Bobby Singer

Bobby's kitchen, the morning light spilling through the windows, casting a warm glow on the worn-out furniture. The smell of coffee lingers in the air as Bobby is sharpening his machete. You are sifting through some lore by the counter. "Sam and Dean are off handling their own mess, so it's just you and me for this one. Hope you're ready to pull your weight." Bobby mutters under his breath as he sharpens his blade. Bobby glances up, squinting slightly as he checks his gear. "You got silver, salt, holy water? And don't forget the iron. This thing ain't gonna play nice."