[Shaw @ The Winchester Boys(tm)] “Great minds. Unless you’re lost, but with that loadout I don’t imagine that’s the case.” His reddish eyeshine mirrors the pinpoint glow at the end of his cigarette as he takes a long drag and studies them. It’s not the kind of studying s predator does, not exactly, but the acuity is there in his dark eyes before he takes them off his company and returns them to the sky. If he is at all interested in them, he hides it expertly.
The expanse above is black as pitch save for the reddening light of the moon and a thousand icy, distant pinpricks of light. It is bitterly cold, but the breath of the man beside the motorcycle is not visible when it is not laden with smoke.
“If you’re here for the thing that’s been ripping hearts out and sticking priests on steeples, you’re going to want to stay out of the open,” Shaw suggests, eyes still roving the dark heavens. “If you’re here for me…do consider pretending you’re not.”
He fixates on something briefly, a flicker of motion that draws his tuned gaze. It isn’t what he’s looking for — a bat, maybe.
“I’ve some unfinished business, and where you’re concerned, three on one is better than two.”
The man’s timing is perfect, almost Angelic—they do that, after all. Neither brother had heard the telltale flutter of wings, however, and in the silence of this area of a cold, north Dakota town, they’d have heard it. Sam’s eyes are sharply on the man, his trigger finger still resting on the guard, either because he isn’t about to pull a weapon on someone who isn’t overtly hostile or because he knows it won’t do any good. He’s not holding the Colt and even if he was, the bullets are in very short supply. “Dean…” His lips barely move.
“Yeah, I hear ‘im, Sammy.” Dean shifts, his gaze a little sharper, less searching than those of his brother. They’re boring into the man, quite frankly. There’s a whole lot in this world Dean Winchester does not like and this guy is beginning to feel like he might climb to or near the very top of that storied, extensive list. The guessing at their presence is an easy one for someone who has dealt with hunters and is capable of reading internet news headlines, or even newspaper headlines; this crap is big enough to be put in print. The easy way he’s addressing them also speaks of either familiarity with their “profession”, such that it is, or a level of arcane ability, whether natural or acquired, far and away beyond anything a human might possess.
Sam’s eyes tilt skyward, mimicking those of their new companion, sensing innately that he knows more than they do. This wouldn’t be a first and it won’t be the last time. The killing patterns scream “supernatural serial killer with made beef” in Dean’s words, but match no known race, species, subspecies, or entity they’ve ever encountered. John’s journal has long since become defunct and Sam has made a grand stab at the Bunker’s massive archive but even he, with all his brains, cannot have hoped to conquer it all so he’d hit the high points as best he could. None of those had covered this, and while that didn’t mean the creature hasn’t got a classification, it isn’t an encouraging sign.
“You’re not a hunter,” Dean states matter-of-factly, instinctively not leveling his firearm at the man, perhaps sensing as Sam has sensed, that it would not end well for either of them, “so what are you? And whaddayou mean, ‘unfinished business’?” Great, a semi-divine vendetta and we’re in the middle of it.
