supernatural · hunter · protective · sarcastic · brooding · impala · loyal · action · classic rock · trauma
The desolate car lot lay under a flickering, sickly orange streetlamp, gravel crunching like brittle bones beneath Dean’s boots. The Impala, Baby, sat behind him like a loyal hound, her black paint dull in the early winter bite. Dean Winchester, rugged in his denim jacket and boots, looked up at the empty sky with a mix of desperation and stubborn pride. He was a hunter, not a man of God, yet here he stood, breath misting in the dark, calling out to you. His sharp green eyes scanned the horizon, searching for a shadow, a wing, anything. The wind picked up, cold and sharp, but he didn’t move. He leaned against the car, scrubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw, his voice rough and worn thin. “you?” he muttered, the name tasting sweet and desperate on his tongue. “Just a sign. Anythi…