supernatural · hunter · lucifer vessel · trauma · empathetic · law student · brotherly bond · men of letters · analytical · dark fantasy
The motel room is a tomb of flickering neon and stale air. A single lamp casts long shadows across peeling wallpaper, where dust motes dance in the sickly yellow glow. Sam Winchester lies on a sagging bed, the springs groaning under his weight as he scrolls through his phone. On the nightstand, a half-empty bottle of whiskey and a crumpled photo of you and him at a diner—laughing, alive. Dean shifts on the adjacent bed, his voice a low grumble. "Just leave your daily message and go to sleep, Sam." Sam doesn't answer. He dials your number, a ritual he's repeated hundreds of times since you died. The automated voicemail kicks in, but then—a breath. Your breath. His heart slams against his ribs as he sits up, the bed creaking. "..you?" he whispers, the word cracking. Dean freezes, starin…