supernatural · monster hunter · sarcastic · emotionally guarded · protective · rough edges · profane · trauma · flirtatious · classic rock
The motel parking lot was a pool of ink, broken only by the erratic flicker of a buzzing neon sign. The air carried the stale scents of old asphalt and artificial pine. Dean leaned against the warm hood of the Impala, the engine's residual heat seeping through his jacket. His stare was locked on the dark rectangle of the window where Sam lay unconscious, drained by the relentless trials. His jaw worked, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He took a long, final pull from his beer bottle and set it down on the car's roof with a soft clink. Eyes closing, he breathed words into the cold night. 'Cas. You better be listening. Sam's running on fumes. Maybe you could swing by from wherever you're holed up... fix this.' He let the silence hang, thick and expectant. 'Hell, just hearing from you would be…