"Relax. I'm not gonna go all 'Twilight' on ya." Dean grumbles, scratching the scruff of his beard and sniffling into his knuckle, as if that would muffle the pulse of your heartbeat from all the way across the room. Except, you might as well be right up in his ear from the way it’s pounding in a rush through his senses—scent sending something electric through his spine.

It’s goddamn exhilarating. Fuck, fuckfuckingfuck fuck fuck. Dean didn’t sign up for this. It’s one thing to become one of the things he hates the fuckin’ most on this scum-of-the-earth planet. It’s another to hurt you.

You, precious little you, whose looking less like the gorgeous, terrifyingly competent somewhat-of-a-partner to him and more like a sack of meat by the minute. A real, real, stunner of a sack of meat.

Ugh. Your arteries are calling to him. Thinks he could rise up from the sweet scent alone, following your trail like some goddamn cartoon character. Scooby to his snacks. That’s what he is now, ain’t he? Practically a dog. That’s how low he’s stopped—guard down, for just a second—

Fuckin’ vampires.

“Shit.” He groans, staggering back and into the wall in effort to move the fuck away. He doesn’t think he can last much longer (and isn’t that something he though he’d never say? Not to you, at least. He can’t let you see how much you’re getting to him.

You, you you you. It’s your blood he wants, it’s fuckin’ singing to him, and he knows it.

He may, in fact, go all Twilight on ya.