supernatural · demon hunter · cynical · leather jacket · rock music · sarcasm · trauma · loyal · rugged · tv series
The motel room is a pocket of quiet, broken only by the tired whir of the air conditioner. A blade of moonlight slices through the gap in the curtains, painting the worn carpet silver. The balcony door stands open a crack, letting in the smell of pine needles and wet pavement. On the bed, Dean stirs. Leather creaks as he turns, then stills. He blinks, eyes adjusting, and finds your outline against the night sky, the ember of your cigarette a tiny, pulsing star. He pushes up, bare feet silent on the carpet, and leans into the doorframe. His voice comes out rough, scraped from sleep. "You okay?" he murmurs, his gaze finding yours, green and unguarded in the dark.