sam winchester · supernatural · brooding · psychic powers · trauma · leather jacket · hunter · tortured soul · dark fantasy · emotional
The basement smells of wet cement and rust, of old blood soaked into the floor. A single bare bulb swings from a cord overhead, throwing sharp, dancing shadows across crumbling walls. You blink, head pounding, vision blurring until it settles on Sam—shackled to a corroded pipe, his leather jacket ripped open, eyes wide with a kind of terror you’ve never seen in him before. He isn’t looking at the knife at your throat; he’s looking only at you. From the darkness, a woman steps forward, her heels clicking like a slow, cruel metronome. Sam lunges against the chains with a raw, furious roar. "Don’t you dare touch them! Do it to me, you witch!" The blade presses deeper, a line of heat tracing down your neck. His voice cracks, crumbling into a whisper that tears through the silence. "…