Dean Winchester didn't waste time tearing Bobby Singer's ruined house apart. He didn't have to. He knew the paranoid, brilliant old hunter better than anyone left alive in this dead world.
While Mame kept watch from the ruined porch, Dean walked straight past the overturned wheelchair and knelt in front of the soot-stained brick fireplace. He ran his calloused fingers along the right-hand interior wall, counting the bricks down from the flue. On the fourth brick, he pressed hard against the mortar.
With a faint, grinding click, a small, hidden panel slid backward.
Dean reached into the dark cavity and pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook and a folded, heavily marked map of the Midwest. He flipped the map open, tracing a thick red line that started in Sioux Falls and ended at a heavily circled coordinate just outside the ruins of Kansas City.
"Camp Chitaqua," Dean muttered, a wave of profound relief washing over him. He folded the map and tucked it securely into the inside pocket of his canvas jacket. He walked back out to the porch, nodding at Mame. "Got it. Let's hit the road. We've got a long walk back, and a whole lot of freaks between here and there."
Mame gave a single, affirming nod. He adjusted the strap of his AR-15, pulling the oversized canvas trench coat around his heavy tactical armor.
The trek back south was grueling, but Mame and Dean fell into an easy, lethal rhythm. They were both born survivors, speaking the unspoken language of soldiers. Mame had given dean two similar gun to his own so they wont make to much noise and when the Croatoan infected swarmed them on the cracked highways, they fought back-to-back. Dean's and Mame's suppressed coughing of Glock 17s. They covered each other's blind spots, communicated through hand signals, and moved with a cold, synchronized efficiency.
By the second night of their journey, they had found shelter in the rusted husk of an abandoned diner off Interstate 29.
They had barricaded the doors and blacked out the windows, sitting around a small, smokeless fire burning in an empty metal trash can. Outside, the distant shrieks of the infected echoed through the dead Iowa plains. Inside, the adrenaline of the day's slaughter was finally wearing off, leaving behind a quiet, guarded curiosity.
Dean took a bite of stale beef jerky, chewing thoughtfully as he stared at the heavily armed teenager across the fire.
"So," Dean started, using his combat knife to poke at the embers. "You're an anomaly. Sent here by some cosmic quota system. But you clearly know how to handle yourself. What kind of apocalypse did you crawl out of?"
"No apocalypse," Mame replied smoothly, taking a sip from a plastic water bottle. "Just a small, rainy logging town in Washington State. Mostly pine trees and flannel."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "You're telling me you walk around a logging town strapped with dual drum-mags and body armor? What exactly are you hunting back home?"
Mame leaned back against a vinyl booth, a dry, almost bitter smirk touching his lips. "Vampires, mostly. But not the kind you're used to."
Dean snorted. "A vamp is a vamp. You chop off the head, you burn the body. Simple."
"Not exactly," Mame corrected, shaking his head. "The ones in my world... they are not afraid of the sun. They don't have so many fangs just two like in the movies. Their skin is as hard as diamond, and they move so fast they're basically a blur. Oh, and when they step into direct sunlight? They sparkle."
Dean paused, mid-chew. He stared at Mame, his green eyes completely blank.
"They... they what?" Dean asked, genuinely convinced he had misheard.
"They sparkle," Mame repeated deadpan. "Like a shattered disco ball."
Dean swallowed his jerky and let out a loud, incredulous laugh that echoed in the empty diner. "Sparkle? What, like strippers? You're fighting diamond-plated stripper vampires?"
"Basically," Mame agreed, the smirk widening slightly. "And our werewolves aren't the monsters you hunt, either. They don't need a full moon, and they don't turn into half-man, half-beast hybrids. They shape-shift into giant, horse-sized wolves. And the kicker? They're the good guys. They protect the human tribe from the vampires."
Dean dragged a hand down his face, thoroughly bewildered. He looked at the fire and shook his head.
"Man," Dean muttered. "And I thought my world was weird."
"You have no idea," Mame sighed, his tone darkening slightly as the reality of Forks crept back into his mind. "It gets worse. Some of the vampires don't just have speed and strength. They have supernatural powers on top of it. And there's an entire coven of them living right down the road from my dad."
