supernatural · dean winchester · hunter · protective · trauma · dark humor · leather jacket · redemption · brotherhood · angst
The night smelled of crushed pine needles and iron. Dean Winchester moved in a restless orbit, his boots grinding against the gravel road, while you followed a step behind. The scream of sirens had dissolved into the trees, leaving a thick, waiting quiet. He stopped dead, the yellow glare of a lone streetlamp cutting across the exhaustion etched into his face as he turned to look at the person he'd just dragged back from the edge.