Dean Winchester acted on instinct as often as not, instincts honed by a life that had been a battle since he was a child.

Right now, his instincts were telling him to reach back into his jacket, and pull out the sawed-off shotgun that was digging into his ribs.

The sawed-off shotgun that hadn't been there when he walked out of the falling-down motel, that sure hadn't been there when he went to sleep in Chicago, because it had been in the trunk of the Impala.

But now, with a . . . with a something in the form of a Ninja Turtle that seemed to be able to teleport (or throw his voice) counting down to an attack, he felt the second firearm burning a hole in his jacket and reached.

The night exploded with gunshots as he fired the Sig and the sawed-off Remington into opposite directions into the darkness, spinning and varying his height as he charged for the trees, looking for his own cover.

The so-called Ninja Turtle might drag him somewhere, but he wouldn't be going voluntarily.

Or, he realized - as he felt knives, grenades, and - yup, another Sig jostling in his jacket as he ran - without a fight.