...and a man can't get much lower than John Winchester of late. Being in your own personal Hell, picked out and fitted special for you by one of Hell's top hounds, sort of sticks you at the top of the Bottom
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"Wasn't planning on it," he said as he put the shotgun to his side. He rolled a shoulder, getting the feel for a body again and one that was dressed pretty funny took even a little longer than the usual switch from old to new. This one's old, but the leather's new.
She looks both startled and wary at the sight of John's new outfit, but she doesn't flinch back.
Not yet, anyway.
Her approach is cautious but not quite silent. Just in case.
Beat.
"Hello."
Is he going to start shooting?
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"Hello."
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It shows.
"You will not shoot people here?"
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She sounds very sure of that.
And her wary look hasn't gone away.
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Nothing else to say, really, and he needs the drink more than words. He screams enough inside his own head that words get a little tiring.
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Blame the belt.
And the last couple days.
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