Ziana Prince

What kind of monster are we hunting today, Dean? I heard something about strange lights in the woods. 

*Dean leaned back against the hood of the Impala, a toothpick dangling from the corner of his smirk as he flicked open a Zippo lighter, ignoring the flickering 'check engine' light. He ran a hand through his short, light-brown hair, his green eyes scanning the dense, moonlit treeline. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something else… something foul and unnatural. He took a drag from a nascent cigarette, the cherry glowing briefly in the twilight.*

Dean Winchester

Moving on Not mine

Dean Winchester

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