Dean's hunter instincts instantly flared. He sat forward, his expression turning deadly serious. "Wait. You've got a nest of super-powered, diamond-skinned vampires living next door to your family, and you haven't burned the house down with them inside it? What the hell are you doing?"
"I can't," Mame said, his voice tightening with a cold, familiar frustration. "They claim they're 'vegetarians'. They only drink the blood of animals. So they don't technically hunt humans in the town."
"Vegetarian vampires," Dean scoffed in absolute disgust. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. A bloodsucker is a bloodsucker. Eventually, the animal blood isn't going to be enough, and they're going to slip. You can't trust a monster to play house."
"I know," Mame agreed coldly. "But that isn't even the worst part."
Mame looked into the flickering flames of the trash can, the heavy burden of his sister weighing on his chest even across dimensions.
"One of them—the one who can read minds—is in love with my sister," Mame said quietly. "And she's in love with him. She's completely obsessed. In fact, she wants him to drain her and turn her into one of them just so they can be together forever."
Dean stared at Mame in absolute, stunned silence. For a hunter, the idea of a human willingly giving themselves to a monster was the ultimate betrayal of nature. But looking at Mame's bruised, exhausted face, Dean saw something else. He saw the helpless, infuriating desperation of an older brother trying to save a sibling who was actively running toward the edge of a cliff.
Dean let out a long, heavy sigh, the rough, interrogating edge of his voice entirely softening.
"Believe me, kid. I get it," Dean said softly.
Mame looked up, surprised by the genuine, raw empathy swimming in the older man's green eyes.
"Family makes you do crazy things," Dean continued, tossing the empty jerky wrapper into the flames. "You spend your whole life trying to keep them safe, trying to keep them on the right path, and sometimes... they just want to jump off the cliff anyway. It makes you want to lock them in a panic room and throw away the key."
"I've considered it," Mame admitted dryly. "A titanium box. Maybe some heavy artillery mounted on the roof."
Dean let out a genuine, short laugh. "Hey, if you figure out how to build it, let me know. I could've used one for my brother."
The tension in the room fully evaporated, replaced by a quiet, solid camaraderie. They were from two completely different universes, fighting entirely different wars against completely different monsters. But the core of their fight—the desperate, unyielding need to protect their siblings from the dark—was exactly the same.
"Get some sleep, Mame," Dean said, pulling his canvas jacket tighter around his shoulders and leaning his head back against the vinyl booth. He patted the pocket holding Bobby's map. "We leave at first light. We've got to get back to Kansas City, and you've got a quota to fill."
Mame nodded. He checked the action on his Glock, set it on his chest, and pulled the trench coat tighter around his armor.
"Goodnight, Dean," Mame murmured into the dark diner. "Let's go find your brother."
The journey from Sioux Falls back to the ruined outskirts of Kansas City took another brutal three days, but with Bobby's map, they knew exactly where they were going.
They arrived at the coordinates for Camp Chitaqua deep into the night. The sky was a pitch-black void, choked with the ever-present smog, and the only illumination came from the flickering, oily orange glow of barrel fires scattered behind the camp's heavy barricades.
Mame and Dean crouched in the ruins of a collapsed strip mall about two hundred yards from the perimeter. Through the scope of his AR-15, Mame watched the guards patrolling the rusted chain-link and barbed wire fences. They were armed with scavenged military gear and moved with exhausted, paranoid discipline.
"We could just walk up to the gates," Mame suggested in a low whisper, lowering his rifle. "Tell them we're survivors."
"No," Dean replied immediately, his green eyes scanning the patrols. "In a world like this, strangers at the gate get shot first and questioned later. Or they get robbed. We sneak in, find out who's running the show, and get the lay of the land before we introduce ourselves."
Mame gave a slow nod, appreciating the tactical paranoia. "Lead the way, Winchester."
They moved through the darkness like ghosts. Dean relied on a lifetime of hunting and breaking into highly secure facilities, while Mame utilized the flawless, silent footwork born from his peak-human baseline. They timed the patrols perfectly, slipping through a jagged tear in the southern perimeter fence while the guards were distracted by a distant Croatoan shriek.
They crept through the outer ring of the camp, sticking to the deep shadows cast by the stacked shipping containers and rusted outbuildings. The air smelled of unwashed bodies, cheap whiskey, and despair.
As they navigated through what looked like a makeshift motor pool—a graveyard of cannibalized vehicles used for scrap parts—Dean suddenly froze.
