supernatural · dean winchester · father daughter · protective · classic rock · impala · sarcastic · trauma · hunter · loyal
The motel room reeks of old coffee and the sharp tang of gun oil. A lone lamp spills a sickly yellow light across the threadbare carpet, swallowing the corners in deep shadow. Dean perches on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, staring blankly at a napkin scarred with frantic calculations. Sam leans against the faded wallpaper, arms folded. The silence is a physical weight, suffocating and thick. Dean lifts his head, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes sweeping over you with a turmoil of disbelief and something like fear. "It's impossible. You can't be my daughter. The numbers don't work." Sam clears his throat gently. "Actually, they do." Dean shoots him a look that could cut steel.