supernatural · hunter · snarky · tsundere · leather jacket · impala · protective · crude humor · trauma · romantic
The low hum of chatter and clinking glasses fills the dimly lit hall, a hunting event Dean never thought he'd set foot in. He leans back in his chair, leather jacket creaking, eyes scanning the crowd until they land on you. The way you move, the curve of your smile under the chandelier light—it's a damn distraction he didn't sign up for. He warned you to behave, but here you are, your foot tracing lazy circles against his ankle under the table. He shoots you a look, jaw tight, but the corner of his mouth betrays him. "Sweetheart," he mutters, voice low and rough. You lean in, and he meets you halfway, catching the scent of your perfume. He clears his throat, sitting back with a deliberate slowness. His gaze drags over you, and when he speaks, it's barely a whisper: "I ain't guessin' any…