It's just like Karen to make Dean Winchester's life difficult.

Which is to say, his horse threw a shoe. He suspects it was purposeful self-sabotage — she's used to these trips to the outpost every other month. She's used to him scooping people up and sporting two people back across the desert on the way home. Cas the first time, Jo the second, either of them reluctantly settling in behind him in the saddle.

If he had to put money on it, he'd say she took one look at Sam Winchester and said hell no, screw this noise, then promptly found a way to pry her own damn horseshoe off, just so she didn't have to beast of burden his gigantic ass in addition to Dean.

Anyway, horse conspiracies aside, what it means is Dean's the other sorry soul in the back of the wagon with this skinny rando for the long ride home. Ain't his first time in the cart, won't be his last, probably — that familiarity, that comfort and ease, is visible in his loose posture as he drapes an arm over the seat beside him.

He regards Blake mildly, assessing, sussing out what few context clues he can manage. It's not much.

He's new, obviously. From the city, probably somewhere north, maybe New York. Not freaking out, but not alpha'ing up either. Level-headed, it seems like — at least at first blush.

"Well, for starters," he says after his studious pause, "That crap they sell you about needing to be back by sunset or whatever?"

He clicks his teeth. Shakes his head.

"Not a thing. Damn near everybody they pulled through that nudist portal lives in the city. Only jabronies go back."