Mame stopped a pace behind him, his hand instinctively dropping to the grip of his suppressed Glock. "What is it? Patrol?"
Dean didn't answer. He didn't even seem to hear Mame. His breath hitched in his throat, and all the hardened, survivor instincts seemed to completely drain out of him. He stepped out of the shadows, walking slowly, almost trancelike, toward a vehicle sitting on cinder blocks in the center of the scrap yard.
Mame followed him, his eyes darting around the perimeter, keeping watch.
When Mame looked at the car, he just saw a rusted, stripped-down husk. It was a 1967 Chevy Impala. The doors were dented, the windows were shattered, the engine block had been ripped out, and the iconic black paint was entirely eaten away by rust and decay. It looked like a rotting corpse of metal.
But for Dean Winchester, it was a profound, world-shattering tragedy.
"No..." Dean whispered, his voice cracking with a raw, devastating heartbreak. He reached out with a trembling hand, his fingers brushing against the rusted hood. "My baby... what did they do to you?"
In all his years of hunting, the Impala had been Dean's only true home. It was his sanctuary. Seeing it gutted, rotting in the dirt, drove home the horrifying reality of this apocalyptic future more than the Croatoans or the ruined cities ever could. If the Impala was dead, then Dean Winchester was truly broken.
Mame watched Dean mourn the car, keeping his distance to give the man a moment. But Mame's tactical senses were still dialed to the absolute maximum.
Beneath the sound of the crackling barrel fires and the howling wind, Mame heard it.
Crunch.
It was the faintest sound of a heavy combat boot stepping on loose gravel, coming from the shadows directly behind Dean.
Mame's dark eyes snapped toward the sound, his hand blurring to his drop-leg holster.
"Dean," Mame barked, a sharp, urgent warning.
Dean, pulled from his grief, spun around, his hand flying toward his gun.
He never got the chance to draw.
A heavy, leather-clad figure materialized from the darkness behind the car with terrifying, practiced speed. The heavy wooden stock of an M4 carbine swung in a brutal, economic arc, striking Past Dean cleanly across the temple.
Crack.
Dean's eyes instantly rolled back into his head, and he crumpled face-first into the ash without a single groan.
Mame snapped his suppressed Glock up, his finger tightening on the trigger, ready to put a 9mm hollow-point straight through the attacker's skull. But before he could break the shot, the distinct, metallic clack of a hammer being pulled back stopped him cold.
The journey from Sioux Falls back to the ruined outskirts of Kansas City took another brutal three days, but with Bobby's map, they knew exactly where they were going.
They arrived at the coordinates for Camp Chitaqua deep into the night. The sky was a pitch-black void, choked with the ever-present smog, and the only illumination came from the flickering, oily orange glow of barrel fires scattered behind the camp's heavy barricades.
Mame and Dean crouched in the ruins of a collapsed strip mall about two hundred yards from the perimeter. Through the scope of his AR-15, Mame watched the guards patrolling the rusted chain-link and barbed wire fences.
"We sneak in," Dean decided, his green eyes scanning the patrols. "We find out who's running the show, get the lay of the land before we introduce ourselves."
They moved through the darkness like ghosts, timing the patrols perfectly and slipping through a jagged tear in the southern perimeter fence. They crept through the outer ring of the camp, sticking to the deep shadows cast by stacked shipping containers.
As they navigated through what looked like a makeshift motor pool, Dean suddenly froze.
Mame stopped a pace behind him. Dean's breath hitched. He stepped out of the shadows, walking slowly toward a rusted, stripped-down husk of a vehicle sitting on cinder blocks.
It was a 1967 Chevy Impala. The iconic black paint was entirely eaten away by rust and decay.
"No..." Dean whispered, his voice cracking with a raw, devastating heartbreak. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the rusted hood. "My baby... what did they do to you?"
Mame watched Dean mourn the car, keeping his distance. But Mame's tactical senses were still dialed to the absolute maximum.
Crunch.
A heavy boot stepped on loose gravel directly behind Dean.
Mame's dark eyes snapped toward the sound, his hand blurring to his drop-leg holster. "Dean—"
But the shadow moved with terrifying, practiced speed. A man stepped out from behind a stack of rusted tires, reversing the grip on his gun and bringing the steel butt of the pistol down viciously against the back of Dean's head.
