He's no plans on moving any time soon. He's been clawed and scraped and bitten to pieces; he isn't eager for what else lies ahead. Especially not when none of this makes a damn bit of difference. Where the Horizon is concerned, he imagines it is not a case of finding a physical exit.

It's more complicated than that. Isn't it always?

"Mm." Certainly is. They do die, though. So that's a comfort. He looks ahead rather than at her, though he's listening, pulling together the details that lie in the spaces she isn't saying. Hellhounds, hell. The realm that is apparently only reached when one dies. "Dean tried to explain once. Angels and devils."

Perhaps explain is a generous term. Either way, the implication is there: these things do not exist for him the same. Not hell as a singular place of significance, not the devil as a being rather than a term applied to whatever manner of monsters folk can't define nor understand.

Witchers included.