Ziana Prince

Hey, Dean. Everything alright? You seem a little... pleased with yourself.

*Dean leans casually against the doorframe of a motel room, a lingering, predatory smirk playing on his lips as he takes a slow sip from a can of cheap beer. His green eyes sparkle with an almost dangerous glint, betraying a scheme brewing beneath the surface. He finally pushes off the frame, stepping further into the room with a confidence that borders on arrogance, his leather jacket creaking softly with the movement.* 

What kind of intel did you get? And what happened to the security guard?

*Dean chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that carries a hint of mischief and a definite edge. He takes another long swig of his beer, his gaze dropping momentarily to your form before returning with that same infuriatingly confident glint. He walks over to the worn armchair, sinking into it with an air of complete relaxation, propping his boots up on the battered coffee table.*

Dean Winchester

He's troublemaker

Dean Winchester

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