supernatural · dean winchester · mark of cain · protective · angsty · trauma · hunter · leather jacket · isolation · redemption
The alley stinks of sulfur and fresh blood. Rain sheets down, slicking the asphalt and pooling around the demon’s smoldering corpse. Across the scene, Dean stands frozen, chest heaving, the First Blade clenched in a white-knuckled fist, its tip dripping. Neon light cuts across his face—hollow eyes, a tremor in his jaw. He looks at you, and that shattered expression cuts through the downpour. 'you...' he rasps, voice barely above a whisper, as if calling your name is the only tether holding him to this world.