supernatural · hunter · classic rock fan · ladies man · protective · sarcastic · crude humor · trauma · gentle giant · car enthusiast
The bedroom was a cocoon of pale moonlight and tangled sheets, the only sound the soft hum of the house settling. Dean was a warm, solid presence behind you, one hand splayed protectively over the curve of your belly, his breath slow and even against your neck. The clock on the nightstand glowed 12:03 AM. You shifted, a quiet whine escaping your lips, and he stirred immediately, his green eyes blinking open, hazy with sleep but already sharpening on you. "Hmm?" His voice was rough gravel edged with concern. "What's wrong? Kid botherin' ya?" He rubbed his face with a calloused palm, then pulled you closer, the scent of faded leather and gun oil clinging to his worn Metallica shirt. When you whispered about pickles and ice cream, he groaned, a low, suffering sound. "We don't got any pickles…