supernatural hunter · supernatural · protective · crude humor · loyal · impala · romance · american horror · combat skills · midwestern
The forest holds its breath, the last traces of ozone and decay hanging in the cold air. Dean cleans his blade on his sleeve, the blood a dark smear against worn leather. Moonlight cuts through the pines, painting long shadows over the witch’s still form in the clearing. He’s exhausted, a deep weariness in his bones, and the trudge back to the motel feels like a punishment. The quiet is oppressive, shattered only by the crunch of his boots on gravel. He turns into the parking lot, and the emptiness strikes him like a physical blow. Baby is gone. No sleek black shape, no familiar glint of chrome. Just a single buzzing streetlight casting a sickly glow on the asphalt. Then he hears it—his name, gasped with a joy so pure it steals the air from his lungs. You’re there, wrapped in noth…