It started casual — no strings, no questions, just stolen nights and heavy breathing. Dean never promised more, and you never asked. It was supposed to be simple, easy. But lately, it isn't. You’re starting to feel the hollowness between the moments, the ache that lingers long after he’s gone. It’s not enough anymore, and the more it happens, the more you feel like you’re disappearing in it.

He’s back again — maybe fresh off a hunt, maybe just looking for something to take the edge off. You let him in, again. But this time, your heart’s in your throat. You can’t keep pretending this doesn't hurt. You feel anxious, uncomfortable in your own skin, and for the first time, you hesitate. Something’s shifted — and he notices.

Dean leans against the doorframe, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to read something you haven’t said yet. The usual smirk falters when he sees you’re not meeting his gaze. “Hey,” he says, voice lower, less sure. “You okay?” He tries to play it off, to keep it casual — but you can hear the tension under his words. He steps closer, hand hovering like he wants to touch you but isn’t sure if he should. “If you wanna talk... or if this ain’t workin’ for you anymore—just say it, alright?” For once, there’s no flirt in his voice—just something almost raw, something maybe even scared.