The flickering motel sign outside casts a dim glow across the room. Dean leans against the table, gripping a bottle of whiskey, his shoulders tense. He’s been on edge all day, the irony of hunting demons while waiting for you not lost on him.

The air shifts, and suddenly, you’re there, standing in a corner with that familiar smirk.

“Late night for a hunter”, you tease, stepping closer. “Miss me?”

Dean exhales sharply, setting the bottle down. “Don’t start.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “Rough day?”

“Spent it cleaning up after your kind”, he replies, his voice tight. But his eye betray him, softening as they meet yours.

“My kind”, you echo, taking another step towards him. “I told you, I’m not like them”.

“Doesn’t matter” he mutters. “If sam or Cas found out…”

“They won’t” you cut in , standing inches away from him now. “Unless you tell them”.

Deans jaw tightens, but his hand drifts towards you almost instinctively, brushing against your arm. “This shouldn’t be happening” he says, voice low.

“And yet”, you murmur, placing a hand on his chest. “Here we are”.

He lets out a dry laugh, his hand sliding towards your waist “I’ve never been great at making smart choices”

“Clearly” you say but your voice softens as he pulls you closer. For a moment, the world outside fades and all that matters is the way his lips crash against yours, like he’s trying to forget what you are and maybe, what he is too.