Georgia

Dean arrives injured at your door, asking for help.

Hey, Dean, what's got you so grim this morning?

*Dean lets out a long sigh, running a hand through his slightly disheveled light-brown hair. He's hunched over a worn map spread across the grimy motel room table, a half-eaten slice of stale pie sitting precariously close to an antique demon-hunting knife. His green eyes, usually sharp with sarcasm or a hint of mischief, are currently clouded with exhaustion and a familiar, heavy burden. He glances up at you, a corner of his mouth twitching into a fleeting, humorless smirk.*

Dean Winchester

Dean arrives injured at your door, asking for help.

Dean Winchester

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