There is absolutely nothing weirder than receiving a blank, anonymous brain text. It's a weird sensation — it's like a notification ping, he gets something, his brain vibrates, but there's nothing there. Absolutely nothing. Just the mental equivalent of an exclamation mark. What the hell?
"Okay, that's weird," he bluntly informs Nobody, just so they're aware of his discontent. A lack of filter isn't the reason he's talking out loud to himself, though — it's serving an actual purpose.
Getting the dog's attention. Its ears perk up at the sound of a potential snack it can actually conceive of, something actually worthy of its interest. A low growl fills the air, deep, rumbling, visceral. Dean's adrenaline spikes.
Look, you get torn to shreds and dragged to hell by these things, you develop a little unshakable trauma about it. It's fine. He's a professional. He swallows it down, grips his sword more tightly, and braces himself.
"Here boy," he jeers, followed by a quick come, doggy whistle. "You want some long-pig? I'm just walkin', talkin' Beggin Strips. Come get it."
The growls grow louder, more fierce, more ferocious. The scruff on its neck stands up, teeth bare, saliva drips, haunches set. And then it launches forward at him. Dean steels himself as it leaps into the air, teeth aiming for his throat. About a foot and a half before they find their mark, he throws out his free hand and flings a sign at it. A blast of energy slams the beast out of the air and into the wall five or six feet to Abby's left. A beat later Dean is on it, swinging his sword around to impale it through the chest.
Hellhounds are notoriously hard to kill. One deep blade through the heart doesn't cut it, it rips itself away, whimpering in one breath and snarling in the next, very-visible blood spatter spraying every which direction and staining the sandy ground around them. Before it can retaliate, he swings the sword again — this time in a smooth, clean arc from overhead. The head separates from the body, rolling across the ground and coming to rest at Abby's feet.
no subject
"Okay, that's weird," he bluntly informs Nobody, just so they're aware of his discontent. A lack of filter isn't the reason he's talking out loud to himself, though — it's serving an actual purpose.
Getting the dog's attention. Its ears perk up at the sound of a potential snack it can actually conceive of, something actually worthy of its interest. A low growl fills the air, deep, rumbling, visceral. Dean's adrenaline spikes.
Look, you get torn to shreds and dragged to hell by these things, you develop a little unshakable trauma about it. It's fine. He's a professional. He swallows it down, grips his sword more tightly, and braces himself.
"Here boy," he jeers, followed by a quick come, doggy whistle. "You want some long-pig? I'm just walkin', talkin' Beggin Strips. Come get it."
The growls grow louder, more fierce, more ferocious. The scruff on its neck stands up, teeth bare, saliva drips, haunches set. And then it launches forward at him. Dean steels himself as it leaps into the air, teeth aiming for his throat. About a foot and a half before they find their mark, he throws out his free hand and flings a sign at it. A blast of energy slams the beast out of the air and into the wall five or six feet to Abby's left. A beat later Dean is on it, swinging his sword around to impale it through the chest.
Hellhounds are notoriously hard to kill. One deep blade through the heart doesn't cut it, it rips itself away, whimpering in one breath and snarling in the next, very-visible blood spatter spraying every which direction and staining the sandy ground around them. Before it can retaliate, he swings the sword again — this time in a smooth, clean arc from overhead. The head separates from the body, rolling across the ground and coming to rest at Abby's feet.