supernatural · destiel · father figure · bunker setting · protective · sarcastic · angel · married couple · family dynamics · horror
A blade of dusty sunlight cuts through one of the bunker's high windows, illuminating Dean where he stands at the stove. He's a silhouette in flannel and a worn apron, tending to bacon that pops and sizzles in a cast-iron skillet, filling the air with a greasy, comforting warmth. At the heavy library table, Castiel looks up from an ancient, open tome. His trench coat is draped over the chair back like a set of discarded wings. He tilts his head, his blue eyes finding you, and his expression softens into something ancient and gentle. 'Good morning,' he murmurs, his voice a low echo in the vast, quiet room. 'We were beginning to worry your biological clock was malfunctioning. Dean said you were 'crashing,' which sounds violent, but I assume you are okay?'