"Your way is blasting a hole in their head," he grumbles, and then says with more certainty, but he moves to stand closer to Dean, for the purpose of taking a bullet for him of course. Fuck it, he's Dean's brother. If he dies, he can go defending the dickhead. The car -- no, truck Big ol' one, with men sitting in the back of it. Lot of 'em, too. He's not sure if they're equipped to take them out, but then, they could have pulled up and blasted them all to pieces anyway. The driver, maybe just a little older than Sam, hops out and calls from a distance, "You a refugee? Name's Billy, and these fellas here are hunters, same as me. Could get you to the next place if you're havin' trouble."

Sam glances at Dean.

"Do I know you two? You seem familiar." And yeah, actually, Billy is familiar. Maybe someone Dad worked with? He must've been a pretty new hunter at the time. He's got clean clothes and a simple sort of look about him, like the guy you'd see at the bar, who drinks just enough and plays poker for the sake of the game. "... Winchester. I don't believe my eyes. You're Dean, aintcha? You and me and your old man, we did a gig long, long time ago."

Oh. Well. That answers that.

"I was 22, new buck in the game. You probably remember me with shaggier hair. Don't remember the short one bein' so tall, though."