With a sickening crack, Dean's eyes rolled back, and he crumpled face-first into the ash-covered dirt.
Mame had his suppressed Glock leveled in a fraction of a second, aiming squarely at the attacker's head. But the man was already pointing his own 1911 directly at Mame's chest.
Mame stared down the barrel of the gun, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. The man wore a heavy, dust-covered leather trench coat. His face was obscured by a thick, gritty beard, but his green eyes were cold, hollow, and utterly devoid of mercy.
It was Future Dean.
The ruthless camp commander looked at the heavily armored teenager, entirely unfazed by the Glock pointed at his face. He glanced down at the unconscious man at his feet, his dead eyes widening just a fraction of a millimeter as he recognized his own younger, unscarred face.
Future Dean's jaw locked tight. He didn't want the camp to see this. He didn't want panic or rumors spreading about a ghost from the past showing up in the middle of the night.
"Drop the gun, kid," Future Dean rasped, his voice low and dangerous. "Do it now, or I put a crater in your chest."
Mame calculated the odds. He could kill the man in front of him, but this was Dean Winchester. Shooting him would shatter any alliance, and the gunfire would bring the entire camp down on them. Slowly, deliberately, Mame lowered the Glock, letting it rest against his thigh.
"Smart," Future Dean grunted. He kept his pistol aimed at Mame and gestured to the unconscious body on the ground. "Pick him up. Haul him over your shoulder. If you make a sound, you're dead. We're going for a walk."
Mame silently holstered his weapon, bent down, and hauled Past Dean's dead weight over his armored shoulder. Future Dean marched them through the shadows, avoiding the main camp entirely, until they reached a reinforced, soundproofed bunker at the very edge of the compound.
Once inside, Future Dean didn't take any chances. He kept his gun trained on Mame as he systematically stripped the teenager of his walking armory. He took the AR-15, the twin Glocks, the heavy Desert Eagles hidden under the trench coat, and the tactical knives. He patted down the unconscious Past Dean, taking his guns and all the lockpicks and stuff as well.
Future Dean carried the massive pile of weaponry outside, dumping it onto a rusted metal table in the hallway, before returning and locking the heavy steel door behind him.
He forced Mame into a heavy metal chair, securing his wrists behind his back with thick steel handcuffs. He did the same to the unconscious Past Dean in the chair right next to him.
Future Dean stepped back, crossing his arms. "Alright. Start talking. Because unless my eyes are playing tricks on me, that's me sitting in that chair. You a shapeshifter? A demon?"
Mame leaned back in his chair, completely unbothered by the cuffs. "Neither. He's you from the year 2009. An angel named Zachariah zapped him here to show him what happens if he doesn't say yes to Michael."
Future Dean stared at Mame, his face an unreadable mask. "And you?"
"I'm an anomaly," Mame answered smoothly. "From a completely different universe. I got dropped here with a quota to kill as many infected and demons as I can. We teamed up on the road."
Future Dean let out a dry, humorless scoff. He walked over to a metal cabinet, pulled out a silver flask and a pure silver combat knife. "Nice story. Let's see if your skin agrees."
He walked over to Mame, splashing a heavy dose of holy water directly into his face. Mame just blinked, the water dripping harmlessly off his chin. Future Dean grabbed Mame's arm, pressing the silver blade hard enough to draw a thin line of blood. No sizzle. No black smoke.
Future Dean repeated the exact same test on the unconscious Past Dean. Holy water. Silver blade. Nothing. They were entirely human.
Future Dean lowered the knife, staring at his younger self in absolute, quiet shock. The explanation was insane, but the proof was sitting right in front of him.
A low, painful groan suddenly broke the silence in the bunker.
Next to Mame, Past Dean's head lolled to the side. He winced, a sharp hiss escaping his teeth as the throbbing pain at the back of his skull finally registered. His eyes fluttered open, blinking rapidly against the harsh glare of the single incandescent lightbulb hanging overhead.
He tried to reach up to rub his head, but his arms jerked to an abrupt stop. The sharp, metallic clink of steel chains echoed loudly off the concrete walls.
Past Dean's tactical instincts instantly kicked in. His eyes snapped wide, focusing on the heavy handcuffs binding his wrists behind the chair. He looked to his right and saw Mame, similarly cuffed, offering him a dry, thoroughly amused smirk.
