London. Midnight. On the Hunt.
Dean shut and locked the doors to his Impala, and then was following after Sherlock without a word. It was an easy rhythm they were starting to fall into, strangely comfortable, despite the friction, hints of challenge. Normal people usually had to be taken by the hand, but Sherlock almost seemed to know the steps as if he lived them as well. It was strange and comforting; the man wasn't Sam, of course, but he was at least someone he could cling to, walk after, face shadows and monsters. Someone there, and he didn't feel like he was alone. It was like he'd told Sammy not so very long ago: he couldn't do this on his own.
He had briefly contemplated grabbing one of the multitude of badges he kept in the glove box, but Sherlock hadn't seemed at all concerned about getting in to see the body. Dean assumed it had something to do with SexySherlock69 and the Molly chick that wanted to bone him. Dean smirked, shaking his head with amusement, fingers briefly slipping into his jacket, reassuring pressure of that handgun. He wasn't paranoid; there were just some really ugly things that would take far too much glee in seeing him dead.
He had briefly contemplated grabbing one of the multitude of badges he kept in the glove box, but Sherlock hadn't seemed at all concerned about getting in to see the body. Dean assumed it had something to do with SexySherlock69 and the Molly chick that wanted to bone him. Dean smirked, shaking his head with amusement, fingers briefly slipping into his jacket, reassuring pressure of that handgun. He wasn't paranoid; there were just some really ugly things that would take far too much glee in seeing him dead.