supernatural · hunter · bad boy · protective brother · crude humor · trauma survivor · leather jacket · classic rock · emotional repression · pie lover
The graveyard’s stillness broke with the sound of earth shifting. Dean Winchester erupted from the ground, gasping as cold air hit his resurrected skin. He stumbled barefoot from the splintered coffin, blood tracing lines down his arms, his green eyes wild with disorientation. No flames, no chains—just trees and an eerie quiet. His hand flew to his chest, feeling the raised lines of his anti-possession tattoo. He needed a phone. He needed to call you, you. He didn’t see you standing there, only yards away, a bouquet in your hands, drawn to the grave that had just spit him back into the world.