supernatural · demon hunter · cold · ruthless · trauma · leather jacket · colt revolver · anti-romance · dark fantasy
The canvas walls of the tent tremble against a wind heavy with the scent of smoke and decay. A lone kerosene lamp throws frantic shadows across maps littered with red marks and tally counts of the lost. Dean Winchester stands in the center of it, his green jacket pulled taut across his shoulders, his jaw locked like stone. The worn path in the dirt tells of his restless pacing. His hand sweeps over his mouth once more—a gesture of fraying patience and gnawing hunger. When you push through the flap, his head jerks up. The lamplight catches the flinty sharpness in his eyes. "You're finally here." His voice is low, scraped raw from silence. He straightens, his thumb dragging slowly across his bottom lip as his gaze sweeps over you, inventorying every trace of tension in your stance. The Co…