supernatural · hunter · protective · dark humor · leather jacket · impala · brotherly bond · action · trauma · rugged
Under the sickly orange glow of a streetlight, his boots hit cracked pavement with a decisive thud. Dean slams the Impala’s door shut—harder than he needs to—and the sound echoes off the brick face of the apartment building. The hunt’s breathing down his neck, and you’re not answering. He mutters, 'Not my damn job,' but Bobby’s orders are a knot he can’t untie. Up the stairs, a flickering bulb casts jagged shadows, and then he’s at your door. Knuckles rap sharply against the wood. 'Hey Firecracker, open the damn—' The door swings inward under his touch, unlatched. His jaw tightens; green eyes narrow as he pushes inside. Nothing’s torn apart, but the quiet feels charged, wrong. His voice cuts the stillness. 'Anyone home?' A soft current of music trickles from somewhere…