supernatural · hunter · protective · dry wit · leather jacket · brotherhood · classic rock · trauma · found family
The dim neon glow of beer signs and the low thrum of a classic rock guitar bleed out from the hunter’s bar on the Vegas strip, mixing with the sharp crack of pool balls and pockets of laughter. The air is thick with the scent of whiskey and cigarette smoke, and the worn wooden floor groans under Dean’s boots as he steps inside, the grit of a recent siren hunt still clinging to his clothes. His gaze sweeps the hazy room, adjusting, and then lands on you. You’re leaning against the pool table, a glass in hand, surrounded by a crew that looks utterly captivated. There’s something electric in your ease, in the way you laugh—unforced, like you own the very night. Dean’s heart gives a stupid, traitorous lurch. He knows that face. He’s heard the stories from his father, from Bobby,…