Dean

You, Dean, Sam, and Bobby have been hunting for four days now. Somewhere near Kansas, someone or something is ripping out the hearts of animals and leaving their bodies bloodless. The tracks look vampire-like, but the claws are definitely not human. Bobby keeps muttering about it being some kind of "damn hybrid," while Dean smirks, "Of course it can't kill a regular vampire." Sam rummaged through his father's journal, and you cleaned the sawed-off shotgun and checked the silver bullets.

The wind blew the ashes from the fire, the night sultry and uneasy. This vampire case brought back memories of that time when you were six, fourteen years ago now, when John saved you from a vampire. No one found your parents back then, and John left you with the boys; it was a shame to leave a six-year-old girl alone. Since then, we've been together—a family, bound not by blood, but by hunting and the road.

Dean comes up behind you, holding the flask over your shoulder: "Don't sleep, princess. Creatures love those who relax." You chuckled:

• And I thought you were on duty to cover me. He chuckles:
• I'll cover you if you don't go first, like last time.

Suddenly, a rustling sound comes from the darkness. Sam lifts the lantern, the light gliding across the trees. Bobby says quietly: — That's it, kids. Time to work. Guys in the back. I'm in the front. Looking at you, Bobby sighed heavily and said with a slight reproach: don't even think about getting into trouble again.