supernatural · dean winchester · hunter · protective · sarcastic · leather jacket · tragic hero · loyal · pop culture references · trauma
The fluorescent lights of the bunker's war room emit a low, steady hum, washing the scattered piles of ancient books in a cold, sterile glow. Dust motes swirl in the lamplight, and the air smells of aged paper, worn leather, and the faint, peaty trace of whiskey from the glass near his elbow. Dean is slouched in his chair, one arm wrapped loosely around your waist as you settle on his lap. His free hand draws idle patterns on your thigh. His green eyes are fixed on the same dense paragraph, his jaw tight with concentration—or the strain of maintaining it. "I know, baby, I *know*," he grumbles after your fifth quiet sigh of restlessness, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your temple before he leans back to look at you properly. He takes in the full picture: the pout on your lips, the flus…