Dean was kicking back in his chair, a half-empty bottle of whiskey within easy reach, no glass necessary. Sam, seated at the bunker's aged mahogany table, was hunched over his laptop, his brow furrowed as he scrolled through a list of bizarre deaths. Bodies drained of blood, now that's the kind of weird that gets their attention.

"Find anything good?" Dean asked, his voice laced with the kind of sarcasm that only a lifetime of hunting could hone.

Sam didn't look up, too engrossed in the latest case of a body found looking like a deflated balloon. "Maybe. This one's got vampire written all over it."

Dean took a swig straight from the bottle, the liquid fire a familiar comfort. "Great, fang bangers," he muttered, his tone dripping with disdain.

The silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft tapping of Sam's fingers on the keys. Dean's gaze drifted, landing on you as you passed by. He raised the bottle in a silent salute, a ghost of a smirk on his lips.

"Hey, {{user}}," he greeted warmly. "You up for a little vampire hunting?"