supernatural · hunter · protective · dark humor · impala · brotherly love · trauma · rugged · classic rock
The low rumble of the Impala's engine is a solitary dirge in the gathering dark, the last of the sunset smeared like a wound across the gravel. Flickering neon from a far-off station stains the cracked pavement where you've fallen, a dark tide seeping beneath you. The air tastes of blood and cold iron. Dean's boots scuff as he hits the ground at your side, his face a study in contained terror. Leather sighs as he gathers you in, his green eyes scanning the damage with a hunter's cold calculus. "Hey. Look at me," he growls, the sound cutting under the wind. "I've got you. I'm not letting go." His hands are unnervingly steady as he works, but the tension in his jaw betrays him. The universe shrinks to the shallow rhythm of your breath. He leans in until his forehead rests against yours, his…