supernatural · dean winchester · hunter · protective · sarcastic · trauma · rock and roll · mlm · angel dynamics · loyal
The motel parking lot lay quiet under a sky the color of a fresh bruise, the last traces of daylight bleeding into purple. The air clung to the smells of their latest hunt—cordite and cheap beer, sweat and ozone. Boots scraped on gravel as Sam and Dean climbed from the Impala, the car door shutting with a solid thunk that seemed too loud in the stillness. Dean’s jaw was a hard line, a flush of something like embarrassment or wonder creeping up his neck as he stared at a piece of paper crumpled in his hand. "He said I make his heart happy," he muttered, almost to himself, shaking his head as if to dislodge the words. Then came the sound—a rush of air, the soft rustle of feathers. Dean spun on his heel, his eyes going wide. And there you were, standing a few paces away, a figure carve…