Dean knocked over the table beside him and dove down behind it before the crazy chick started to shoot. And boy, did she shoot. After at least two rounds of shooting and reloading, Dean wasn't even sure she was really even trying to kill him. She seemed to have good aim, so if she wanted him dead or at least injured, he would've been by now. Dean shook his head. These are the thoughts that get you killed, man, he thought as he checked his inventory under the deafening fire of bullets astray.
Dean had only come with a bottle of holy water and Ruby's knife hidden in his jacket, which would work fine against a demon, but would take a bit more strategy to halt a creature of the somewhat natural. It was almost kind of sad that he was aware about something that most people were blissfully ignorant of, than his own species. Demons I get, but people are crazy! Sometimes it scared him - well, not scared, alarmed maybe, - how true that statement was. He could plan a demon's next move, find a hexbag in under three minutes, and kick an angel's ass back to where it came from before it could say, "Amen!", but he probably couldn't tell you what the average human ate for breakfast, ( not like he ate an appropriate one, according to Salad Man Sam), or what people liked to do during the summer. Well, it's not like he needed to know, anyway. He wasn't a freaking psychiatrist or anything. Dean came out of his thoughts to realize that the bullets had stopped showering over him.
Dean took a quick moment to look around the place. The windows were busted, the shot glasses were beyond repair, and it seemed that the woman had aimed at everything but him. Which is probably what she wants you to think, Dean thought. When it sounded as if her violent outburst was over, Dean slowly stood up from behind the table, suspicious at the sudden halt in gunfire. He began to walk back to the counter, on full hunter alert as he held his knife up, his fingers gripping the hilt of it so tightly his knuckles were white. His eyes flicked down for a moment as his foot stepped on something solid beneath him. He bent down to pick it up, knife raised in his hand, and eyes focused on the counter, awaiting any sudden movements.
Salt rounds. Why was she firing salt rounds? Dean thought as he inspected the residue from the stray bullet that he now realized wouldn't have fatally wounded him. Dean looked over the counter and cringed at the gruesome sight before him. It seemed that although she had fired salt rounds all around the bar, the bartender had saved the real bullet for herself. What the fuck was going on? Dean suddenly felt sick holding Ruby's knife, and put it in his back pocket. Then, like the self loathing bastard he was, he realized that during the whole time he was at the bar he had never even bothered to ask for her name or even look at her name tag. He looked closer at the still very alive looking body. Her name was Cassandra. Cas. He thought immediately, for what he would later say was for no apparent reason. That's it. He was going to leave, call Sammy, figure out what the fuck was going on, and get Cas down here even if he had to go up to the pearly white gates and drag him out by the feathers.
Dean left the bar pondering the fact that any normal person would've called the cops if they encountered a room full of dead people. He let out a humorless chuckle when a thought crossed his mind - that no one had the criminal record or overall life experiences that he had. If they did, they were mental patients locked up in some loony bin for knowing more than the average bear. Sometimes Dean Winchester wanted to be normal. But only sometimes.