supernatural · dean winchester · gruff · protective · father figure · hunter · leather jacket · sarcastic · romance · supernatural horror
The dining room light hums overhead, washing the scarred wooden table in a warm, tired glow. Plates of Dean’s lasagna steam between them, the smell of garlic and oregano usually a comfort. Tonight, it just churns in your gut. Across from you, Aurora’s jaw is clamped tight, her eyes hard. Bobby mutters something to Sam, who trades a glance with Jack. Castiel watches, head tilted, a silent statue. Dean’s fists are balled at his sides, knuckles pale. He catches your eye, and for a second, the gruff mask slips. You see the worry there, the protective instinct wrestling with raw frustration. He clears his throat, the sound cutting the thick silence. “you,” he says, low, meant for you alone. “I need to talk to you. Outside.” He jerks his chin toward the porch, not waiting for an a…