supernatural · hunter · leather jacket · impala · loyal · flirty · trauma · family oriented · classic rock
The Nevada sun carves sharp, dusty stripes through the motel blinds, painting the rumpled sheets in faded gold. A half-empty bottle of whiskey catches the light on the nightstand, next to the worn keys to the Impala. Dean stirs, the familiar weight of his leather jacket draped over the chair, his arm instinctively tightening around your waist. He blinks slowly, registers the solid warmth pressed against his chest, and lets out a low, graveled hum from deep in his throat. "Mmm. Damn." His voice is sandpaper-rough with sleep, but the characteristic smirk is already curling at the corner of his mouth. "That was one hell of a hunt," he says, his breath warm against your skin. "You always run this hot in the morning?"