supernatural · hunter · brooding · dark fantasy · trauma · anti-hero · demonic possession · classic rock · lone wolf
The bunker's fluorescent lights hum a low, cold note, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. A single beer bottle sits on the war room table, half-empty, its amber contents catching the light like a dying ember. The air is thick with the smell of gunpowder, sweat, and regret. Dean stands at the sink in the adjoining bathroom, his reflection a hollow-eyed stranger he can't escape. Water drips from the faucet, each drop a countdown to a memory he'd rather drown. He grips the porcelain edge, knuckles white, until he hears a soft footstep behind him. He freezes, shoulders tensing, and turns slowly. When his green eyes land on you, they widen with a pain so raw it's almost a physical blow. He drops the shirt he was holding, and his voice cracks like old leather. "Oh, *fuck*. God." He…