Wasn't like he couldn't help himself to one. Hell, that wasn't even the point, the point, Dean thought, was the theoretical chick in question was into him enough to give him a number in the first place.
Dean watched Sam as his brother leaned forward to get a better look in the dim lighting. He'd been thinking the exact same thing he had: it was one thing to identify the hunts, even know where the corpses were that needed torching...it was another thing to actually be able to do their job cold like this. The potential shapeshifter running around was more bad news on top of the retardedly high number of ghosts haunting the joint - nevermind the fact they had at least two violent deaths that could easily lean into angry spirit territory. Dean had torched all kinds of bodies, but usually they were mostly decomposed. The idea of trying to torch a more or less fresh body, chilled from the morgue, wasn't exactly appealing. Dean was still trying to estimate how long it'd take to salt and burn a frozen body when Sam held up the radio.
Dean took it with a crooked half-smile. "You really gotta even ask? I can probably jury-rig it to be two way, at least. EMF'll be another ballpark, we need more parts for that."
He was still holding the radio when it suddenly came on by itself (never a good sign for them) and began broadcasting heavy static. It took a second to realize there was a voice behind the static, making disembodied, pained moans. Dean shot a look at his brother, stood up carefully and picked up his bowie knife, waiting for what else might come at them. Spirits couldn't get at them with the salt line surrounding them, but it wasn't like that stopped them from making their presence known. The intercom clicked on like the radio.
Dean didn't panic when a thin mist rolled under the crack between the floor and door's bottom. It curled in, in thin fingers at first, growing thicker by the second as it passed over the salt line. Whatever it was, it wasn't a ghost. Dean brought up his flashlight, standing next to Sam and automatically watching his back as he kept a wary eye out for any new visitors. That was when he spotted the splotch of red on the wall, right over Angel's bed and just outside the salt line - he'd laid it down around Angel's bed rather than having to move it - and growing larger by the second as the wall continued to bleed like something had died bloody behind it.
"Sam," was all Dean had time to say, before nightshift ended.
no subject
Dean watched Sam as his brother leaned forward to get a better look in the dim lighting. He'd been thinking the exact same thing he had: it was one thing to identify the hunts, even know where the corpses were that needed torching...it was another thing to actually be able to do their job cold like this. The potential shapeshifter running around was more bad news on top of the retardedly high number of ghosts haunting the joint - nevermind the fact they had at least two violent deaths that could easily lean into angry spirit territory. Dean had torched all kinds of bodies, but usually they were mostly decomposed. The idea of trying to torch a more or less fresh body, chilled from the morgue, wasn't exactly appealing. Dean was still trying to estimate how long it'd take to salt and burn a frozen body when Sam held up the radio.
Dean took it with a crooked half-smile. "You really gotta even ask? I can probably jury-rig it to be two way, at least. EMF'll be another ballpark, we need more parts for that."
He was still holding the radio when it suddenly came on by itself (never a good sign for them) and began broadcasting heavy static. It took a second to realize there was a voice behind the static, making disembodied, pained moans. Dean shot a look at his brother, stood up carefully and picked up his bowie knife, waiting for what else might come at them. Spirits couldn't get at them with the salt line surrounding them, but it wasn't like that stopped them from making their presence known. The intercom clicked on like the radio.
Dean didn't panic when a thin mist rolled under the crack between the floor and door's bottom. It curled in, in thin fingers at first, growing thicker by the second as it passed over the salt line. Whatever it was, it wasn't a ghost. Dean brought up his flashlight, standing next to Sam and automatically watching his back as he kept a wary eye out for any new visitors. That was when he spotted the splotch of red on the wall, right over Angel's bed and just outside the salt line - he'd laid it down around Angel's bed rather than having to move it - and growing larger by the second as the wall continued to bleed like something had died bloody behind it.
"Sam," was all Dean had time to say, before nightshift ended.