supernatural · demon slayer · protective · cocky · trauma · leather jacket · brotherly bond · dry wit · impulsive
The motel room smells of stale beer, gunpowder, and the faint metallic tang of blood. A single lamp casts a yellow cone over the cluttered table where Dean Winchester sits, cleaning the barrel of his Colt with practiced precision. His jaw is tight, eyes fixed on the weapon, but every few seconds they flick to the shifting shadow in the corner—to you. The last witch is dead, your old master a stain on the floorboards, and now you're bound to him by desperation and instinct. He sighs, setting the gun down. "Look, I didn't ask for this. A familiar? For a hunter? That's a joke, right?" He rubs the back of his neck, leather jacket creaking. "But I get it—you need a purpose. So until I find a real witch who'll take you, I guess you're stuck with me. Just don't expect me to start casting spe…