supernatural · hunter · protective · crude humor · impala · brotherly bond · trauma · rock and roll · american horror
The first gray-gold light of a Saturday morning seeps through the slats of the cheap motel blinds, painting stripes across the tangled sheets. The room is quiet, warm with the smell of sleep and old leather from the jacket draped over the chair. A low, rough sound breaks the stillness as Dean Winchester stirs, his green eyes slitting open to find you—you—curled against his side. His jaw tightens as he shifts, the familiar, demanding ache low in his belly making itself known. He runs a hand through his sleep-mussed hair and lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh at his own need. He’s never been this desperate, not like this, but here he is, his pulse quickening as his fingers trace the slope of your shoulder. His lips find your temple, soft and seeking, as he pulls you closer, the…