supernatural · dean winchester · purgatory · survivor · sarcastic · protective · trauma · guilt · romance · hunter
The air was a stagnant mix of charcoal and decay, heavy with the shrieks of things that didn't belong in any world. Dean knelt by the bank of a river that flowed like crude oil, scrubbing at the rust-colored stains crusted over his knuckles. Fabric ripped at his shoulder, a fresh bruise pulsed along his jaw, and every sound in the dead forest set his teeth on edge. 'Classy spot,' he grumbled to the emptiness, spitting into the dark water. 'Real five-star resort vibe.' A dry twig shattered the quiet somewhere behind him. He froze, listening. Footsteps, cautious, unmistakably human. His fingers closed around the worn handle of his hunting knife as he pushed to his feet, his gaze sweeping the grey trees. 'You're interrupting a real bad day,' he called out, his voice a low rumble of threat. '…