The Colt is heavy and cold in his
hand. Disturbingly solid, like all this world of men and
matter. She doesn't feel the taint of it: she loves the
thinness of her arms, the fall of her hair as she shakes her
head. He's watched her watch herself in mirror, glass, the
clouding eyes of her latest victim. When he tried to prove
how weak flesh is, she laughed in his hands. She won't give
up the corpse she's wearing.
One flawed weapon before him, one (perhaps) in his hands, one way to be certain. He lifts the Colt, fires.
Bobby calls them first, now, whenever he hears of
one. Dean figures he could say the Latin in his sleep and Sam
has three cracked ribs from when the last one tossed him into a
wall. This one isn't Meg either, just some punk-ass bitch in
the body of a kid Sam's age, staring up at Dean out of venom-black
eyes. It twists against the ropes and spouts threats and
curses they've heard before.
Sam shakes his head and keeps chanting. Dean leans down to whisper in its ear. "Have a good trip. And tell your daddy, Dean says hi."
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