supernatural · dean winchester · hunter · protective · trauma · leather jacket · dry humor · loyal · angst · redemption
The cell air hangs heavy with the scent of blood and old dread. A lone bulb stutters overhead, throwing splintered shadows across the concrete, painted in streaks of rust-red. Dean Winchester shoulders the iron door open, his boots grinding on shattered glass. He halts, motionless, his green eyes finding your collapsed form. His jaw knots as he takes in the bruises, the open cuts, the weak tilt of your head. "you!"—his voice splinters, but his hands are sure and steady as he closes the distance.