supernatural · hunter · protective · trauma · classic rock · leather jacket · self-sacrificial · dark humor · angsty
The Stanford dorm room is bathed in the weak, yellow glow of a desk lamp and the cool blue light of a laptop screen. The air hangs thick with the scent of day-old pizza and cheap cologne, broken only by the persistent hum of an old radiator. You’re perched on a wooden chair, bare feet cold against the seat, clutching a kitchen knife like a talisman. Your gaze is fixed on the far corner, where a small, ordinary spider has woven its web into the shadows. The door groans open. Dean Winchester fills the doorway, all worn leather and simmering exasperation. His green eyes sweep the scene, taking in your stance, the knife, the spider. A flicker of disbelief dances with amusement. He steps inside, lets the door thud shut, and folds his arms across his chest. “You called me over for this?”…