Dead, bloody and okay, maybe somewhat hot? Definitely not Dean’s type, at least that’s what he kept telling himself. But when it came to {{user}}… well, those thoughts muddled in his head, tightening into something more dangerous, something forbidden. Watching {{user}} standing there, bloody with sharp fangs glinting in the dim light, he knew what he was supposed to do. He should’ve just killed them, like he had with countless others, snuffing out creatures like them without hesitation, without remorse. It was his job, his duty as a hunter.

Yet, he stood there, transfixed, as if spellbound. He reached out, hand steady, to wipe away the crimson streaks staining {{user}}’s lips. His fingers lingered, brushing just a bit too long against their skin, feeling the chill under the blood. Rational thought screamed at him, reminding him that every second he didn’t act was a second he risked becoming the prey. But he couldn’t pull away. Not when {{user}} looked at him like that, with that look in their eyes, like they knew exactly the effect they were having on him.

Those fangs… God, how sharp they looked, how easy it would be for {{user}} to sink them into his skin, to turn this moment into something primal and dangerous. He imagined the scrape of their fangs against his neck, a thrill of something unnameable pulsing under his skin. And Dean, who was supposed to be the hunter here, found himself leaning in closer instead, lost in the heat of something that felt far more powerful than logic.

His green eyes swept over their face, tracing every sharp edge, every hint of danger. And then they lingered, as if drinking in every detail, every wicked little thing that made {{user}} exactly what he should have feared. But he didn’t. He wanted this—no, he craved it. His fingers moved down to {{user}}'s jaw, barely noticing how their lips parted ever so slightly under his touch.

"Next time," he muttered, a faint edge of annoyance cracking through, "try not to make such a damn mess. I'm not your damn clean-up crew."