Dean sat at the bar, nursing a beer, barely drinking for fear that if he drank he would not be sharp enough for the task at hand. He could barely contain his nervousness, but knew that he had to do so or the deer lady would think him suspicious. Even though he knew Sam was sitting only a few feet away at a table and had his back, he still couldn't help but feel that he was in a little over his head on this one. As he sat there pondering the good luck (or perhaps misfortune, at least in his case) they'd had in there being another bar in town, a woman, young in appearance, approached him in what appeared to be a shy manner. She had large, dark, brown eyes and thin lips, and raven hair that went down to the small of her back. She also had a plain tan shirt and, as Dean observed, a skirt that went all the way down to the floor, obscuring her feet from view entirely.
"Excuse me," the woman said bashfully, "but do you think I'm pretty?" Dean, determined not to betray his intentions to his prey, replied with a smirk and a typical but of snark. "Well sure, but I'd say you're more hot than pretty. Really diggin' the 60s Haight-Ashbury thing you've got going there." With a bit of well faked timidity, the woman continued; "Would you like to go somewhere . . . more private?" "Oh yeah," Dean said with false confidence, his acting nearly as convincing as the woman's; "just show me the way." Without another word, the woman gingerly grabbed the fingers of Dean's hand and led him to the bathroom.
Once the two entered the bathroom, Dean began to reach for the silver knife tucked into the back of his jeans. Before he could use the knife, however, the woman kicked him square in the chest, sending him flying into the dingy tiled wall, leaving a dent and numerous cracked tiles. Quickly recovering, Dean lunged from his position on the floor and was met for his efforts with a swift kick to the stomach, flooring him and making him lose hold of the knife, which skittered and slid to the opposite side of the room.
The woman, now sure of her dominance in the current situation, was arms were changing, becoming thinner and yet somehow more well muscled, her finger morphing into the toes of rough black chest flattened, becoming more level with her stomach. Her face was becoming longer, her mouth and nose combining into one grotesque snout, her eyes becoming larger and darker. From her new mandibles, she uttered a wild cry and began to speak. "You will not take advantage of me like you have so many other women; you have had your fun, now pay your penance!" As she said this, she began to walk toward Dean, defenseless as he was on the ground.
She raised her hoof above Dean's face, ready to begin her ritualistic stomping of symbolic revenge, but before she could exact her fury, the door of the bathroom swung open, and she turned to face Sam, who thrust his knife deep within her chest. The woman emitted a hellish scream, chilling the boys to their very bones, before she collapsed to the now blood covered tiles.
After retrieving his knife from the deceased creature's chest and grabbing Dean's from the floor, Sam spoke as if he had just ripped off a Band-Aid or dealt with a troublesome yard that hadn't been mowed in a while. "Well, that wasn't so hard." "Speak for yourself ," Dean grunted as he lifted himself from the floor; "I'm gonna be nursing these bruises for weeks." "Oh shut it you big baby, you've had worse," Sam said, chuckling a bit as he helped his brother up off the floor. "Bitch," Dean jokingly said as he left the bathroom, now in shambles. "Jerk," replied Sam in kind as he followed his brother to the Impala. "Whatever," said Dean "let's get out of here before the bartender sends someone to clean up in here."