Dean didn't move. He was armed, at least. Somehow. And he raised the gun full of salt, bracing for the inevitable.
He would not win. There was no way. The last time this had happened, he'd been shredded. In front of Sam.
He could hear them. But he couldn't see them. Dean kind of thought that was better.
Hellhounds weren't exactly pretty.
His brain decided to be even less nice at that point, and around him, around them, the corn maze grew up out of the ground. The sky darkened. He could hear the kid, Julian, back behind him.
And when Dean looked at his arm, the scratch was back. The shuffling sounds were back, too, but they were more distant. The feeling of being infected without hope of a cure worked itself over him.
A hellhound barked. Dean wondered how long he had.