"Morning, sunshine," Mame rasped.
Past Dean blinked, clearing the fog from his brain, and then snapped his head up, looking past the lightbulb and into the shadows of the room.
Standing there, his arms crossed over his leather trench coat, holding a silver knife and looking at him with eyes entirely devoid of all human warmth, was his older self.
Past Dean stared at Future Dean, the horrifying reality of the situation crashing over him like a tidal wave. He wasn't just a guest in this ruined future. He was a prisoner of the man he was destined to become.
The heavy steel handcuffs bit into Past Dean's wrists as he stared at the older, broken version of himself. The air in the bunker was thick with a suffocating tension, the reality of the temporal paradox threatening to short-circuit Past Dean's brain.
Mame, however, was entirely unbothered. He shifted in his metal chair, the chains rattling loudly.
"Well, let's skip the awkward silence," Mame rasped, offering a dry, perfectly casual smile. He nodded toward the older Winchester. "Let me introduce you. Dean, this is Dean. And Dean... meet Dean."
Past Dean shot Mame an incredulous look, completely bewildered that the teenager was cracking jokes with a gun pointed at them.
Future Dean didn't even blink. His cold, dead green eyes remained locked on his younger self, his expression carved out of stone.
Mame let out a disappointed sigh, leaning his head back against the chair. "Huh. I thought you would at least smirk or something. A little chuckle? Nothing? Man, you are very different from this Dean."
"Shut up," Future Dean growled. He stepped closer to Past Dean, ignoring the anomaly completely. The silver and holy water had proven they were human, but in an apocalypse, human didn't automatically mean safe. Memories could be implanted. Demons had spies.
"If you're really me," Future Dean said, his voice a low, threatening gravel, "then prove it. Tell me something only I would know. Something no demon or angel could just pull out of the ether."
Past Dean swallowed hard. He knew exactly what kind of secret his older self was demanding—the kind of deeply buried, embarrassing truth that he had taken to his grave and never spoken aloud to anyone, not even Sam.
Past Dean hesitated. He slowly turned his head, casting a deeply uncomfortable look at the heavily armored teenager sitting less than three feet away.
Mame immediately caught the look.
"Oh, don't mind me," Mame offered graciously. "I can plug my ears if you want."
Since his hands were cuffed behind the chair, Mame simply squeezed his eyes shut tight, scrunched his neck down, and mashed his shoulders up against his ears in a highly exaggerated, dramatic display of deafness.
Past Dean stared at the boy. They both knew perfectly well that Mame could still hear every single word, but the teenager was humming a very quiet, off-key tune just to sell the bit.
Past Dean let out a long, deeply defeated sigh. He looked back up at the merciless, bearded face of his future self, resigning himself to the humiliation.
"Rhonda Hurley," Past Dean muttered, his cheeks flushing slightly. "We were nineteen. She made us try on her panties. They were pink... and satiny. And you know what? We kinda liked it."
For a split second, absolute silence fell over the bunker.
And then, from the teenager violently squishing his head between his shoulders, came a distinct, poorly disguised sound.
Pfft.
Mame clamped his jaw shut, his chest shaking as he tried desperately to hold back a laugh. A loud, highly amused snicker escaped him anyway, echoing off the concrete walls.
Future Dean's jaw clenched. A flicker of genuine emotion—a very brief, deeply buried flash of embarrassment—finally cracked through his cold exterior. He cleared his throat gruffly and lowered his rifle, finally accepting the horrifying truth.
"Alright," Future Dean grunted, stepping back and slipping the pistol into his holster. "It's you."
Future Dean slipped the 1911 back into his shoulder holster, the tension in his broad shoulders relaxing only a fraction of an inch. He looked at his younger self, shaking his head slowly.
"Touché," Future Dean grunted. "So, what, Zach zapped you up here to see how bad it gets?"
Past Dean let out a heavy breath, the adrenaline slowly leaving his system. "I guess. Croatoan virus, right? That's their endgame?"
"It's efficient, it's incurable, and it's scary as hell," Future Dean replied, his voice flat and devoid of any hope. "Turns people into monsters. Started hitting the major cities about two years ago. World really went in the crapper after that."
