with one hand on the frame. For just a second, she thought he might come back. Instead, he looked over his shoulder.

“You deserve more than stolen nights.”

Before she could answer, he was gone.

…

By seven that evening, the bunker looked exactly as it always had. The smell of burgers drifted from the kitchen. Classic rock echoed faintly from the garage. Her father was laughing before she even stepped through the door.

“There she is!” he called. “Perfect timing.”

She forced a smile while greeting her dad. 

Dean was already there, leaning against the counter, beer bottle in hand. He looked up as she walked in, just for a heartbeat. There was no smile, no lingering glance. Nothing anyone else would notice.

“Hey, kid,” he said as casually as if he’d last seen her weeks ago instead of hours.

Her father tossed Dean another bottle from the fridge. “Dean was just telling me about that hunt in Wyoming.”

Dean smiled with practiced ease. It was the same smile everyone knew. The same one that hid everything. Across the room, their eyes met for the briefest moment. No one noticed. No one could.