Dean's face is white by the time his better senses kick in, filtering in a steady stream of facts through the uncharacteristic terror flooding his veins. Furred and massive with bright, red eyes, but that gaze is banked, not blazing, teeth not bared in a snarl.

Not a hellhound, Dean realizes, relief sagging at his shoulders, and it takes him a moment more to look at the scratches on the ground. "Derek?" Dean blurts, incredulous.

Jesus Christ, he might shoot him anyway.