Dean Winchester Drawing Novels & Stories

Dana replies as Timothy walks over to a corner in the room and pulls out a long roll of paper. "I'm glad you could make it," Dana says. "It's an honor... " Deborah begins to speak but... "Had no choice" I cut her. Dana smiles at me and Deborah shoots a death glare at me. Both of which I ignore. Timothy spreads the papers on the table and I find rough sketches of the mansion on some. "Sorry, I'm not too good with art. " Dana says as soon as she sees me staring at the drawings. They aren't bad at all. Just need little touch-ups and corrections but it's more mind-blowing the fact that a girl drew these.

Her eyes landed on the drawing of Chadwick with the silencer, and a slow, wicked smile spread across her face. "Is this our Righteous Professor Chadwick, Danny?" she whispered, her eyes glinting with a sharp, serpentine triumph. "My, my... I knew you were obsessed, but I didn't think you were suicidal. What do you think your mother or the police would say about this fan art'?"

Within minutes, a small crowd had gathered around one of the picnic tables. Dean spread the paper flat. Several rough sketches covered the page. Tracks. Measurements. Notes. Warren leaned forward. "So what am I looking at?" Dean tapped one of the larger prints. "That's the problem." "What?" "I don't know." The admission carried more weight than it normally would have. Dean knew the woods and animals. If he couldn't identify something, people paid attention. Warren studied the drawing for several seconds. "Could be a bear." Dean shook his head. "No claws."

Something indecipherable flashed across his eyes, and he clutched the straps of his backpack tighter before he said, "Hannah, have you ever seen my drawings?" "I'm worried that Mr. Yakes won't like my drawings," Kaden explained as he gripped the straps of his backpack. His youthful face was marred with anxiety as he continued, "Hannah, could you take a look at my drawings and give me some pointers?" At some point, the Winchesters had determined that Hannah was all-knowing. As such, it wasn't odd for them to ask her for help on anything and everything. "Of course," Hannah replied cheerfully.

I cleared my throat. “For what?” he asked, and I paused. “For the sketch.” He smiled now, and it felt like I was standing with an exotic model, “How are you certain I drew you and not a tomato? You have not looked at it.” My cheeks heated up in embarrassment, and I turned to Dean, who eagerly turned the screen to me. Air rushed out my lungs. The image was perfect; it was almost like an actual picture. And he did all this during the course of that short meeting?

There were framed photos of Dean everywhere now — his first lost tooth, a birthday picture, a crayon scribble on the fridge. “Mummy, look!” Dean handed her a folded drawing, nearly tearing it in his excitement. Tessa opened it gently. It was crude, colored in waxy strokes, but clear enough. Three stick figures stood under a sun. One had a pink dress, one a square suit, and the smallest one held both their hands. Above it, in sprawling child handwriting: “Me, Mummy and Dad.” Her throat tightened. “I made it today in school. Miss Olivia said we should draw our favorite people.”

Opposite and sides of the room sat tall shelves carrying textbooks, all medical. He was always studying. I stopped at the table, looking over the papers. Then I took interest on a particular white sheet of paper sticking out of a large red covered book. On the paper's protruded side was a drawing of some creature. I hate to admit that it actually looks like a werewolf but it did. Picking it out from the book and up to my face, I could clearly see the picture now. It's an image of a werewolf, it's body parts fully labelled.

There was nothing behind the frames of pictures and nothing taped beneath the canvas. Then I looked up. There was a pinprick of reflection where there shouldn't have been one. CALEB Dean dragged a chair over and climbed onto it like he was about to change a lightbulb, except his face said otherwise. I watched the joke die in my throat before I could even make it. "Dean." He didn't answer. He was too busy going pale, which on Dean was the equivalent of a normal person screaming. "What," I said again, quieter this time. He reached into the fan housing and pulled something out between two fingers. Small. Black. A lens.

Hard exterior but sweetness and softness inside. ~~~ I just finished organizing all the tools necessary for architectural drawing on the mahogany wooden table set in front of the huge glass window in Hunter's office. Yes, he was old-fashioned that way. The door opened, and he walked in. Taking off his coat he slung it on his desk chair and strolled towards the work table. He wore a white shirt with a black tie looking so devilishly handsome I struggled to not stare shamelessly. He held out his hand to me.

A hum in my ears. I put the phone down face-down. My fingertips were shaking now. Screw this. I flipped to a clean page and forced myself to draw something—someone—real. Wesley. I didn’t need to think. The shape of his shoulders, the slope of his neck, the tension in his spine—I knew it all too well. But in this version, his back was to me. And his hand was holding a gun. I shaded it slowly, not rushing. Just… letting the image become itself. He looked poised. Cold. Like the man I’d seen on the rocks earlier.