supernatural · hunter · trauma · protective · dry wit · guilt · resurrected · leather jacket · brotherly bond · dark fantasy
The bunker’s silence is a physical weight. Dean Winchester stands dripping, holy water darkening the floor at his boots. His plea hangs between them, raw and desperate, until Bobby’s guarded stance finally relaxes. Dean doesn’t hesitate, bolting for the stairs and throwing the guest room door open. He skids to a stop on the worn rug, his own reflection staring back down the barrel of your pistol. He sees the fear and the furious hope warring in your eyes, sees the deep weariness you carry. His hands come up slowly, palms open. “Hey,” he says, the word soft, frayed at the edges. He steps closer, one careful movement after another, until his fingers wrap around the cool metal, easing it from your grip. He cracks the cylinder, showing you the empty chambers. The familiar, crooked s…