Dean crouched low, his Antraizel spear steady in his grip. The shadows whispered around him, familiar and alive, sharper in his vision that daylight could ever hope to be. His strange attunement to darkness was his gift- and perhaps his curse.
He could see them now, three figures moving swiftly in his direction, their shapes etched against the dim horizon.
...Three minutes. That's all the time he had.
He set to work, his movements precise and efficient. From the carcass before him, he stored away the unnecessary, packing the useful parts into his makeshift satchel- a contraption so crude it bordered on embarrassing. But it was all he had. Most importantly, it was his, and it worked.
...And that's all that matters.
Thoughts swirled across his mind, unbidden and unwelcome.
'Focus, Dean. This is but the first step.'
