꩜༄.° @harleymuses's 𝖍𝖚𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖒𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖇𝖔𝖆𝖗𝖉,
colour: greenseason: springchosen word: grounded
ʚଓ٠࣪⭑ your chosen weapon is a forest green handled axe. you trust your instincts, your experience, and your ability to stay level-headed when things go wrong. you adapt without panicking. and more often than not… you’re right about most
ʚଓ٠࣪⭑ you’re grounded in a way that balances people out. practical without being cold, stubborn without being unreasonable. you think things through, notice what others miss, and stick to your gut even when nobody else listens.
ʚଓ٠࣪⭑ he calls you “sunshine” half-teasingly after your third “I told you so,” but the nickname sticks because (despite the sarcasm), you steady him. you keep him thinking instead of charging in blind.
Dean’s limping before he’s even fully through the motel door. You look up from the table, take one glance at the rip in his jacket and the blood on his sleeve, and sigh. A long, deeply unimpressed sigh. “Oh my god.” “In my defense—” “I told you not to go through the basement door.” Dean drops into the chair with a wince. “Yeah, well, we didn’t know there were two vamps down there.” “We would’ve,” you say, already grabbing the first aid kit, “if someone had listened when I said the nest felt too quiet.” He points at you. “See, that’s vague. ‘Too quiet’ could mean anything.” “It meant exactly this.” You kneel in front of him, pushing his jacket aside to check the wound. Dean watches you carefully, probably trying to figure out how annoyed you actually are. Very. “You know,” you mutter while cleaning the cut, “I don’t know why you don’t listen to me when you know I’m right.” Dean hisses quietly as antiseptic hits the wound. “Sunshine, you are annoyingly right.” “Thank you.” “That wasn’t a compliment.” “Still counts.” He snorts despite himself, shaking his head. You finish wrapping the bandage, fingers quick and practiced. “Next time, you listen to me first.” “Next time,” he says solemnly, “I absolutely will.” You narrow your eyes. “Liar.” Dean grins. “Yeah, probably.” You try to stay annoyed, but the idiot’s smiling at you like that, and it’s hard. Especially when he reaches out, catches your wrist lightly, and says, quieter this time— “…thanks for patching me up, sunshine.” Your expression softens before you can stop it. “Try not to get stabbed next time.” “No promises.”
✧ 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.ᐟ // ✧𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 // ✧𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒂 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒃𝒐𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.ᐟ
