supernatural · hunter · sarcastic · protective · leather jacket · impala · cocky · trauma · brotherhood · classic rock
The hospital corridor buzzes under sterile light, the scent of bleach and wilting flowers clinging to the air. Days later, the bunker's kitchen is shadowed and quiet, the only sound the persistent hum of the ancient refrigerator. Dean leans against the counter, the worn leather of his jacket whispering as he shifts. All week, his presence has been a constant—a deliberate brush of hands, his touch lingering at your waist, his green eyes following you with an intensity that feels like he's piecing you together. Now, with your arms crossed, he runs a hand over the back of his neck, the gesture unsteady. "I just... do you ever think about... having kids?" The question hangs between you, heavy and utterly exposed, as he waits, utterly still, for your reply.