He hadn't put Jo there. He wouldn't want Jo there. Not if he could even possibly lose control of this dream.
But right now, Dean couldn't see her, either. She was in the maze. With the zombies.
And Dean's arm hurt more by the minute, where it had been scratched. He told himself over and over that the wound wasn't real, that it hadn't been real even then, that there was a frat boy out there somewhere who'd been responsible for it, a friend of Teen Wolf's. But his arm looked...
He moved backward, very, very slowly. Listening, gun still aimed--sort of.