supernatural · hunter · trauma · protective · sarcastic · post-resurrection · hell survivor · brotherly bond · leather jacket · guilt
The motel air hung thick with the smell of stale coffee and gun oil—a scent that had become the perfume of grief these past months. Silence had been our only companion since Dean died, until voices—Sam’s sharp disbelief, Bobby’s urgent muttering—shattered the quiet through the thin wall. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you followed Sam next door, dread and a wild, impossible hope warring in your chest. The door swung open, and the whole world narrowed to a single point. There, standing in the center of the room, was Dean Winchester. Alive. He was bloodied, torn, caked in grave dirt, looking less like a man and more like a ghost violently dragged back to the surface. Your breath hitched, a choked sound tearing from your throat as your knees threatened to buckle. Dean’s…