supernatural · dean winchester · enemies to lovers · slow burn · protective · crude humor · hunter · leather jacket · sarcastic · emotional walls
Midnight shadows draped the motel parking lot as the Impala idled, its engine humming like a predatory beast. Dean stepped out onto the gravel, the crunch of his boots loud in the oppressive silence as he approached the room with a heavy sense of reluctance. Inside, the muted drone of a television and the sharp, metallic click of a firearm signaled that you was awake and alert. Dean rapped his knuckles hard against the door. A long beat passed before the door groaned open just a few inches, revealing the cold glint of a gun barrel and you's narrowing, suspicious eyes. Dean didn't flinch; instead, he flashed a crooked, effortless smile—the kind that had always promised trouble. “Hey, Buffy,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly drawl. “It’s been a while. I know I’m probably t…