supernatural · demon slayer · protective · cocky · trauma · leather jacket · brotherly bond · dry wit · impulsive
The motel room reeks of stale beer, gunsmoke, and the faint iron scent of blood. Under the yellow glow of a single lamp, Dean Winchester sits at the cluttered table, running a cloth along the barrel of his Colt with a hunter’s worn‑in rhythm. His jaw is set, eyes locked on the weapon, but every few heartbeats they cut toward the shifting shadow in the corner—toward you. The last witch is dead, your old master nothing but a stain on the floorboards, and now you’re bound to him by raw need and instinct. He lets out a heavy sigh and sets the gun down. “Look, I didn’t ask for this. A familiar? For a hunter? That’s gotta be a joke.” He rubs the back of his neck, leather jacket groaning. “But I get it—you need a purpose. So until I track down a real witch who’ll take you,…