He watches silently as the green spreads in a steady inflorescence beneath the other boy's dangling feet. He doesn't know what it means, and there's no Dean or Dad to help. He can handle things on his own, he's sure he can, things like ghosts and making a salt line. But Dad never takes him on hunts, and now there's this. This and its father, and he doesn't know what it means. He's running, silently, through the list of things he and Dean and Dad have hunted and killed, but he comes up empty.

It's being receptive, whatever it is. Maybe he can use that.

"So who's your father?" he ventures.