[Unlike the majority of the people around here that are actively running away from fights, Dean is not panicked when he turns around; he's breathing hard from the exertion, he's sweating, but he's focused. A few months of relative peace on board the Barge cannot take away months of living in the kind of worlds they both come from; he would understand, if he had attention to spare to notice Philip right now. If he presented himself as a threat that would change but here, now, the hunter is focused on his pursuit.
And the fact that it is the salt line, not the line of wards a few inches in front of it, that they slam to a stop in front of. He mutters under his breath because that makes this harder, that makes them ghosts instead of demons, and while he'd rather deal with ghosts than demons any day, it does complicate banishing them significantly.
Dean steps back when their swords swipe over the line anyway, calmly, just out of reach. He feints back with his own idly, a distraction tactic to keep them riled up and unfocused but still focused on him while he thinks. He hasn't enough accelerant to set them on fire and besides, that might not do anything at all except create another threat; he doesn't know where their remains are and hasn't the time to work it out. They don't look like the speaking type and none of the spirits here seem to really be capable of peaceably moving on for one reason or another.
Dean's own sword ends up back in its sheath at his hip; he's safe enough as long as he doesn't get too close and as long as the salt holds, and he needs both hands because what he does next is back up to one of the cobwebbed barrels by the wall, hoisting it free and taking it with him to the edge again. It hurts, he flinches, but he doesn't hesitate; when the next sword comes at him, Dean hefts the barrel into its path and, when he hears it splinter, twists viciously with both ends of his own makeshift shield; when the sword sticks tight in the rotted wood, capable of cutting through but not immediately, he wrenches it back and free of the guardsman's hand.
Then he throws the remains at the other one. One disarmed, one to go, and then Dean isn't really sure what.]
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And the fact that it is the salt line, not the line of wards a few inches in front of it, that they slam to a stop in front of. He mutters under his breath because that makes this harder, that makes them ghosts instead of demons, and while he'd rather deal with ghosts than demons any day, it does complicate banishing them significantly.
Dean steps back when their swords swipe over the line anyway, calmly, just out of reach. He feints back with his own idly, a distraction tactic to keep them riled up and unfocused but still focused on him while he thinks. He hasn't enough accelerant to set them on fire and besides, that might not do anything at all except create another threat; he doesn't know where their remains are and hasn't the time to work it out. They don't look like the speaking type and none of the spirits here seem to really be capable of peaceably moving on for one reason or another.
Dean's own sword ends up back in its sheath at his hip; he's safe enough as long as he doesn't get too close and as long as the salt holds, and he needs both hands because what he does next is back up to one of the cobwebbed barrels by the wall, hoisting it free and taking it with him to the edge again. It hurts, he flinches, but he doesn't hesitate; when the next sword comes at him, Dean hefts the barrel into its path and, when he hears it splinter, twists viciously with both ends of his own makeshift shield; when the sword sticks tight in the rotted wood, capable of cutting through but not immediately, he wrenches it back and free of the guardsman's hand.
Then he throws the remains at the other one. One disarmed, one to go, and then Dean isn't really sure what.]