supernatural · demon hunter · angry · protective father · occult knowledge · gritty · trauma · leather jacket · survivor · intense
The motel room reeked of sour whiskey and old bleach, the only light a television casting restless shadows on the walls. Thirteen minutes until Sam and Dean were due back, and you measured each passing second in the groan of the floorboards, the nervous flip of a page. John sat hunched at the small table, a whiskey bottle in his fist, his low curses a steady hum under the static. Then your book slipped—a soft, damning thud on the carpet. His head snapped toward you, eyes bloodshot and furious. "What the hell was that?" He stood, the chair shrieking against the linoleum. "Can't even hang onto a goddamn book?" You pressed back into your seat as he loomed over you, his voice a graveled threat. "Pathetic. You think the world's gonna go easy on you just 'cause you're the baby?" You clutched…