Twenty or so yards away, Dean hops off of his horse and sets into a jog. Tempting as it might be to ride the thing into combat, at the end of the day, this is a civilian horse. This is a loaner, a rental, one that sure as shit wasn't bred for combat. Even if he fully owned her, he wouldn't be able to trust for certain she wouldn't throw him off the moment one of those things erupted up from the ground. You know what's more dangerous than being on your own two feet?

Being on your back. No, thank you. It's not worth chancing it.

The things that he's content to refer to as sand worms feel the vibrations in the dirt even from as far away as they are. It's obvious enough they detect him when the momentum seems to suddenly stop, and then the dust clouds promptly redirect. Oh yeah, they're coming for him. He'll draw his sword once they're within fifteen or so feet, but for now?

He shifts the rifle strapped to his back. Brings it up, levels it carefully at the dirt, and then pulls the trigger.

One of them bursts from the ground, maw gaping, an ungodly pissed-off gurgling sound roaring from its gullet. He fires again, and the bullet tears through its head in a splattering of gore and viscera. It takes one more shot to bring it all the way down, and by that point they're close enough for him to quickly switch weapons.

It's about to get risky.