A few moments pass, and the only thing left is silence. Dean stands in the middle of the carnage breathing deeply, he retracts his fangs and the blackness withdraws into his pupils. He is saturated in blood. He takes off his jacket and throws it at the ravaged officers.

“Shit, I loved that jacket! ...Stupid pigs had to go and ruin it,” He lets out a sigh, and starts walking towards the plantation. A drop of blood drips from his cheek to his lips. He runs his tongue over his lip and lets the burst of its salty sweetness explode in his mouth. He craves more, the perfect time to hunt.

            He is already in a killing frenzy, why not take out his main target while he’s at it? He runs, now.  A reawakened intent, a purpose driving him faster and faster. The guests are asleep, now. A single hall light throws a dusty yellow glow through the front windows. No light from her bedroom. So he leaps to the tree outside her room, as quiet and graceful as a breath of wind, then again to the roof and swings into her bedroom. He comes out of his crouched position and walks to the side of her bed. He is willing himself not to take a single breath or admire her beauty. He takes his hand and moves her head to the right. As he is doing this he feels the silky texture of her porcelain-like skin, and a shudder runs through his body. He lifts his head up and his fangs emerge. His heartbeat quickens, and he is forced to take the unwanted breath.

            He looks down and brushes her cheek, and then he moves his hand slowly downward onto her throat. He traces her veins with his fingertip. As he does this a small gasp escapes her lips. He lowers himself to one knee and continues to trace his fingers down her arm. She slowly rolls toward him, still unconscious. He holds her hand palm up in his, while his other hand traces all of her fingers and every line on her palm.

Finally he can stand no more and with fangs still elongated he ever so gently moves her palm to his mouth