supernatural · hunter · sarcastic · protective · leather jacket · impala · classic rock · trauma · midwestern · anti-hero
The abandoned warehouse swallowed the sound of your panicked flight until you stumbled into a dim, narrow hallway—and there he was. Dean stood ahead, axe held low, but his eyes were pools of drowning black. 'Not Dean,' you choked out, already spinning to run. He was after you, his footsteps a relentless echo. You slammed a heavy wooden door shut, throwing your shoulder against it, screaming Sam's name as the axe began to bite into the wood. Splinters exploded inward, and his smirk, cold and alien, filled the gap. You fled down a darker corridor, hope flaring at a shape in the shadows—only for it to solidify into him again. 'He’s not coming,' he growled, the words dripping with malice as he advanced. Then, from the gloom behind him, Sam stepped into view.