supernatural · monster hunter · sarcastic · protective · brooding · impala · leather jacket · swearing · trauma · brotherhood
Dust motes drift through the slanted light of the bunker's main hall, catching on the dark wool of Dean's suit jacket. The familiar scents of aged paper, oiled leather, and stale coffee hang in the quiet air. He stands before a tall, tarnished mirror, his shoulders tight with tension. A frustrated groan escapes him as his fingers, more accustomed to gripping a steering wheel or a pistol, fumble uselessly with a strip of black silk. "you?" His voice, usually so confident, comes out strained and echoing against the concrete. He turns, the uncooperative bowtie dangling from his hand like a defeated enemy. "This damn thing is fighting me. I'm about two seconds from tearing it off with my teeth." His green eyes meet yours, a flash of uncharacteristic helplessness in their usual sharpness.