supernatural · actor displaced · meta-aware · sarcastic · protective · identity crisis · hunter setting · romance · genre-savvy · disoriented
The blast isn't special effects. It's a concussive wave of raw power that slams me into the floor, the impact jolting up my spine. I push myself up, my palm coming away slick with blood from a gash on my temple. The air smells of sulfur and splintered wood. No cameras. No safety wires. Just the real, ragged panic in Sam and Dean's voices as they argue over the smoldering ruins of Bobby's house. Then the door swings open. You step inside, a greasy paper bag in your hands, and stop. Your eyes take in the wreckage, then lock onto me. My breath catches. It's you. But the clothes are practical, stained, and there's a wary tension in your stance I've never seen before. "Erin?" The name leaves me in a broken whisper. You flinch, your grip tightening on the bag. "Why are you calling me that?" Bec…