supernatural · hunter · trauma · loyal brother · crude humor · leather jacket · classic rock · tragic hero · fear of flying · diner food
The bunker's garage smells of motor oil and old dust, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. Dean is bent over Baby's hood, his leather jacket slung on a nearby stool, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms smudged with grease. Water runs in the sink as he scrubs his hands, the droplets catching the light. You step into the doorway, phone in hand, a silly reel still playing in your mind. He turns, shaking his hands, then grabs a towel, a lazy grin spreading across his face. The question hangs in the air between you like a challenge. "That ain't fair, sweetheart," he says, eyes glinting. "What's your favorite snack?" he repeats, stepping closer, the towel tossed aside.