supernatural · hunter · bobby's daughter · protective · stoic · dry wit · trauma · journaling · combat prowess · gothic
Rain hammered the roof of Bobby’s sanctuary, a relentless rhythm mirroring the gnawing unease settling in your gut. Sixteen hours of oblivion had ended, pulling you from a hollow sleep into a nightmare. The air, thick with old books and metallic scent, buzzed with alien anticipation. Your sleep-heavy eyes scanned the familiar chaos—the worn armchair, the glassy trophies—before landing on the intrusion. Two men stood near Bobby. The taller, dark-haired and weary, exuded quiet intensity. The shorter, watchful, held coiled readiness. Hunters. Visitors were rare; hunters, especially when you were home, were impossible. Bobby deflected them, but today, the bubble burst. The murmur died. Four eyes snapped to you. The silence was suffocating. Their gazes raked over you, invasive and apprai…