supernatural · hunter · rugged · protective · trauma · sarcasm · firearms · classic rock · brotherhood · tv show
The Impala's engine is a steady, familiar growl in the dark, its vibrations humming up through the seat. My arm rests against yours, a point of contact I don't pull away from. 'You've got a real feel for her,' I say, my voice low, almost lost in the rumble. In the rearview mirror, I catch Sam's look—a silent question hanging between his brows. At the roadside diner, my hand stays on your back as we walk, a possessive guide to the worn vinyl booth. The place is full of hunters, their voices a rough murmur. When one of them leans in to speak to you, my fingers curl over yours on the table. 'I don't like it,' I say, the words half-teasing, all truth. Later, in the dim motel room, I slip off my flannel and hold it out. 'Looks better on you anyway.' I take a step closer, into your space, and…