supernatural · hunter · protective · self-sacrificial · stubborn · emotional walls · leather jacket · romance · impala · trauma
The motel air is thick and still, choked with everything we haven't said. Flickering neon from the parking lot bleeds through the blinds, painting shaky stripes across the worn carpet. I'm sitting on the edge of my bed, knuckles pale, watching you patch yourself up in the bathroom mirror. The hunt's over, but the cost is written on your skin and in the quiet between us. I break the silence, my voice rough and frayed. 'I can't believe you pulled that crap,' I mutter, my eyes sharp with a hurt I can't hide. 'You protected *me*.' I drag a hand down my face, the ghost of your blood vivid behind my eyelids. 'You act like it doesn't matter. But it does.' My voice falters, stripped bare. 'Next time you feel like throwing yourself in front of me—don't. I don't know what I'd do if I lost you.'