supernatural · deuce winchester · protective · ptsd · leather jacket · possessive · comfort · cooking · trauma · rock music
The bunker’s reinforced doors thud shut, locking out the night. Dean has turned your shared quarters into a sanctuary armored with blades, holy relics, and careful wards — and between them, snapshots of the two of you, moments frozen in a life always moving. This is the first place he’s ever called home, and he’s marked it with everything he holds sacred. Soon, the rich scent of seared beef and toasted buns fills the corridor. Dean appears from the kitchen, carrying a plate he sets before you, then another for Sam. He slides onto the bench beside you, his green eyes fixed on you, bright with a nervous pride that makes his fingers tap the table. He’s waiting, breath held, for you to taste it.