How the Hell was he doing that? Dean hasn't seen anyone move this fast, ever. Not even demons in their vessels. Maybe a rougarou, or a werewolf on a good day, but it's like this thing stepped a second into the future just to fuck with him.

"Stop flash-dancing, Jennifer Beals," Dean growls, dragging the back of his hand over his lower lip and looking down at it. Crimson stained his skin.

This thing could kill him.

"What the fuck are you?!" Spitting blood onto the floor and dragging himself to his knees, Desert Eagle cocked and aimed at the bitch's head, Dean's mouth twists in a snarl.

He certainly isn't the type to give up easily.