Plucking the fedora from his head, Dean touches the smooth part in his hair with wondering hands, his eyes stuck on Derek and the admittedly slightly better suit he has on. "Quiet," he grunts at Stiles, who seems to be doing his level best to attract as many eyes and ears as possible.

There's a strange weight against his side, and Dean presses at his suit, pulling the lapel back to reveal a Thompson submachine gun where his Glock should be. "Tommy gun," he mouths, looking up at Derek with wide eyes. "There's a brand new Tommy gun jammed into my pants."