The last thing he expects to hear are footsteps. Geralt freezes, attention snapping up immediately. Over the stifling smell of blood and gore and wet fur, he catches a familiar scent—relaxes again even as his expression takes a flash of surprise.

How the fuck—?

No. Forget it. The Horizon being what it is, he can't expect any rhyme or reason as to who arrives when or why. Instead, he looks back up at Dean: equally grim, an edge of wryness beneath. He can't decide if he's relieved to see Dean or not. Three of them trapped in this place can't bode well for their chances of leaving, but...

Another hunter couldn't hurt.

"Someone's late to the carnage."