He doesn't really know how well his claws and teeth compare to a canon ball to the face, but he's willing to find out. The entryway to the asylum is dark and quiet, smelling of rotting wood and mildew, and Derek turns to look at Dean when he says the thing about the devil. The gun cradled in his hands is obviously old, gleaming sinisterly in the moonlight. Derek knows that it wasn't an exaggeration, but that he meant the literal Devil.

At least being friends with Dean puts things in perspective for Derek. No matter how shitty is life was, it could have been worse. He literally can't even imagine what it would be like to go up against some of the shit Dean has. The guy is made of steel, or least he's good at making it seem like he is.

"So, is the asshole still kicking, then?" Derek asks casually, keeping his head tilted vaguely upwards as he listens closely for a flutter of wings or the clomping of hooves.