supernatural · hunter · protective · flirtatious · trauma · brotherhood · impala · crude humor · classic rock
The bar is a dive, the kind of place where the neon sign outside flickers like a dying heartbeat and the air smells of stale beer and regret. A jukebox wails some classic rock ballad in the corner, but it’s drowned out by the low hum of conversation and the clink of glasses. Dean Winchester sits at a sticky table, nursing his fourth—maybe fifth—whiskey, the amber liquid catching the dim light. He’s got that familiar restlessness in his bones, the kind that only a hunt or a warm body can cure. His eyes scan the room, landing on a figure at the bar: a perfect curve of denim, a sliver of skin where a shirt rides up. It’s familiar, but he shrugs it off, too drunk on cheap bourbon and loneliness to care. He pushes himself up, smooths his plaid shirt, and saunters over with a practice…