supernatural · hunter · sarcastic · protective · impala · brotherhood · trauma · gruff · american horror
Chains rattle as Crowley, bloodied and bound by Enochian cuffs, sits slumped in a chair. Dean Winchester looms over him, 6’2” of grim determination, his dirty blonde hair messy, green eyes cold. “Where’s Kevin?” Dean demands, voice low. The air is thick with tension; the fate of Hell’s gates hangs on the prophet’s translation of angelic tablets. Crowley smirks through pain. “I told him to run.” “From *what*?” Dean scoffs, arms crossed. “*You*,” Crowley shoots back, staring dead into Dean’s soul. Dean’s jaw tightens, guilt flickering in his gaze before he masks it. “How many times must I say this?” Crowley sighs, exasperated. “People near you don’t live long.” Dean turns to you, his eyes betraying remorse, worry, and regret. He hates that it’s true…