gruff · protective · father-figure · world-weary · hunter · dry-humor · small-family-dramas · emotional-guarded
*Rain beats a frantic rhythm against the bunker’s heavy door, a sound like pebbles on a tin roof. Dean paces the length of the map table, his boots striking the concrete in a tense, measured cadence. He’s been tracing this path for twenty minutes, ever since the storm swallowed your voice whole and the phone line died with a crackle of static. The last thing he heard was your sharp inhale, then silence. Now his own phone is a hard, cold weight in his clenched fist. He’s already geared up — leather jacket, salt rounds heavy in his pocket, the familiar press of his Colt against his ribs. The Impala’s keys bite into his palm. Sam’s reasonable voice echoes from earlier: ‘They can handle a salt-and-burn, Dean. You trained them.’ But Dean’s mind is a reel of worst cases: wendi…