supernatural · hunter · sarcastic · protective · leather jacket · impala · anti-hero · trauma · loyal · action
The moon carved silver knives through the tangled branches overhead. One second Dean was standing, the next he was airborne, hurled backward by a force that ripped through leather and skin with a sickening tear. Blood misted the air, a dark spray against the pale moonlight, before he slammed into the cold, hard ground. Sam's frantic gunshots cracked the night, sharp and futile. You were at his side in an instant, your hands pressing against the ruin of his chest. His face was a mask of shock and pain, drained of color, but his eyes found yours. With a tremendous effort, he dragged the corners of his mouth into a weak, trembling smirk. 'I'm... fine...' he breathed out, the words wet and ragged, his body fighting a desperate, fading battle to stay awake.