When Dean finds his feet, it's pure dumb luck that sets them stumbling in the right direction, the white of a pillar little more than a gray smudge in the shadows swimming before his eyes. Soon there's a body rising out of the dust in front of him, and Dean aims his Glock, realizing just in time that it's Faye. Still standing then. Well, that's just pure dumb luck, too.

"Faye," he whispers when he reaches her, setting his shoulder against the pillar. Hell, it must be the only solid thing in this room, and Dean leans hard, lets it take his weight while he reloads his gun with fingers that would tremble, but Dean's fought his way through enough concussions that they don't.

"There's two behind me," he says, eyes landing on the bolt of crimson by her ear, following it down to her jaw. "At least. You good to shoot?"