Four-Leaf Hunter (Supernatural x Male!Reader)

Chapter 01. A Sight for Sore Eye

AN: (y/n), (f/n), (l/n) = your name, first, last; (e/c) = eye colour; (h/c) = hair colour; etc.

As the saying goes, life really gave me lemons. I've dealt with a number of strange goings on, but this, this really took the cake. Of all kinds of people that could kidnap me, these weren't simple humans. The eyes gave them away first, but those spindly retractable fangs were something else.
Vampires.
This would mark my first failed hunt, having been tied up and one of my eyes gauged out. The pain was indescribable, the sensation of the ball bursting, before being wrenched from the socket, then the flesh loosely caving into the empty space. White hot fire burned in the left side of my face for the rest of the day, with the added discomfort of my squished (e/c) eye on the floor in front of me.
"My, my" spoke the alpha. "if it isn't (f/n) (l/n), the famed hunter of the Emerald Isle."
I scoffed.
"Takes a lot for anyone from Ireland to get recognition."
"That it does (y/n), especially in America these days," he chuckled. "Not enough banshees back home for you?"
"Too many, left them for the others," I sighed.
"Well, it's a shame your migration is so short lived, perhaps you should've kept your nose away from our den."
"Maybe I should have, but that doesn't matter now."
A gun cocked from behind me.
"Not anymore," spoke a gruff voice, before a number of bullets flew through the heads and hearts of the vampires around me.
The alpha's dead stare remained glaring at my right eye.
After everything settled, I felt my bindings release. I slowly stood, making sure not to further squish my removed eyeball into the floor. My saviours planted a hand on each shoulder. The famed Winchester brothers: Sam and Dean.
"Ah, the Winchesters, of course," I smirked. "Thank you."
"Hey, no problem," Sam winced. "They messed you up pretty bad huh?"
I looked down at the mangled (e/c) orb. "You could say that, hah."
"Oh damn, we've got ourselves a Nick Fury," Dean remarked. "Bet that hurt, huh?"
"Oh yeah, still does," I grumbled, lifting a hand up to my face.
We took a quick glance about the den, seeing little of worth besides some cash.
"I came to this den in hopes that I'd save a friend of mine, but well..." I gestured over to a body in the corner. "Sadly I was too late."
"Damn, I'm sorry," Sam breathed. "About her, and your eye."
"What was it that vamp said your name was?" Dean asked.
"(F/n), (f/n) (l/n)," I answered. "He seemed to know me somehow."
"I've heard that name," Sam mentioned. "There's been a lot of talk about the Irish hunters recently, your name came up a lot."
"Did it now?"
Dean nodded.
"Well, I suppose I should be flattered, but given the circumstances, perhaps we could find some place to patch me up?" I pointed to the empty socket on the left of my face.
Sam cleared his throat, nodding with a grimace.

After clearing up the den, the brothers led me to their car. I sat in the back, my machete returned safely to my side. The blade was stained with vampire blood, reminding me to wash it when the chance next arose. I buckled in, leaning back into the surprisingly comfortable back seat of their Chevrolet Impala. Such a rare and beautifully well kept car for its age. I'd never before seen one in person.
"Eyes up (y/n), this is my baby you're ogling," Dean huffed.
"You mean eye, right?" I snorted, pointing at the empty socket.
Dean shook his head before starting the engine. I had to do a double take, having forgotten that American steering wheels were on the left... because they drove right-lane. Sam noticed my confusion and raised an eyebrow. I looked up at him.
"Culture shock, sorry," I shrugged. "Ireland and the UK drive left-lane."
"Oh yeah," he chuckled. "Must feel kinda different huh?"
I nodded.
Dean turned on the radio, music blaring out of the speakers. Good old rock and roll. As he drove us away, I softly nodded my head to the beat, slowly drifting off to sleep.

I woke up as the engine cut, the music dying off with it. The brothers looked back through the middle at me. Their expressions told be worry, but there was something else in their eyes. As I blinked up at them, the pain in the left side of my face returned. I hissed, sitting up and removing the belt.
"How long was I out?"
"About four hours, so not long," Sam responded.
"Jesus, how long were you driving?" I added.
"Five, maybe six," Dean answered. "No biggie."
"God I'm going to have a culture nightmare, where are we?"
"Home, I guess." Sam shrugged, pointing out the window to a metal door, a small light softly illuminating a few feet away. "A bunker."
"Hope you have eyepatches in there," I joked.
"Alright sleepy head, lets get on in there," Dean commented, stepping out of the car.
Sam and I followed him to the door once the car was locked. They opened the heavy door and led me inside, a soft aroma drifted into my nose. Books. I raised my eyebrows curiously before entering, noting the stairs down to the main floor. Sam want ahead, leading me down to the table in the centre.
"You'll be safe here, but if you feel you'd rather find your own place, we won't stop you," Sam started.
"Kitchen is down to the left, bathrooms and showers to the right," Dean added.
"And a whole load of books right here." I gestured at the numerous shelves in front of me, finding the source of the smell. "I guess a lot of research goes on here then?"
Sam nodded.
"Would you like to browse a little later?"
I smiled. "Sure, I'll hold you to that Sam."
"Come on, lets get you patched up," Dean called from the left. "Want a painkiller?"
"Please."

I followed the older brother down the hallway to what looked like an infirmary room. A few beds with a side table each, a number of medical supplies strewn across one of the beds.
Dean pulled off his jacket, simply dropping it on the floor beside him. He ushered me over to sit on the only chai in the room, almost wedged into the corner. I sat down.
Sam pokes his head in the door.
"Tea, coffee?"
I looked up at him. "Tea please, one sugar, lots of milk."
He nodded and disappeared. Dean scoffed.
"What's so funny?" I asked.
"Thought tea was a British thing."
I laughed. "Jesus, we drink more tea than the English, trust me."
"Really?" He started, giving a pair of scissors a quick wipe. "If I'm not mistaken, we threw tonnes of English tea into Boston harbor, not Irish tea."
"That was a long time ago."
Dean nodded, approaching with a length of stitching thread and the scissors.
"In an Irish family, you'd likely be found weird for not drinking tea," I added.
"Alright (y/n), this might sting."
He was right. As the stitching pierced through the tender skin around one of my injuries, I grit my teeth, eye shutting tight.