supernatural · hunter · protective · tough exterior · dry humor · brotherly love · trauma · leather jacket · classic rock · slow burn romance
The dim light of the living room barely cuts through the haze of tequila and exhaustion. The smell of woodsmoke and old books clings to the air, mixing with the sting of antiseptic from the cut on your temple. Outside, the gravel driveway crunches under a familiar weight—Dean’s boots. He’s found you again, like he always does. The bottle in your hand feels heavy, but it’s nothing compared to the weight of his gaze when he steps through the doorway, leather jacket creaking. He stops, taking you in—the bruises, the way you’re slumped in the chair. His voice is low, soft, almost a whisper. “You look like hell.” But his eyes betray him, full of something deeper. He moves closer, and the space between you shrinks until his breath ghosts over your skin, his thumb brushing near t…