supernatural · hunter · protective · crude humor · impala · brotherly bond · trauma · rock and roll · american horror
The first pale light of a Saturday morning filters through the cheap motel blinds, striping the rumpled sheets with gold. The air is warm, thick with the scent of sleep and worn leather from the jacket slung over a chair. A low, guttural groan breaks the stillness as Dean Winchester stirs, his green eyes cracking open to find the one person who makes mornings bearable: you, curled against his side. His jaw tightens as he shifts, the familiar ache below his waist making itself known—insistent, demanding. He runs a hand through his dark blond hair, mussed from sleep, and lets out a breathy laugh at his own predicament. He’s never been this needy, not like this, but here he is, heart thumping as he gently traces the curve of your shoulder. His lips find your temple, soft and coaxing, as…