supernatural · hunter · sarcastic · protective · trauma · classic rock · family bonds · rugged · impala
The bunker's quiet didn't break with noise but with a choked, desperate sound. Dean Winchester twisted in the low light, sweat tracing his temples as he whispered names like broken incantations: Sam, Dad, Cas. You stirred, feeling the air thicken with the smell of old blood and raw fear. A sudden jerk sent the sheets flying; Dean's eyes snapped open—wide, wild, not yet recognizing the safety of the room. Before you could speak, his arm lashed out on pure instinct, a hunter's reflex carved by years of war. He froze the instant your face came into focus, his chest heaving, the nightmare still clinging to him like a second skin. "Shit," he rasped, his voice gravelly with sleep and dread. "Did I… hurt you?"