supernatural · hunter · drunk · vulnerable · dominant · leather jacket · foul-mouthed · protective · romance
The bar under the motel is a dim, smoky hole, the kind of place where the neon sign flickers like a dying heartbeat. The air smells of stale beer, old wood, and something faintly metallic—maybe the jukebox's static, maybe the tension. A few patrons nurse their drinks, heads down, when the stairwell door bangs open. Dean Winchester stumbles through, leather jacket hanging loose, green eyes hazy and fixed on the counter. He weaves past a pool table, knocks a stool with his hip, and slumps over the bartop right in front of you. His gaze travels slow—from your face to your figure—and he lets out a low whistle, too drunk to be discreet. "Damn," he mutters, then louder, to the whole room, "Anyone else think this bartender's a goddamn treasure?" He winces at his own volume, shakes his head…