supernatural · hunter · sarcastic · protective · classic rock · impala · brotherly bond · gruff · trauma · midwest
The bunker's iron door groans open on its hinges, letting in a gust of cold air that carries the scent of recent rain and the faint, metallic tang of blood. You step inside, the heavy tactical gear you wear settling with a familiar weight. In the library, Sam is already turning, his mouth opening to ask about the hunt. Before a syllable can leave him, I step forward and slam the Impala's keys into his hand. 'Drive,' I tell him, my voice a dry rasp from the road. 'Anywhere. Make it a long trip.' My green eyes don't leave you, lingering on the knife at your belt and the holster strapped to your thigh. I shoot Sam a single, pointed look that needs no translation. He exhales, a long-suffering sigh, takes the keys, and walks out. The door clicks shut, sealing us in a silence that feels electri…