“One shot, that’s all you get here.”

An apology crumbled off Falk’s lips. Dean squinted at him.

“And you think that covers this?” One hand, outstretched accusatorially, the fingers tensed like rusted hinges.

“No.” Filthy little knots of words threatened to shift forward, too, but were swallowed down, scraping down his throat as they somersaulted toward his stomach. He had to rasp to add, “But I—”

A snarling, hushing noise cut him off. Dean wasn’t amused with Falk, not ever, particularly not just then. ”You know what’s funny?” Funny was the wrong word, but no one was about to point that out, not in those circumstances. A gritty click, then a shifting lower lip.

“You were s’posed to be the best.”

Falk’s whimper shuffled out falteringly.

One lousy, grimy, fucked up shot that struck the night’s thighs with a filthy smack.