1852/Walking it Off

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Walking it Off
Date of Scene: 05 August 2017
Location: New York City
Synopsis: The brothers Winchester catch up in the aftermath of Sam's rescue. When a freak accident proves Dean is far more hurt than he's letting on, Sam insists on a trip to SHIELD medical, where Dean gets a clearer picture of what happened to his brother in Hydra hands. The resulting rage is epic.
Cast of Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Melinda May
Tinyplot: Blood on My Name
Tinyplot2: Tayaniye


Sam Winchester has posed:
Food. A toothbrush. A razor. A shower. Sleep. These were the things Sam basically wanted after the ride home to their Hell's Kitchen apartment. After a time that night Fred had joined him in his room and had apparently stayed over. They'd gone to breakfast long before Dean woke up, though Sam, with his normal consideration, had written a big note and put it on the fridge with a magnet. 'Getting breakfast, back soon, will bring you something.' And, indeed, there had been breakfast burritos waiting for Dean when he woke up.

Sam now sits in the living room, looking far more like himself in a dark green t-shirt, jeans, and a green and white plaid shirt. Every weapon he personally owns is out in front of him, where he cleans them, sharpens them and otherwise gets them ready and good to go. One is already holstered on his person beneath the plaid, given the bulge at his shirt.

He apparently went to Best Buy too, as there are a couple of big yellow bags sitting by the door, unopened.

Coffee is on. The rich, dark smell of it fills the apartment, a fresh pot made. Sammy has moved on to beer though, so that scent is here too. He's two down, given the bottle in front of him, though two is hardly enough to get the big man drunk. It usually takes him a good four, and he very rarely allows it. Given his generally intense, focused air over there, it's unlikely he will, however fine the coping mechanism might be.

Dean Winchester has posed:
The front door creaks open slowly and Dean peers into the apartment. For a moment he lingers in the hallway, considering his options. His weight shifts uncertainly from one foot to the other as he peeks through that crack in the door. With a sharp shake of his head he enters the apartment and closes the door (rather loudly) behind him.

"Hey," he sounds casual when he walks to the coffee pot. He allows his lips to curve up at the edges. "Busy morning?" his eyebrows draw together and he cranes his neck to peer at the array of weapons left not he table.

He points with his thumb towards the door, "Had to go get the latest Mass Effect?" His eyebrows lift sharply while he procures a mug and pours a large cup of dark coffee and takes a long drink from the mug.

Sam Winchester has posed:
"I'd have to get an Xbox first," Sam points out dryly. "No, I got us a security system. It has cameras. They'll trip our phone and we'll be able to see them from anywhere. Also a good noisemaker. I just have to figure out how to get it installed in a way that makes it difficult for an ultra-secret spy agency to just immediately take them right back out. Though the ones I got also send an alert the moment the system goes down, too. I'm thinking I'm going to have to cut into the walls though, so...trip to the hardware store before I make the attempt."

And, showing he's more observant than he's sometimes given credit for being, he asks, "What was all that at the door just now?" For the life of him he can't figure out why his brother was so hesitant out there, and he shoots a look of concern Dean's way, even as he puts the next, cleaned gun back together with practiced hands before pulling up the right leg of his jeans and sticking it into the holster he's got there as well. He reaches for a knife, next, and a whetstone.

The soft whisk whisk whisk of the blade adds a soft soundtrack to their discussion.

Dean Winchester has posed:
The observation wins Sam a smirk, "Dude, you had a girl over." His eyebrows lift and then he shrugs. "Due diligence," he defends his actions. "There are some things," he rocks his hand uncertainly before focusing on the coffee in his grasp. He takes a long swig of the coffee before sitting at the table.

"Taking inventory or just maintenance?" Dean asks while his green eyes flit over each of the weapons on the table. It's from his vantage point at the table that he finally sees the note on the fridge. He blinks owlishly, stands to his feet and opens the fridge to find the breakfast burritos waiting inside. He draws them out and plates them before putting them in the microwave. He swallows around the growing lump in his throat.

As the greasy burritos heat up, Dean refocuses on the issue at hand, "Alright. So. Security," his eyebrows lift. "Cameras?" He winces slightly at the thought. "I'd rather not have the feeling of being watched in our home. I mean, even if we're the ones doing the watching."

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam grins and ducks his head about having the girl over. The truth is he'd assuredly keep the living room clear, but. There's a bit of a blush that goes along with that expression. But his entire mien turns serious and sober quickly enough.

"How about just one outside, on the door? As long as the landlord doesn't catch us. Maybe one out on the fire escape too."

Then he circles back around to the other question, gazing at his weapons. "Just maintenance." He's not usually so gung ho about it. Never negligent, but it's not really that common for him to drag his entire arsenal out there. Well. Most of his arsenal. His Dodge Charger, and all the weapons that used to be in it, is /gone/, and it probably isn't coming back.

He tests the edge of his blade on a magazine, slicing down the thing which was apparently purchased just for the purposes of testing the blade the right way. Satisfied, he unbuttons the sleeve of his plaid shirt and pushes it up, revealing both his unhealed trackmarks and the wrist sheath he's got there. He slams the knife home, pulls down his sleeve, buttons it, and tests the sheathe. The knife slips right into his hand. He pushes it back again, satisfied.

