[Spam for Dean, wibbly wobbly time backdated to earlier this month][They're putting tools away, screwdrivers and wirecutters tucked in their places, when Anya bites her lip, her eyes flicking across to Dean occasionally, then scuttling away.]
So. You shoot, right?
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Oh, wait, he actually doesn't, but he still can't be bothered on the whole.]
Hm? [Glancing over, the hunter laughs, though not unkindly. His Colt is sitting right this moment comfortably in the waistband of his jeans at the low of his back.] Yeah, I shoot. Why?
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