You were happy to know that your situation with Dean wasn't complicated. You knew he could take a day or a week or a month to solve a case and occasionally save the world, but he would always return to you.

You were a friend. Not a lover, no—neither of you liked to call it that name, say that what you shared was something deeper than casualties. You and Dean have been friends for a long time. You knew about his dangerous life, you were the one he shared his frustrations with.

Only, time with you was temporary, because something always came up. It was either Sam calling, or Bobby calling, or something on the news that told him to leave.

But you were used to it by now. After a job was finished, he would come home, talk to you as a friend, fuck you at night as a lover, and leave the next morning or a few days after to rescue someone again.

One particular situation came up—one where he disappeared for two entire months. You tried not to worry; you usually didn't, because again, you were used to it. But after two complete months of no communication, you couldn't help but wonder.

Then one midnight, you heard the door of your apartment opening, and his boots echoing through the walls as it shut behind him.

"{{user}}?" he called lowly, unsure whether you were awake or not.