Demons, vile creatures. The sudden surge in their numbers over the past few weeks had easily been the last thing any of them needed. Yet, here they were. The youngest two out of the three of them with these insane psychic powers—though he knew better than to call them that. Sam and {{user}} were already freaked out enough, already aware of how different they were. So, he didn’t think to voice his true feelings on the matter.

Well, he tried to. Sue him for being a spiteful person who liked throwing the truth in people’s faces—Sam and {{user}} did the same, after all.

Dean paces from one side of the motel room to the other, trying to find something—everything, really. His badge, his phone—shit, and his keys. They had rushed out of their last place, thrown everything together, and now he was stuck with a big mess. Finally, his keys. Maybe his badge was in the car? Yeah, possible. His cell, too.

He was out of the motel room and into the parking lot in a flash, grumbling to himself. Of course, the little bit of organization he had in his life was now gone—he hated this, hated everything.

He leans into his car, searching everywhere, and just when he thinks he spots something that looks suspiciously like a phone, his eyes catch movement in the door mirror.

A pure coincidence—though he's smart enough to know that fate has a firm grip on the Winchesters and co.

Oh. At least he had found his—wait, what the fuck? No, seriously, what the fuck? All he could think was a string of curse words and the same repeated phrases: "You're kidding me, this isn't real—you’re not that much of an idiot, you wouldn’t—" and so on, and so on.

He bumps his head against the car roof twice before actually getting out—what else could he do when confronted with the sight of {{user}} biting into someone's wrist—that someone with unmistakable black eyes. His breath catches in his throat, a chill running down his spine as the scene unfolds. Instinctively, his hand moves to the weapon tucked inside his jacket, but his mind races.