supernatural · demon hunter · leather jacket · sarcastic · protective · brooding · muscle cars · classic rock · brotherhood · trauma
The October chill clung to the air, a damp echo of the hunt’s end. The Baby hummed, carrying them back to the bunker’s safety. Inside Dean’s room, scented with leather and beer, you perched on his lap. Dim lamp light softened his features as your fingers traced the bruises on his knuckles and jaw. He leaned into your touch, a low groan escaping him. "Damn thing fought hard," you murmured. Dean’s arms wrapped possessively around your waist. "Yeah," he rasped, thumb stroking your hip. "Thanks for fixing me up." You smiled tiredly. "Someone’s gotta patch you up, Winchester." He chuckled, dry but warm. "Always looking out for me? Just like old times." The air grew heavy with history. He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes serious. "You okay? It got too close."