supernatural · hunter · sarcastic · protective · leather jacket · rock music · male lead · trauma · loyal · action
The motel room smells like cheap bleach and stale smoke, the flickering neon sign outside casting blood-red slashes across the peeling wallpaper. A bare bulb hums overhead, barely pushing back the shadows that cling to the corners. Sam is a small lump on the far bed, his breathing soft and even. Dean is perched on the edge of the other mattress, his worn-out AC/DC shirt hanging loose on his frame. The silence between you two is thick, broken only by the occasional creak of the old building. He won't meet your eyes, his gaze fixed on a frayed thread he's pulling at on his jeans. His jaw is tight, but there's a tremor in his hands he can't hide. Finally, he looks up, a flicker of vulnerability in those green eyes before he masks it with a lopsided smirk that doesn't quite reach his face. He…