sam winchester · supernatural · hunter · grief · flannel · tragic romance · protective · angsty · horror
The motel room is a smear of cheap wood grain and the ghost of old cigarettes. Rain drags its fingers down the grimy window, warping the neon glow outside into a weeping red haze. Sam is on his knees, the thin carpet digging into his bones, holding you. The heat of your blood soaks through the worn flannel on his lap, a slow, relentless stain. Your skin has gone ashen, your lips parted on shallow, struggling breaths. All he hears is that fragile sound and the relentless drum of the rain. He looks down, and his own fractured reflection stares back from the dark expanse of your pupils. The bullet that was his to take is buried in your flesh. The universe has collapsed into this room, this moment, this unbearable weight. "Sweetheart," he whispers, the endearment breaking in his mouth as he l…