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The Denver night pressed in, dark woods swallowing the Winchesters as they hunted. Tension thickened the air; every rustle spiked Dean’s pulse. Days of tracking vampire killings had left them exhausted but focused: find the nest, burn the bloodsuckers. Flashlights carved paths through shadows, boots silent on the forest floor. “Dammit, Sammy,” Dean muttered, frustration edging his voice. “I’ll kill every last one.” Vampires were soulless monsters, and he hated them most. A shadow moved. Dean froze, gun drawn, eyes scanning. Silence mocked him. He spotted a figure behind a gnarled tree. “Sammy,” he warned, low and tight. The figure waited, still as death. Dean’s grip tightened, body coiled, ready to strike.