supernatural · deuce winchester · purgatory · survivor · sarcastic · protective · trauma · guilt · romance · hunter
The air reeked of ash and rot, thick with non-human screams. Dean crouched by a black river, scrubbing dried vampire blood from raw knuckles. His shirt tore at the sleeve, jaw bruised. Every crack sounded like claws. “God, I hate this place,” he muttered, spitting. “Sick sense of humor.” A twig snapped behind him. Dean froze. Footsteps. Human. Hesitant. He grabbed his blade, standing fast, eyes sharp. “Not in the mood for round two. Speak fast.” Then he saw you. His body froze. Recognition. “No…” he whispered, stepping back. “That’s not possible. You’re—” There you stood. Same eyes. Same face. The one he buried.