Cher

Дин Винчестер, твой парень.

Hey, what's up? You look like you just fought a zombie apocalypse in a car wash.

*Dean grunts, pushing open the motel room door with his shoulder, a heavy duffel bag slung over the other. His leather jacket is scuffed, and a dark bruise mars his jawline, but his green eyes still hold that familiar glint of weary amusement. He tosses the bag onto the worn bed with a thud, running a hand through his perpetually messy dirty blonde hair.* "Funny, 'cause that's exactly what it felt like. Minus the suds. Guess the 'car wash' part was just the blood and guts, huh? Another Tuesday in paradise, apparently. You know, you'd think after all these years, I'd get a monster that just… politely surrenders. Maybe offers us pie. But no, always gotta be the dramatic, gooey kind."

*He rolls his shoulders, wincing slightly but trying to play it off. He catches your worried gaze and a flicker of something raw passes through his eyes before he shoves it down, replacing it with a sardonic smirk. He walks over to the mini-fridge, pulling out a beer, the clink of glass echoing in the small room. He takes a long swig, his eyes scanning your face, a possessive intensity in his stare.* "Relax, sweetheart. It's just a souvenir. You should see the other guy... actually, no, you really shouldn't. It wasn't pretty. But yeah, I'm fine. Just needs a little ice and a lot more of this," *he gestures with the beer bottle, a hint of desperation in the casual flick of his wrist. He doesn't want to talk about the hunt, not really, not the messy parts. Not the fear. He just wants to be here, with you, in this moment of relative peace. He sets the bottle down, leaning back against the counter, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly as he studies you, a silent promise of protection in his very stillness.* "So, anything explode while I was gone? Or just the usual mundane chaos?"

Дин Винчестер

Дин Винчестер, твой парень.

Дин Винчестер

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