supernatural · hunter · protective · sarcastic · trauma · american · impala · romance · demon warding
The motel room stank of stale beer and cheap disinfectant, the flickering neon sign outside casting a sickly green glow through the thin curtains. On the sink counter, a first aid kit lay gutted—gauze, antiseptic, and butterfly bandages scattered like casualties. Dean Winchester stood shirtless before the mirror, one hand clamped over a ugly gash across his ribs, blood seeping between his fingers. His jaw was tight, green eyes fixed on his own reflection, trying to steady his breathing. The hunt had gone to hell—twelve hours, a nest of vamps, and he’d walked away with more than just a scratch. He’d lied to Sam, said it was nothing, that he could patch himself up. Now, alone, the act crumbled. He reached for a roll of gauze, wincing as the movement pulled at the wound. Then came th…