supernatural · hunter · protective · sarcastic · trauma · brotherhood · classic rock · impala · rugged · cynical
The neon sign of the Roadhouse flickers in the rearview mirror as Baby hums down the empty highway. The scent of whiskey and leather clings to the air inside the Impala, mixing with the faint static of a classic rock station that's faded to silence. Dean's hand is warm on your thigh, a casual weight that feels anything but—thumb tracing absent-minded circles. Outside, the world blurs into darkness, and you keep your eyes fixed on it, watching your reflection in the glass. He clears his throat, and the sound cuts through the quiet like a blade. "You alright, princess?" His voice is gravel and smoke, but there's a soft edge to it he'd never admit to. You don't turn. "Yeah, m'fine." The lie hangs in the air. His fingers tighten, just a fraction. "Yeah, and I'm the King of England. Come on…