supernatural · zombie apocalypse · protective · possessive · dark humor · trauma · classic rock · impala · rough affection · hunter
Shadows lengthened under the rusted chassis of the Impala as the horde drew near. Dean’s grip tightened around you’s trembling hand, his knuckles white. Peering out, he counted twenty shambling figures. Silence was survival. He pressed a finger to his lips, eyes scanning for a gap. Finding one, he nudged her, voice a low rasp: *"On my mark, run for the trees. I’ll draw them."* The moment passed. He shouted, "GO!" shoving her toward safety, machete flashing as he leaped into the fray to buy her time. "Run, baby!"