"Yeah, tell me about it," Mame chimed in from the next chair, casually crossing his ankles. "Though they aren't very bright. They tend to just run straight into 5.56 millimeter rounds. Tragic, really."
Future Dean shot the teenager a dark, silencing glare before turning his attention back to his younger self.
Past Dean hesitated, the question that had been eating at him since he arrived finally pushing past his lips. "What about Sam?"
Future Dean went completely, terrifyingly still.
Mame watched the older Winchester carefully. With his meta-knowledge, Mame knew exactly what had happened to Sam Winchester, and he watched Future Dean's throat bob as the man swallowed the horrifying truth.
"Heavyweight showdown in Detroit," Future Dean finally answered, his voice dropping an octave, expertly weaving a lie of omission. "From what I understand... Sam didn't make it."
Past Dean's face fell, his green eyes widening in absolute devastation. "You weren't with him?"
"No," Future Dean said coldly, averting his gaze. "No, me and Sam, we haven't talked in—hell, five years."
"We never tried to find him?" Past Dean asked, his voice cracking. To the 2009 version of Dean Winchester, abandoning Sam was a literal impossibility.
"We had other people to worry about," Future Dean stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. He turned his back on them and walked toward the heavy steel door.
"Where you going?" Past Dean called out, pulling against the cuffs.
"I got to run an errand," Future Dean replied, pulling a heavy ring of keys from his trench coat.
"Whoa. You're just gonna leave me here?"
"Yes," Future Dean said, looking back over his shoulder. "I got a camp full of twitchy trauma survivors out there with an apocalypse hanging over their head. The last thing they need to see is a version of The Parent Trap. So, yeah, you stay locked down."
Past Dean scoffed, gesturing uselessly with his bound hands. "Okay. All right. Fine. But you don't have to cuff me, man. Oh, come on. You don't trust yourself?"
Future Dean looked at him, his dead green eyes devoid of any humor. "No. Absolutely not."
Without another word, Future Dean stepped out into the dark hallway and slammed the heavy metal door shut. The lock engaged with a loud, echoing clack.
Past Dean stared at the closed door, his jaw tight with anger and grief.
"Dick," Past Dean muttered.
Mame let out a low chuckle, leaning his head back against his chair. "You know, for a guy who just met his apocalyptic future self, you take rejection pretty hard."
"Shut up, kid," Dean grunted, already shifting his weight in the chair. He leaned forward, his trained eyes scanning the concrete and wood at his feet. "He might have survived the end of the world, but he's getting sloppy."
Dean spotted a loose, rusted nail sticking out of a warped floorboard just inches from his boot. He dragged his chair forward with a harsh screech of metal against concrete, stomping his heel down to pry the nail loose from the rotting wood. With practiced, flexible contortion, he managed to kick the nail up, catch it, and maneuver it into his bound hands behind his back.
Mame watched him work with genuine appreciation. "Not bad, Winchester."
Dean didn't reply, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he blindly navigated the tip of the rusted nail into the keyhole of the heavy steel handcuffs. Click. Clack.
The cuffs popped open. Dean brought his arms forward, rubbing his raw wrists with a satisfied smirk.
"Alright," Dean said, standing up and stretching his shoulders. He walked over to Mame's chair, holding the rusted nail. "Hold still, let me get you out of those."
"Save your nail," Mame replied calmly.
Mame didn't wait for Dean to pick the lock. He simply closed his eyes, tapping into the peak-human baseline the System was actively maintaining. He rolled his wrists inward, gripping the short steel chain connecting the two cuffs.
With a sharp, violent surge of raw kinetic force, Mame jerked his arms outward.
SNAP.
The thick steel links of the handcuff chain shattered like cheap plastic, the broken metal clattering loudly against the concrete floor. Mame casually brought his hands forward, the broken steel bracelets still clasped around his wrists, completely unbothered.
Dean froze, the rusted nail slipping from his fingers. He stared at the shattered steel chain, and then back at Mame's entirely relaxed face.
"You just... snapped solid steel," Dean whispered, his hunter instincts violently flaring back to life. "What the hell are you?"
Mame stood up, rolling his shoulders to get the stiffness out. He gave Dean a dark, razor-sharp smile.
"I told you, Dean. I'm an anomaly," Mame said softly, walking past the stunned hunter toward the locked metal door. "Now, let's go get our guns back."