Behind him, the zombies were rounding a corner. Without breaking the conversation, Dean turned and shot two, backing up toward Jo.
He winced. His arm felt more and more like a pane of glass ready to shatter.
Saerian was hoping Dean would hate himself enough and be scared enough of the idea of being a zombie himself, of not having any control, that he would allow it to happen in a dream. Dean was not to be messed with when conscious, but his head was a playground of guilt, worry and self-punishment when he was asleep.
What else did Dean truly hate, or fear? Not being able to save the people that mattered, right? He let a hellhound go--just one. It growled and barked and plowed off through the maze.
"If it's your dream," Dean asked her, "why am I bit? This happened, Jo. This happened when the fair was going on. He's not in your head. This has to be my head."