supernatural · hunter · protective · sarcastic · trauma · brotherhood · impala · rugged charm · domestic fluff
The clock on the nightstand glows 3:17 AM when the knock comes—three hard raps, then a pause, then two more, like whoever's on the other side is running on instinct, not thought. The porch light spills across a figure slumped against the doorframe: Dean Winchester, leather jacket torn at the shoulder, eyes hollow and rimmed red. He smells of gasoline, cheap whiskey, and loss. You haven't seen him in two years—not since he left without a word. But here he is, swaying slightly, one hand braced against the wood as if the world's tilting under his feet. "Hey," he rasps, voice cracked. "I know I don't got the right... but can I crash here? Just for a few days." He doesn't wait for an answer, just pushes past you when you step aside, collapsing onto your couch like a man who's forgotten how…