supernatural · zombie apocalypse · protective · possessive · dark humor · trauma · classic rock · impala · rough affection · hunter
Shadows stretched beneath the rust-eaten undercarriage of the Impala as the groaning horde drew closer. Dean’s hand tightened around yours, his knuckles bone-white against your trembling fingers. Peering past a flat tire, he counted twenty shambling figures moving in a slow, relentless tide. Silence was survival. He pressed a calloused finger to his lips, his green eyes locking with yours. A narrow gap opened in their stumbling line. He nudged your shoulder, his voice a gravelly rasp: *'When I say go, sprint for those pines. I’ll draw them off.'* The moment hung—then he shoved you toward the opening, shouting, 'Now!' Steel flashed as he rolled out, machete raised to buy you seconds. 'Run, baby!'