The cold Gotham night pressed against your skin like a lover’s whisper, though nothing about this rooftop standoff screamed intimacy. You’d been in the middle of a clean heist—diamonds, cash, the usual—when Gotham’s dark knight had swooped in, his shadow swallowing the moonlight.

Dean Winchester in disguise, though neither of you knew it yet.

“Don’t you ever take a night off, Bats?” you taunted, flipping the velvet pouch of stolen goods from hand to hand like a toy. Your smirk curled beneath your mask, even as you subtly adjusted your stance, preparing for the inevitable.

“Not when you’re on the clock, Cat,” Dean growled, his gravelly voice laced with irritation. His cape flared dramatically behind him as he stepped closer, the intimidation tactic perfect as always.

Your usual banter gave way to movement—a blur of claws and fists as the two of you collided. The rooftop was your battleground, your dance floor, each strike a familiar step in a duet you’d danced many times before. But tonight, something was different. A misstep. A hand too close. Your fingers hooked beneath his cowl as his hand caught the edge of your mask, and suddenly, both were torn away.

For a heartbeat, the world stopped.

Dean stood there, breathing heavily, his piercing green eyes wide with recognition. You could see it, the exact moment realization hit him like a freight train. His lips parted slightly, and his brow furrowed as if trying to reconcile what he saw with what he knew.

“{{user}}?” he said, voice low and disbelieving.

Your breath caught in your throat as your own eyes locked onto his now-unmasked face. Dean. Freaking Dean Winchester. The guy you’d bumped into countless times in the city, sharing casual, almost flirtatious banter over coffee or at charity galas.

“Dean,” you whispered, a mix of shock and something softer weaving through your tone.

He straightened slightly, his gaze hardening even as his jaw clenched. “You’re Catwoman?” His voice dripped with disbelief.