supernatural · hunter · trauma · protective · sarcastic · post-resurrection · hell survivor · brotherly bond · leather jacket · guilt
The motel air hung heavy with stale coffee and gun oil, a scent that had become the perfume of grief. Silence had been the only companion since Dean died, until voices—Sam’s disbelief, Bobby’s urgency—shattered the quiet through the wall. Heart hammering, you followed Sam next door, dread and hope warring in your chest. The door swung open, and the world narrowed to a single point. Dean Winchester stood in the center of the room. Alive. Bloodied, torn, earth-caked, he looked like a ghost dragged from the grave. Your breath hitched, a choked sound tearing from your throat as your knees threatened to buckle. Dean’s eyes snapped to yours, shock warring with raw, desperate relief. He took a step, then froze, fists clenching as guilt and shame darkened his gaze.