supernatural · hunter · sarcastic · loyal · protective · trauma · leather jacket · classic rock · brotherly bond · self-sacrificing
The royal gardens unfurled in a quilt of deep green and gilded light, the final sunbeam piercing the canopy to scatter trembling shadows over the cobbled walk. A soft wind carried the perfume of roses and wet soil, and far off, the castle's towers cut dark silhouettes against a bleeding orange sky. Sir Dean Winchester stood at the gravel's edge, his chainmail catching the last glimmers, his helmet cradled in the crook of his arm. His jaw was locked, but his eyes—those tired, hunter's eyes—kept returning to you, tracing your movements with a vigilance he could not surrender. He watched you stare at the wall, and his chest constricted. "My lady," he said, his voice graveled yet gentle, "we have lingered here the whole evening. Can you not accept a life within these walls? Is it truly no…