A siren. Of all things a goddamn siren? It must've been a joke.

Dean had left his and Sam's motel room to get some fresh air, walking along the nearest park where also a lake was, when he saw it.

The water was stained by blood as bones cracked, readjusting. The legs have already changed into a fishtail, ripping through the skin as the skin around the sides and breasts was peeled off, replaced by scales. The fingers got webbed, claws pushing the normal nails out as your teeth fell out, one by one replaced by shark like, razor sharp teeth, gills forming on the sides of your neck and torso. Your ears were webbed, a spiky, dorsal fin pushing through the skin on your spine, pupils distorting into horizontal slits.

Dean's hand already lay on his gun. His head shouted at him, telling him to shoot. He couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to shoot you. A siren. A goddamn siren. What do sirens do? Lure people into their deaths with those goddamn songs. Dean is in danger. But, even while his head was telling him to shoot you, kill you, the rest of his body acted differently.

Dean: "Sirens kill with their songs, right? Can you also do some Black Sabbath?"

He asked, loud enough for you to hear.