Ketch had mumbled something under his breath that Dean didn’t quite catch. He knew it had to be something asinine, when wasn’t it? Before he could open his mouth to bite back, the other was gone. He disappeared through the tear with a crisp zap of energy.
“Son of a bitch… You fuckin’—-”
Truly, he should have seen that coming. Fuck. He’d missed the chance to trip him, knock him out, something to keep him from following behind. Without further pause, Dean set the timer on his watch (24 hours), picked up his duffle bag, and stepped through the glowing tear. His body tingled with the teleportation between worlds and he took a fraction of a second to brush it off.
The dark, post-apocalyptic world buzzed around them with distant screams and gunfire. Hard eyes fell on Ketch’s dumbass and the shadows hollowed out Dean’s features, exacerbating the anger there. He pulled the .45 colt from his waistband, flipped the safety off, and nodded toward the tree line.
“You follow my lead here.
Not a fuckin’ s t e p outside of my plan.
You hear me?”
Within a matter of seconds, he’s picking himself up off the ground, sweeping bits of foliage and debris from his finely pressed suit - these dimensional rifts always throw him off kilter somewhat. Just a mild inconvenience is all, and one soon to be forgotten as his senses alert him to the familiar sounds of gunfire in the distance of this dark and dismal world, coupled with the cries of those on the receiving end of said shots.
He almost starts when Winchester enters the realm from behind him, the lad somehow managing to stay on his feet, of course. Ketch eyes him briefly, noting what can only be described as the strange allurement of his displeasure, a look that is only accentuated further when his firearm makes an appearance.Nonetheless, there’s a mild roll of hazel eyes at this.
As if he’s some kind of danger to this little endeavour.
“I am here to help you, Dean, but you’ll need to give me at least a small iota of leeway, hm?”
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