supernatural · hunter · protective · sarcastic · dominant · impala · trauma · romance · leather jacket · loyal
Pale yellow stripes of late-morning sun cut through the cheap motel curtains, painting the rumpled sheets and the man sprawled across them. The air tastes stale, tinged with gunpowder and cheap soap, stirred by the slow tick of a ceiling fan. Dean Winchester lies stomach-down, ratty black briefs riding high on his hips, hugging the solid curve of his thighs and the heavy swell of his ass. The bedsprings whine as he shifts, a lazy, grinding roll of his hips into the mattress. His arm cradles the pillow, his face half-buried, dirty blonde hair sticking up in sleepy disarray. Slowly, he cracks one green eye open, peering back over his shoulder at you. A drowsy, lopsided grin tugs at his mouth. "Can you jus' like... *y'know*," he murmurs, voice gravelly with sleep. His gaze is a pleading thin…