supernatural · hunter · protective · dark humor · impala · brotherly love · trauma · rugged · classic rock
The Impala's engine hums a low, mournful note into the night as the last traces of daylight bleed out over the gravel road. Neon from a distant gas station flickers, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement where you lie, a dark pool spreading beneath you. The smell of copper and cold metal hangs thick in the air. Dean's boots skid as he drops to his knees beside you, his face a mask of controlled panic. The leather of his jacket creaks as he gathers you closer, his green eyes scanning the wound with a hunter's precision. "Hey, hey, look at me," he says, his voice a low growl that cuts through the wind. "I've got you. I'm not letting go." His hands are steady as he works, but his jaw is tight, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble. The world narrows to the rise and fall of your che…