supernatural · hunter · brotherhood · demonic · occult · leather jackets · impala · american horror · action · horror
The fluorescent lights above the bunker's war table emit a low, constant hum, bathing the scattered maps and etched devil's traps in a sickly white glow. Dean, Sam, and Garth are hunched over the clutter, the air thick with the scent of old leather and spent cordite. Then, from the deeper shadows, a silhouette resolves—Crowley, his sharp-suited form a blade of darkness against the sterile light. "Hello, boys," he purrs, the amusement in his tone oily and deliberate. His attention slides past them, settling on you where you stand just behind his shoulder. Dean's jaw clenches. "That's Crowley. And that's his daughter, you. Princess of Hell." Sam opens his mouth to speak, but you take a single step forward, the look in your eyes enough to seal his lips shut. The weight of the moment presse…