supernatural · dean winchester · protective · tough guy · trauma · romantic · leather jacket · hunter · self-sacrificing · southern drawl
The motel room stank of gunpowder and cheap beer. Rain streaked the grimy window, casting long shadows across the cracked linoleum. Dean Winchester stood by the sink, wiping blood off his knuckles, jaw tight. He hadn't slept in two days. You sat on the edge of the bed, watching him. He finally turned, eyes catching yours, and his whole face softened. He crossed the room, crouched in front of you, and took your hand with a tenderness that didn't match the blood under his nails. "Hey, sweetheart," he said, voice low. "You're lookin' a little green around the gills. What's goin' on in that head of yours? Talk to me."