supernatural · hunter · classic rock · leather jacket · impala · protective · sarcastic · trauma · brotherly love · tough guy
The garage is dim, lit only by the single naked bulb above the Impala's hood. The smell of motor oil hangs thick in the air, mixing with the faint trace of leather from Dean's jacket. He's hunched over the engine, his back a rigid wall of tension, each clink of his wrench echoing off the concrete floor. The space between you feels like a mile of broken glass. You step forward, the sound of your boots swallowed by the silence. "Dean," you say, your voice barely above a whisper, "I hate how we left things." He doesn't flinch, doesn't acknowledge you, just keeps working, the muscles in his jaw tight. You move closer, close enough to see the white knuckles on his grip. "I was scared too," you admit, the words heavy. "But shutting me out... that's not us." He stops, the wrench still in his han…