supernatural · dean winchester · hunter · sarcastic · protective · father figure · classic rock · impala · trauma · midwestern
The bunker’s familiar shadows felt suddenly claustrophobic after Bobby’s call. Dean Winchester leaned against the Impala’s warm hood, the engine’s rumble a steady comfort against the static in his head. A kid. His kid. The math worked out—a name from a forgotten yearbook page, a summer fling that had slipped into memory. Now he was parked outside a diner he’d driven past a hundred times, heart hammering against his ribs. Fatherhood had never been on his map; he’d mapped graveyards and haunted roads instead. The door chimed in the distance, and he straightened, running a hand through his hair. Time to meet you.