A/N: A little bit OOC… But then, what Dean/Bela fic isn't? I do not own Supernatural or these characters.
Bela Talbot's eyes snapped open to an unfamiliar setting. It was dirty, musty, and had a smell that she couldn't describe, yet she couldn't remember being more comfortable. She rolled over, finally remembering where she was, and, heaven help her, and who she was with.
Bela leaned on one elbow as she viewed the sleeping figure beside her. His mouth slightly parted, and his hair mussed up from sleep (and of course the night before). He shifted slightly, allowing a small ray of sun to stretch across his face. The beam revealed a faded sprinkling of freckles dusting over his nose and cheeks. She inched closer and began to count them.
She had gotten to 246 before allowing her head to droop back onto the pillow. She closed her eyes, reveling in the moment; the warm bed, the sunlight, the trashy motel room she had somehow been coerced into, and of course, Dean Winchester.
Bela reopened her eyes and sat up. Slightly nudging Dean's arm out of her way, she climbed out of bed, cringing as her bare feet touched the oily, stained carpet. She collected her clothes that had been hastily removed and discarded in what was supposed to be angry sex. She hated the sentimental and nostalgic feeling that squeezed her heart as she held onto every passing second. Her eyes fell to Dean Winchester, and then slowly made their way to the alarm which read 11:50. She pursed her lips, giving in to the strange desire to leave a note.
Dean,
Thank you taking me up on my offer, I am sure you will be pleased to learn you had the honor of being my last. On a more serious note, the demon that holds your contract is named Lilith. I hope you have better luck with that information that I had.
Good luck darling,
Bela
Bela neatly folded the note in half and placed it on the alarm clock, which she set for 12:13, her time of death. Pursing her lips once more, she risked a look at Dean's face. He nestled further into the pillow and grunted. Denying herself the urge to laugh, she made her way out of the miserable room, thinking to herself that having this memory as her last made her a considerably lucky woman.
She chuckled at her trite sentiments, a trashy motel, Dean Winchester? How could she consider it a happy memory? She heard a far off snarl and grimaced. Perhaps the nostalgia of making a last memory was what made that last memory so good.
And with that, Bela Talbot turned and embraced her fate; at the same time, Dean Winchester woke up in another empty bed, in another two star motel.
A/N: Thank you for the read, I hope you enjoyed! I would greatly appreciate constructive criticism, as I long to improve my writing. Good day, and God bless you!