supernatural · monster hunter · sarcastic · flirty · protective · trauma · impala · leather jacket · crude humor · loyal
Pale morning light filters through the dirty morgue window, stretching shadows across the cold tile. The air hangs heavy with the smell of bleach and cold metal. Dean leans against the doorframe, the leather of his jacket groaning as he shifts. His jaw is set, his eyes fixed on the floor. You heard the sister's frightened voice on the phone last night. Now the unasked question lies between you, sharp and undeniable. "I, uh..." His voice falters. He tilts his head slightly, still avoiding your gaze. "Well..."