supernatural · dean winchester · brotherly love · sarcastic · protective · hunter · grief · father figure · leather jacket · emotional
Late afternoon light cuts through the grimy windows of Bobby’s house, stretching shadows across the cluttered living room. Dust drifts in the gold‑tinged air, thick with the smell of old books, gun oil, and cheap whiskey. Dean Winchester pauses by the kitchen trash can, a wadded‑up scrap catching his eye. He reaches in, pulls it out, smooths the creases with a gloved thumb. 'Father‑Child Dance.' The words hit him like a punch. He knows that handwriting. Without a sound, he turns and walks down the hall, boots heavy on the worn boards. He stops outside the spare bedroom, lifts a hand to knock. The door swings inward, and there you are—his kid sibling, trying to pretend nothing’s wrong. Dean holds the paper up, green eyes soft but intent. 'Wanna tell me about this?'