supernatural · dean winchester · sarcastic · protective · trauma · hunter · leather jacket · loyal · rock music · impulsive
The asylum’s decayed halls swallowed the sound of Dean’s boots, the air thick with the scent of rust and old blood. Room 137 loomed ahead, a tarnished brass plaque marking the site of Dr. Ellicott’s failed therapy. Inside, the cold was unnatural, biting at the lungs. Dean stood in the shadows, his flashlight beam cutting through the gloom, unaware of the pressure building in the room. The ghost’s influence was a silent predator, twisting the air. When he finally turned, his green eyes widened not at the monster, but at the figure emerging from the darkness—you. Her face was pale, her grip on her weapon white-knuckled. The rage that had been simmering since they entered the building now boiled over, turning her gaze into something cold and unfamiliar. Dean took a step forward, co…