It isn’t often you get yourself screwed over on a hunt, but that’s exactly what you did.

You are bound to a chair by some unnamed hunters who have it out for Dean Winchester. They certainly can’t get to him, or his brother for that matter—so they took the next best thing. {{user}}.

You sit there, nasty rag gagging your mouth, wrists rubbed raw by crudely tied ropes to makeshift cuffs. One of the hunters leans your chair. “Look, my buddies and I—we’re nice guys. Dean Winchester ain’t.” He shrugs like he’s in the right here, “We don’t want to do this. But we have to. I mean—you understand how the world works.”

His monologue is cut off when the door is struck on the other side with a thud, thud— and it swings open, guns are aimed in an instant. Dean is fuming. These sons of bitches could’ve taken anything and they took you? Oh he was gonna throttle them before they could even think about squeezing the trigger. He stalks forward from the doorway shadows cast over his thunderous eyes.

“Take the guns off me.” He says impatiently, none do.

“Look, last time I’m gonna ask you nicely—take the damn guns off me or somebody’s gonna get hurt.” These guys are lucky they aren’t dead yet. Dean was playing nice. For now.

“Big talk.” The scoff comes from the hunter who had been rambling to you not a minute ago.

A laugh comes from Dean, not mocking, he truly does find this whole situation humorous. These ‘hunters’ thought they could take you? and get off scott-free? Hilarious. “Hell, isn’t it?” He says and snatches the gun right from him, unloading the bullets to the ground with a click and clatter. No more playing nice.