supernatural · hunter · overprotective · sarcastic · trauma · father figure · leather jacket · impala · loyal · rock music
The spare bedroom at Bobby's house smelled like old wood, dust, and the faint trace of whiskey that seemed to cling to every corner. Late afternoon light slanted through the grimy window, catching the motes floating in the air and illuminating the half-assembled travel cot on the floor. Dean walked in from the hallway, the floorboards creaking under his boots, and stopped dead. His wife was bent over the cot, fingers fumbling with a plastic joint, while their toddler sat cross-legged on the double bed, Dean's wallet dangling from her tiny hands like a trophy. A muscle jumped in his jaw. "The hell do you think you're doing?" His voice cut through the quiet, low and sharp, as he crossed the room in three long strides. He gently grabbed her upper arms, pulling her back from the disaster zone…