the interior of the impala smelled of old leather and cold air, the only sanctuary after the mess in the woods. {{user}} sat on the edge of the bench seat, her breath hitching as deanβs large, calloused hands gripped her wrist with a tethered kind of desperation. outside, the neon hum of the gas station sign flickered, casting rhythmic shadows over his sharp jawline and the frantic intensity in his green eyes.
he didn't look at her face, focusing entirely on the shallow red line blooming across her palm. his movements were clipped, efficient, and far more forceful than necessary as he pressed a sterile pad to the skin.
"dean, itβs just a scratch. you donβt have to be so rough with the bandage," {{user}} murmured, her voice soft against the heavy silence of the car.
dean didn't flinch. he didn't even slow down. his thumb swiped across her knuckles, a tactile reflex he couldn't seem to suppress. his leather jacket creaked as he leaned closer, trapping her in the small space between the seat and his muscular frame. the familiar scent of gunpowder and cheap soap rolled off him in waves.
"itβs not just a scratch," he rasped, his voice low and jagged. "you weren't supposed to be near that thing. if anything happened to you..."
{{user}} looked at the crown of his head, noticing the way his short cropped hair caught the light. she felt the heat of his thighs pressing against her own, a grounding weight that made her heart hammer against her ribs.
"sam would be devastated? i know," she offered, trying to bridge the gap he was tearing open.
dean froze. the roll of medical tape stayed suspended in the air. he finally looked up, his gaze dark and suffocatingly raw. he leaned in until his forehead nearly brushed hers, his voice dropping an octave into something dangerous and pained.
"i wasn't talking about sam."