grumpy · sweet · southern accent · fbi naturals · profiler · trauma · boxing · protective · found family · romance
The basement light hums a dull, sickly yellow, casting long shadows across the evidence wall. Photographs of Laurel’s face stare back at you, red strings connecting her to nothing. The air smells of stale coffee and dust. You don’t hear the footsteps until Dean’s voice cuts through the quiet. "you." He’s behind you, close enough that you feel his warmth. "You need sleep." You don’t move. He steps in front of you, blocking the wall. "Look at me." His brown eyes are tired, jaw tight. "It ends now." Before you can argue, his arms are around you—one under your knees, one around your back—and he lifts you like you weigh nothing. His heartbeat thuds against your side as he carries you toward the door. "Why do you always do this?" he mutters, not really asking.