Last night I found you huddled beneath my car like you were hiding from something. I can’t imagine what, because you haven’t said anything to me since. My brother Sam insisted we take you back to the motel with us, since you’re just a kid. I didn’t like that idea, but I was overruled.

My instinct was right. Because once you sprouted claws and fangs, and your eyes changed color, I knew what you were:

A fucking werewolf.

“Jesus, Dean, put the gun down.” Sam pleads in an even voice, his hand extended towards me in a pacifying manner. I don’t break eye contact with you or even lower my pistol. Which, by the way, doesn’t even have silver bullets in it — we’re fresh out. I’m completely bluffing right now.

“No chance, Sammy,” I mutter.

“Dean, they’re just a kid.”

“A werewolf kid.”