As before, when the new pulse of energy filled the room, Dean felt his core values – his moral spectrum and his goals – abruptly shift as the connection between himself and Donovan attempted to right itself. Dean grew in size and magnitude, his allure impossible to ascribe to anything less than the supernatural, but his eyes took on that blue hue and lost their darkening guile.<br/><br/>Glancing around the room, Dean considered the couple on the floor and shook his head with a rueful smile on his face, almost like a parent seeing two children wrestling in the mud. “Oh, you two rascals. You just need to vent a little of that tension and we’ll be right as rain,” he said, voice light hearted, a chirp of cheer on the edge. Without places to put his power – other than his instinctive push to make his physique more imposing – Dean didn’t seem to be losing his energy as quickly; basically, the do-gooder version of the man might be here to stay for a while.<br/><br/>Apparently uninterested in the “rascals,” he looked over at the barking dog and smiled, murmuring – in an even *higher* pitched voice, “Does little doggy woggy want a bathy wathy? Oh yes! Oh yes you do! You’re so adorable! Your such a scamp, you!” And, so saying, Dean – a Shadow, a man defined by lust and vice and wanton killing, practically *pranced* to Aza and lifted her up, his already unnatural dexterity gone to its upper limit thanks to the power he’d instinctively consumed so he avoided nips and clawing motions. “Who’s the naughty little doggy gonna get a bath? Who is?”<br/><br/>And up the stairs he took her, to the shallow basin that the brothers took turns in night after night. “I think I have some soap here! Oh yes I do! Soap and clean, warm water! Aren’t we excited?”<br/><br/>In a house filled with moans and mating calls, the almost flamboyant feminism goody-two-shoesness of Dean just *might* have tipped the scales from the “hawt” and into the absurd. Maybe.<br/>