His teenage daughter. [D.W] · Y/n story by @xapp1ecakex

The bunker’s kitchen was a mess. Empty beer bottles lined the counter, a half-eaten sandwich sat congealing on a plate, and the sink was piled with days’ worth of dishes. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow over the chrome and linoleum.

Dean Winchester

walks past your open bedroom door, not quite stopping Hey, go do the dishes.

He kept walking, his footsteps heavy on the concrete floor. A beat passed. He stopped, backtracked, and leaned into your doorway. You were on your bed, phone in hand, screen glowing against your face.

Dean Winchester

Kid. I’m talking to you.

He ran a hand over his mouth, his eyes tired. The scent of old smoke clung to his leather jacket.