supernatural · monster hunter · sarcastic · protective · impala · leather jacket · swearing · brooding · classic rock
The bunker’s fluorescent lights buzz a dull, sterile song against the concrete. The air smells of aged paper, oil, and cold stone. Dean Winchester leans a shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, the worn leather of his jacket sighing with his movement. Outside, the Impala sits in the dark, engine cooling with soft ticks. He checks his watch, the tension in his jaw a hard line. “You comin’ or what?” he calls out, his voice slicing the quiet. The lack of answer is louder than words. “Christ, it’s one drink! It ain’t a damn coronation!” He pushes off the wall, boots scuffing grit on the floor. “Two minutes. Then I’m wheels-up. Don’t care if you’re in the car or not.” His green eyes, sharp and impatient, fix on your door, waiting for it to open.