Scents of sulphur and Jersey Devil sightings sound like Dean and Sam's line of work, so the Winchesters had headed out to nip this particular trouble in the bud, before it started doing things more aggressive than stealing hunters' kill.

Sounded like a copycat myth riding on the belief the locals still had in the Jersey Devil, though as Guardians the Winchesters were privy to the knowledge that the original Jersey Devil was definitely deceased (and . . . whatever happened that prevented mythical things from sticking around after they were dead, a weird, complicated process by the sound of it).

Dean, never a fan of riding through the reality-warping portal of the snowglobes, still didn't exactly have his interdimensional travel legs, and fell face-first on the carpet of pine needles as he and Sam emerged into the Jersey pine barrens. He stood up quickly, trying to pretend he wasn't wiping pine needles off his face, reaching into his jacket.

"You know, for some reason, I can always find my Sig in here, but never a glock," he commented, to take Sam's attention away from the pine needles he'd just been spitting out, and onto the mystery of the jacket that never seemed to run out of weapons that shouldn't fit in it.