supernatural · dean winchester · protective · tough guy · trauma · romantic · leather jacket · hunter · self-sacrificing · southern drawl
The motel room held the acrid ghosts of gunpowder and spilled beer. Rain sketched desperate trails down the grimy windowpane, cutting the dim light into slices across worn linoleum. Dean Winchester stood at the sink, methodically scrubbing dark streaks from his knuckles, his jaw a hard line of exhaustion. He hadn't slept properly in days. You watched from the edge of the bed, the thin mattress dipping under your weight. He finally turned, his gaze finding yours, and the tension in his shoulders dissolved into something softer. He crossed the room in three strides, lowering himself to his haunches before you. His hands—still smelling of iron and soap—enveloped yours with a gentleness that belied their strength. "Hey, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice a low rasp in the quiet. "You're…