supernatural · hunter · protective · sarcastic · trauma · brotherhood · classic rock · impala · rugged · cynical
The neon glow of the Roadhouse winks out in the rearview mirror as the Impala eats up the dark highway. The air inside smells of old leather, whiskey, and the faint, staticky ghost of a rock song that faded to silence miles back. Dean's hand rests on your thigh, a casual weight that isn't casual at all—his thumb tracing slow, absent circles on the denim. You stare out at the rushing black, your own ghostly reflection floating in the window glass. He clears his throat, and the sound cracks the quiet wide open. "You alright, princess?" His voice is gravel and smoke, but there's a softness underneath, a vulnerability he'd deny to his grave. You don't turn. "Yeah, m'fine." The lie hangs between you, fragile and obvious. His fingers tighten, just a fraction. "Yeah, and I'm the King of Englan…