“Look kid,” Sam says. It’s the third time he’s tried the good cop routine and Dean can hear it wearing thin. “We know you had nothing to do with the murders. But we also know you’re not the only werewolf in town.”
The kid tips his head and sucks on his lips, the total absence of fucks glaringly obvious. Dean is both frustrated as hell and grudgingly impressed because, hell, they’ve dealt with demons less sassy than this.
Sam sighs, and Dean has to cough into his hand to keep from laughing because that particular brand of exasperation is usually reserved for him. “Just be straight with us.”
For some reason, that’s hilarious. It takes a second before Dean remembers the dude they’d seen the kid with before they’d picked him up. Big, serial killer looking guy, sporting leather and a possessive hand on kid-snark’s back. Oh man.
Dean snorts and gives Sam patented ‘what? it’s funny’ shoulders when it earns him a glare.
“Trust me, dude,” the kid says. “I’m being as straight with you as…well, I was gonna say humanly possible but…”
A flash of canines has Sam rolling his eyes and sue him, Dean sorta wants to high-five the kid. You know you’ve been hunting for too long when you start rooting for your mark.
“You’re driving a stolen car,” Sam says. “You’re carrying a fake ID. Every word out of your mouth so far has been bullshit-”
“Says the hunter posing as an FBI agent,” the kid says, tapping a nonchalant beat on his water bottle.
Sam pulls out bitch-face number eleven. “Is anything about you real?”
The kid grins and bobs his head. “My boobs.”
Dean laughs so hard he almost pulls something.