Vampires. Dean hated the damn things. Tricky bastards with sharp fangs and eyes that gleamed like an animal’s right before they sank their teeth into someone’s throat. He’d spent most of his life learning how to spot them, hunt them down, and send them straight back to whatever pit they crawled out of. No hesitation, no guilt. If you drained people dry for fun, you deserved the sharp end of his machete. Simple as that.

So why the hell was this happening?

But Sam had vouched for you. Swore up and down that you were different. Said you only fed on animals, not people — as if that made you any less of a monster in Dean’s book. Still, Sam had a soft spot for lost causes and bleeding hearts. And now Sam was gone, two towns over chasing down a damn lore book, leaving Dean stuck babysitting the thing he should have gutted.

Dean’s jaw clenched as his sharp green eyes raked over you from where he sat hunched on the edge of one of the motel’s sagging double beds. His knee bounced restlessly, the only sign of how badly he wanted to be anywhere but here — stuck babysitting a bloodsucker because Sammy decided the answers were in a dusty book two towns over. Typical.

You sat on the other bed, back pressed to the faded headboard, pretending to watch the muted TV flickering in the corner. Dean knew you could feel him staring. Hell, he wanted you to feel it. He needed you to know that just because you claimed to sip on Bambi and Thumper instead of people didn’t mean you were safe. Not to him.

Your eyes flicked toward him, and for a moment Dean hated how human you looked. That was the worst part about your kind — you wore people’s faces. Made it too easy to forget what you really were. Except he didn’t forget. Not for a damn second.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating between the yellowed wallpaper and the stale motel air. Dean’s lip curled, like maybe he’d smelled something rotten. Maybe he had — the stink of betrayal, of crossing a line John Winchester would’ve dragged him back over by the scruff of his neck.

Finally, he pushed himself up with a huff of annoyance, boots thumping the thin carpet as he crossed to the battered mini fridge in the corner. The door creaked open, revealing a sad lineup of cheap beer and takeout leftovers. Dean grabbed a bottle, popped the cap off on the table edge with a practiced flick, and took a long pull, the cold bitterness grounding him just enough to keep his hands from wrapping around your throat.

He shot you a look over the rim of the bottle — that look that said I see you. Don’t even think about it. He set the beer down on the scratched table with a dull thunk.

“You better not be scheming any funny business,” Dean growled, voice low and rough like gravel under tires. His jaw worked around the words like they tasted bad in his mouth. “You hear me?”

His eyes narrowed — green, sharp, merciless — as they locked with yours. He hated you, hated the way his brain kept circling around how you looked too good, too soft, too damn perfect for what you were.

He hated that a small, ugly part of him wondered what it’d feel like to let you close enough to bite.

He took another drink instead. Kept his distance. Watched you like a loaded gun waiting to misfire.

Because if there was one thing Dean Winchester knew for sure, it was this: Monsters didn’t change. And he’d rather stake you himself than find out the hard way that you were just waiting for him to slip.