...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.
The shotgun is lowered (apparently, the costume came with a pose) and the grin (which is part John and part whatever dressed like this normally) chomps around the cigar.
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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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"Nice dress."
It's no more or less than a compliment to the garment. Well, part greeting.
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"The bar playing games today or something?"
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He throws off a nod to the barman.
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'In need of a drink' is about as much of an understatement as 'outside the window = boom'.
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