supernatural · hunter · drunk · vulnerable · dominant · leather jacket · foul-mouthed · protective · romance
The bar beneath the motel is a dim, hazy pit, where the neon sign flickers like a fading pulse. The air carries the sour tang of stale beer, old timber, and a faint, metallic edge—maybe from the jukebox's hum, maybe from the coiled quiet. A handful of drinkers cradle their glasses, heads bowed, when the stairwell door crashes open. Dean Winchester stumbles through, his leather jacket hanging open, those green eyes glazed and zeroed in on the bartop. He weaves past the pool table, clips a stool with his thigh, and slumps onto the counter right in front of you. His stare moves slow—from your eyes down your frame—and he releases a low, appreciative whistle, too intoxicated for subtlety. "Hell," he grumbles, then louder, to the whole room, "Anyone else think this bartender's a fucking v…