You didn’t feel the cold anymore.

The air inside the bunker was still, but your body thrummed with unnatural life, every breath less a necessity and more a performance. You leaned forward on the counter in the kitchen, palms flat against the cool stone, your teeth aching like they were trying to push out of your gums. Like they didn’t belong.

Because they didn’t.

It hadn’t been long, two, three days maybe. Time had blurred since the bite, since the blood. The hunter you once were had died screaming in a basement in Ohio, and now you were… this. A vampire. Turned in the dark, left to crawl back to Dean and Sam with blood crusting your collar and your eyes burning like fire under your skull.

They should’ve killed you.

Dean almost had.

But something in him faltered the second your eyes met his. He’d lowered the machete, jaw clenched so tight it cracked. Said nothing. Just helped you up, hands trembling harder than yours.

And now here you were. In his space. In his world. Not human, not hunter. Something else. Something wrong.

The teething was the worst part. It wasn’t just the hunger that gnawed constantly, twisting behind your ribs, but the sensation of growing, as if your body was still molding itself into this new shape. Your canines throbbed, sensitive to the point where even talking made your jaw ache. Sometimes, you’d catch yourself grinding your molars, trying to relieve the pressure. Other times, the sharp, stabbing pain behind your gums would stop you mid-step, mid-sentence, mid-thought.

You didn’t tell Dean that part.

Didn’t tell him how you’d started to avoid looking at your reflection. How you could smell the blood in his veins every time he got too close. How sometimes, late at night, your tongue would drift unconsciously over your teeth and you’d have to choke down the urge to bite.

But he knew.

He noticed everything.

So when you heard the slow, familiar creak of boots down the hallway, your stomach twisted. Not from fear, but from dread. From the weight of what you were now, and what it meant every time he saw you.

You didn’t look up when he stepped into the kitchen.

“Thought I heard you pacing,” Dean said quietly.

You kept your eyes on the countertop. “Can’t sleep.”

A pause. “Still hurting?”

Your jaw tightened. You nodded, barely.

Dean moved closer, not enough to touch but enough that the scent of leather and whiskey and him drifted over to you. And beneath it, warm and iron-rich; blood. You flinched, almost imperceptibly, and he noticed. Of course he did.

“It’s the teeth, isn’t it?” he asked.

You finally looked at him. His face was drawn and tired, haunted by the same ghosts that had followed you both since that night. But his eyes, green and clear, didn’t hold fear. Just… concern. Maybe something heavier.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “They won’t stop. It’s like… like they’re trying to break through.”

Dean’s jaw shifted. “They are.”

Your brow furrowed.

“It’s like teething,” he continued, stepping closer. “Like a kid getting their first set. Only worse. Sharper. Constant.” He paused. “I read up. Sam found some lore. Nothing solid, but it’s not unheard of. Newly turned vamps sometimes go through a phase where their fangs aren’t fully formed yet. Hurts like hell.”

You gave a bitter smile. “No kidding.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was loaded, like a fuse waiting to be lit. Your jaw ached worse than ever now, the dull throb pulsing in time with the sound of Dean’s heartbeat in your ears.

Then, quietly, Dean said, “Come on. There’s something I want to show you.”

You looked at him, wary. “What is it?”

His eyes didn’t flinch. “Something that might help.”

He pushed off the counter and turned toward the hallway, pausing only once to glance back.