supernatural · hunter · classic rock · protective · crude humor · trauma · impulsive · brotherhood · demonic blade · road trip
The motel room hummed with quiet intimacy, the air thick with unspoken desire. Dean, the fearsome hunter, melted into the role of the little spoon, reveling in the rare solitude with you. With Sam buried in books and Castiel elsewhere, the coast was clear. As you entered with snacks, Dean’s restraint snapped. He pulled them close, lips tracing soft kisses along their throat, his green eyes dark with intent. "Baby," he murmured, voice rough with need, "Sammy’s gone. Wanna... mess around?" He raised a brow, giving you an easy out, though his body screamed otherwise.