Assumptions

You sat on the reception desk a bit annoyed. Sam had delegated jobs, yours being to sit there like a child and have Nancy tend to your shoulder. He was busy spray painting some devil's traps and Dean was going over blueprints next to you. You'd tried to peek over the desk a few times, earning you a polite comment from Nancy not to move and a glare from Dean as he turned the map around, officially blocking your vision. Jerk.

Henriksen and the Deputy entered the room, carrying the station's stock of rifles and ammo. Dean looked up, "Well, that's nice. It's not gonna do much good."

"We got an arsenal here."

"You don't poke a bear with a BB gun. That's just gonna make him mad."

"What do you need?"

"Salt. Lots and lots of salt."

"Salt?"

"What, is there an echo in here?"

"There's road salt in the storeroom." Nancy said quietly. You met her eyes, "Perfect."

"Perfect." Dean echoed (ironically). "We need salt at every window and every door." He stood quickly, following the two officers out of the room. You looked to Nancy, fear apparent on her face. Great. Feelings. "How you holding up, Nancy?"

"Okay." You sighed, happy she was the suffer-in-silence type. "When I was little," Spoke too soon. "I would come home from church and talk about the Devil. My parents would tell me to stop being so literal. I guess I showed them, huh?" At least she's interesting. "That should hold." You looked to your newly bandaged shoulder, smiling and jumping down from the desk. "Thank you." She smiled back.

Henriksen and Amici came back, salt in tow. "Where's Dean?"

"Said he needed something from his car. Impound lot." You nodded and grabbed a bag of salt. You made quick work of covering every window and door in your field of vision. Dean barged in next to you and shouted, "They're coming!"

A cloud of black smoke darkened the window you had just finished and you heard Nancy scream, apparently experiencing the same phenomenon. I've never seen so many in the same place. Guess we are considered a big bad… "Hurry!" Dean prodded. You hopped down and ran to the office, hoping everyone else had been as meticulous as you. You all waited, blackness enveloping the station windows and the building itself. It took several minutes that felt like hours, but the smoke dissipated as fast as it arrived. You let out the breath you were holding, happy there wasn't a hole for the freaks to squeeze through.

"Everybody okay?" Sam checked. "Define 'okay'." Quipped Henriksen. Dean dropped his bag and began to dig through it. "All right, everybody needs to put these on. They'll keep you from being possessed." He passed one to Henriksen, Amici, Nancy, and then turned to you. You shook your head. "Finally took the leap?" He questioned. "Let's see it." You shook your head again, a bit embarrassed about its placement. "Y/N, either show me or wear this all night. Either way, I'm not getting my crotch grabbed again unless you're the only one in there." You glared, unhappy he brought up the repulsive memory. Rolling your eyes, you gave in. "Fine." You began unbuttoning your pants, and for a moment, you actually detected a hint of panic in Dean's face, his eyebrows rising slowly. Relax Quagmire; you aren't getting a free show. His eyes went dangerously low, examining the tattoo of a Pentagram, just below your pelvic bone. What? Can't have it showcased to the world. Why tell the monsters you're a hunter? "Happy?"

"Not the word I'd use at the moment." Nancy interrupted your banter, "What are those?" Dean turned to her, shaking off the hint of red in his ears and cheeks. You smirked, "Devil's traps. See what Sam painted on the floor? Basically means no entry to Demons."

"And you two have them too?" The boys unbuttoned their shirts and pulled down, revealing the same ink on their chests. "Smart." Henriksen commented. "How long you had those."

"Not long enough." You sighed. Everyone took that as a warning and threaded their heads through the anti-possession charms. You followed Dean into the Sheriff's office as he made salt rounds and you loaded the guns. Henriksen entered shortly after, watching the two of you work. He walked over to the desk and picked up the nameplate, regret painting his features. Almost forgot he shot the Sheriff. His gaze moved to the empty shell casings on the desk and grabbed one, tossing it into the air before catching it. "Shotgun shells full of salt."

"Whatever works." Responded Dean. "Fighting off monsters with condiments." The three of you shared a hint of a smile. "So, turns out demons are real."

"F.Y.I—ghosts are real, too. So are werewolves, vampires, changelings, evil clowns that eat people—"

"He gets it, Dean." You interrupted. No need to scare a teammate just for you to satisfy your ego. "If it makes you feel better, bigfoot's a hoax."

"It doesn't… How many demons?"

"Total? No clue. A lot."

"You know what my job is?" Dean struggled for a minute and then cocked the shotgun with a grunt. "You mean besides locking up the good guys?"

"Dean." You chastised again. At least wait until we get out of this, you child. Henriksen smirked at your antics, "My job is boring. It's frustrating. You work three years for one break, and then maybe you can save… a few people. Maybe. That's the payoff. I've been busting my ass for 15 years to nail a handful of guys, and all this while, there was something off in the corner so big. So, yeah. Sign me up for that big, frosty mug of wasting my damn life." Why does everyone here want to give us their life stories? Maybe it's me. Dammit, probably is. Gotta tone down the grouch. "You didn't know." You tried to comfort. "Now I do. What's out there, can you guys beat it? Can you win?" This is Dean territory. You looked to him, "Honestly, I think the world's gonna end bloody." Comforting. "But it doesn't mean we shouldn't fight. We do have choices. I choose to go down swingin'." Slightly better. Henriksen thought for a moment, "Plus, you got nothing to go home to but your brother and your girlfriend."

"Oh—we're not—um." You quickly intervened. Henriksen smiled at Dean with an, "Ouch."

"I'm gonna go help Sam." You jumped off the counter, no longer wanting to be involved in this conversation.