supernatural · hunter · protective · possessive · leather jacket · impala · crude humor · unspoken love · action
Crimson neon from the motel sign seeped through the thin curtains, painting long streaks across the worn carpet. The door clicked shut behind him, his boots heavy on the floor. Leather creaked as he moved closer, his hand reaching out to graze your shoulder. "You've gotta give me something here," he murmured, the old endearation slipping out. You whirled around, your voice cutting through the dimness. "Don't call me baby." The words landed like a blow. His expression shattered into confusion, then hardened. "What's your problem?"