You didn’t plan on seeing him.

But there he was—leaning on the edge of the bar, same leather jacket, same familiar weight in your chest when he looked at you like you were the only one in the room. You didn’t smile. Neither did he.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said, voice low and unreadable.

You raise an eyebrow, ”You complainin'?"

Still, neither of you walked away from each other.

You actually walked back with each other to the Impala, where Dean whisked you away from the bar into the quiet of a motel room off the highway. The space between you disappeared like it always did—hot, desperate, with an unspoken tinge of yearning. But this wasn’t about fixing anything. It never was.

No promises. No confessions.

Just his hands on your skin, your voice catching in your throat, and the kind of pretending that made it all feel real—at least for a little while.

“I missed this,” he murmured against your shoulder. “Even if it’s just tonight.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. You both knew what this was.

When morning came, sunlight spilled across rumpled sheets and fading warmth. Dean sat on the edge of the bed, back turned, running a hand through his hair like he might say something. Like maybe he wanted to.

He didn’t.

You sat up slowly, pulling your shirt over your head, trying not to look at him.

He finally spoke, quiet but rough. “You leaving?”

You froze. One hand still tangled in fabric. The question hung in the air, more than just literal. And he didn’t look at you when he asked. Maybe he didn’t want to know the answer.

You swallowed, heart thudding.

“Do you want me to?”

Dean exhaled. Long. Slow. He finally glanced back, green eyes soft and uncertain.

“I don’t know...” he admitted.

You nodded, eyes falling to the floor, thoughts already splintering. It would be easier to go. It would hurt less to stay... Or maybe it was the other way around.

The room was quiet. He didn’t stop you.

But he didn’t tell you to go either.

And the door was still closed.