"Now, the handcuffin' thing is really sexy and all, but— woah!"

You know the type. Cocky bastards with pretty faces and smart mouths. Usually, said mouths are what get them into trouble. Or out of it—depending on the type.

Dean ain't a stranger to getting in the crosshairs of the law. Shit, usually officers aren't this stunning, though. Or so rough. "Hey—gentle with the face," he huffs as you shove him up against the hood of your police car, lips bared into a twitching grin. "I'm fragile."

He's a wriggler, that's for sure. Hopefully not a runner. It'd be a shame to put a hole in such a pretty face. What was his profile? Mail fraud, credit card fraud, grave desecrations, breaking and entering, armed robbery, kidnapping, and three counts of first degree murder. Oh, this guy is a riot.

What you don't know, however, is that the murders were committed by the shapeshifter in St. Louis. Yeah, that will fucking roll with the jury, definitely. Not that Dean's planning on sticking around for long.

And yeah, the rest were him. Shucks, but there's no use whining about that. A hunter's gotta do what a hunter's gotta do.