Dean's hands slid across her silky-smooth skin, pulling her hips flush with his. Her lips tasted like tea and spearmint tic-tacs, which mingled oddly with the taste of Jack in his mouth, but it didn't bother him much, one hand tangled in her hair, the other sitting on the curve of her hips. "Bela…" He groaned into the kiss, hungry and desperate. It didn't take her long to fall back on the bed, dragging him on top of her, top off, bra on, lips trailing across her collarbone, down the tops of her breasts, then back up, catching her mouth again. Dean was skilled with his tongue, dancing around hers in perfect time. It wasn't long before they were both undressed, grinding against each other under cheap motel sheets, moaning each other's names. It was a one-night stand; a simple way to leave after Sam had jumped in the pit. They'd go on their separate ways in the morning, even if they did sleep all night, and forget this ever happened.
Or, at least that's how one-night stands were supposed to work. Instead, Bela stuck around, riding with him in the Impala from one shady motel to the next, chain smoking menthols until she probably realized that she shouldn't, neither ever saying much to the other, though neither ever left either. They'd blow by green lights, never really checking to see if they were red, never did anything in particular, fucked when they needed it, and would lay in bed to the last of their clothes, whether or not they needed it.
Bela slept a lot more than Dean, though she probably had more nightmares than him. She was used to staying up until dawn and sleeping until noon, but once she started to go to bed earlier, her wake up time never adjusted. Sometimes Dean wondered if he should bring her breakfast when she woke up every morning, 12 Noon sharp, but always decided against it. She was just around because Sam wasn't, and there wasn't any reason for them to act like it was anything more than it was.
Legs around his waist, back pinned against the wall, hands in hair, hands grabbing ass, hot panting from being out of breath. They had finally reached a rhythm in their relationship, if you could call it that, a game of Twister of sorts. Hand here, heart here, don't try right foot and left hand red if your left foot's on yellow and your right hand's under someone because everything'll crash sooner or later, and you'll end up more bruised than comforted. It's never a laugh when everything comes crashing down; when Bela screams at Dean and he gets so angry that he might just get in his car and leave.
But, he never did. He couldn't. She was all he had now, and he was all she ever had. Part of him knew it would shatter her, as much as they liked to pretend it wouldn't. But, part of him also knew that it would shatter him as well, as much as they liked to pretend it wouldn't. When he got so pissed at her for smoking indoors. "Why do you have to smoke inside? Or smoke at all? Menthols, really?" Or she at him for leaving his shit everywhere. "Why can't you clean up after yourself? Someone's going to trip all over your bloody shit. And then what would you do?"
The answers to their questions were simple. "Because I like to." And "Because I don't want to." They were both creatures of habit, neither wanting to give anything up, but when Dean wore white, and Bela black, something was going down. Usually one of them on the other.
Hands holding back hair, hands rubbing soothingly on her back, trying to comfort her in a fleeting moment of sympathy for Bela, scared and sick over a motel room toilet, hacking up everything that she tried to eat that wasn't crackers and milk. They both thought it was just a nasty stomach flu, until it went on for a week, a week and a half. Truth be told, they both knew, deep down, just neither wanted to admit it. When the stick turned blue, Bela just cried and Dean just held her, wondering which one of them was more scared, which one blamed the other more. Who should have been more careful, whose fault it really was. It was settled after a while that no one was to blame, but Bela had to stop smoking.
Bela wasn't too happy with that idea.
They didn't know what it would be, boy, girl, or somewhere in-between, but they knew that they wouldn't name the baby after Sam. He'd make some pouty face and laugh about being upset that they wasted a name, but deep down he'd be honored, maybe a little jealous that he didn't get to Bela first. They chose Catherine for a girl, and Connor for a boy, only a few months to wait.
Eyes holding back tears, fists in walls, knuckles bloody, tears finally fall. Bela slid down the wall after coming back from the hospital, feeling empty and sick to her stomach. There was no more baby, lost in a fit of bad biology—a game of genetic Russian roulette that just had to shit on her once again. Something that could be hers never was, and something that was could never be. Dean would never settle down with her, even if he held her through the night and cried with her, even though she suspected it to be for different reasons. He'd never tell her, but they weren't any different. He had wanted the child as much as her.
No one knew what to do when Sam came back, finding them in one of the motels, Bela's head resting on Dean's bare chest. He acted surprised, took a few steps back and covered his eyes, but he wasn't very shocked at all. Sam, always ahead of the game, had seen Bela and Dean coming from a mile away. Part of him was glad Dean had found happiness, but the other part hurt because he wasn't there for Dean to talk to.
Needless to say, Sam never found out about the baby.
Smoke from Bela's menthols swirled around the dusty air. She was still there, even after the two years since reuniting with Dean, riding in the backseat of the Impala and following them to whatever shady motel they decided to stay in without a peep. Gone were the days of Prada and bubble baths and silk sheets and money, even if she could still afford them, she didn't deserve them. So, she just sat in silence, flicking ash onto the coffee table, waiting for someone to say something more.