"How bad were you hurt last night?"

Dean Winchester has posed:
The notion of a camera in the hallway and one on the fire escape gets an ambivalent twitch of Dean's lips and a vague huff from the back of his throat. But after a moment's consideration, Dean issues the most steely, non-emotive response he can manage: "Sure."

The microwave beeps, calling him to attention. He opens the microwave and digs into the first burrito while leaving the second still on the plate in the microwave. Evidently plates are unnecessary.

The too large bite of burrito that Dean stuffs in his face suffers from the burrito problem: too much filling, not enough wrap. Consequently, the burrito spurts out the other side, effectively running down the SHIELD-gifted flannel shirt Dean is wearing. But the burrito gets too much attention to merit caring about the clothes.

Instead of answering Dean's question, he skips to: "This is amazing," he talks around his too full mouth.

His eyes flit to the fridge again and his eyebrows draw together just before he answers the question evenly, "About a three." His gaze sweeps back to Sam and he offers his brother a sly smile while he channels their dad, "Just walk it off."

Sam Winchester has posed:
A flicker of an amused smile greets Dean and his burrito problem, warming Sam's hazel eyes. He doesn't even fuss about the table manners the way he normally would. Instead he just picks up the next knife. It flashes in the light as he whisks it against his whetstone. "Yeah," he says, in response to 'just walking it off,' not protesting it at all. "May will probably be after you to get it looked at though."

But he doesn't sound too concerned about either a three, which isn't that big of a cause for concern, or May's potential flailing on the matter of whether or not they check in to SHIELD medical in a timely fashion. They've both had enough 'threes' in their life, though he supposes it's possible Dean is reporting a '3' when it's really an '8'. But given the great burrito debacle going on over there, Sam rather thinks not.

So he doesn't address it further. He says, "I've been wracking my brains most of the morning. Trying to figure out how to get Claire back."

He cants his eyes down to the arsenal on the coffee table. Soft, worried: "I don't have any ideas."

Dean Winchester has posed:
"We'll find her," Dean says blandly. "By going after him." His lips hitch up on one side and his chin drops towards one of the weapons. "He said he had her. We get him, we find her." While Dean often has few words, he's not usually this vague. "So yeah, we go after the soldier. And not for rescue."

"My ribs will be fine," probably. Dean stuffs the rest of the burrito into his mouth and tries to chew around the food, making a quick mess of his chin as the sauce dribbles down. "I don't need SHIELD doctors poking at them more. Doctors be damned. People see doctors--" but the rest of the thought is lost to murmurs around the second burrito which he's tried to stuff in its entirety into his face.

He struggles around the second burrito more than the first. His jaw works around the food, and then he does the strange job of swallowing what's been chewed and leaving the rest still in his mouth. This is a very very bad idea. And the ill-conceived nature of it becomes very clear when he clutches at his throat.

He can't breathe. Such bad idea.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sammy springs up, dropping the knife and the whetstone, which go spinning to the carpet and rattling on the edge of the coffee table in his haste to get up. He gets around behind Dean and just tries to give him the Heimlich maneuver, surprise and worry alike twisting on his face as he tries to keep his brother from ending his hunting career on a /burrito/ that was too good. One, two, three...Dean is really giving those first aid classes he took when he was younger a real run for their money lately! His eyes widen as he works it again, he won't stop until the food is defeated!

Dean Winchester has posed:
The compressions force the air out of Dean's lungs and bits of burrito fly across the room onto the newly cleaned weapons on the table. Gasps for breath rake the elder Winchester's throat as air finds its way back into his lungs. But perhaps, more unsettling than having all of that work for naught, Dean's body curls into itself. While he doesn't fight for his space, Dean does slump forward, reaching to the floor to find some grounding. His shoulders slump forward, his head hangs heavier, and his eyes cinch shut.

Sam Winchester has posed:
"Dean!" Why is he slumping forward? What's going on? Dislodging the burrito was supposed to be the end of it!

Unless. Of course. His /ribs are broken/. "Talk to me, Dean," Sammy adds, panic edging at his tone. He kneels beside Dean, supporting him, hazel eyes going wide as he tries to figure out what's happening here. Granted, it could just be his brother needs a moment of air, but the truth is he's never really had to do the Heimlich on a real person before. He really doesn't know what to expect.

And, of course, he's far more on edge than he's pretending to be, which helps to ramp up the panic and the anxiety even more.

Dean Winchester has posed:
The breath continues to rake Dean's throat. He tries to clear his throat as he shifts to a sit. He shakes his head. "It.. it's... fine..." his voice cracks. He tries to straighten and curls back into himself. "Don't choke after taking a nasty blow to the chest," he advises as he lays back down on the floor.

"It's... fine..." he groans. He tries to unfurl his body by stretching out his limbs.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam's mouth flattens, and his eyes narrow. He exhales sharply. His voice shakes, just a little, as he speaks."Yeah. Slowing down would be great."

He pat pats Dean very gently on the back, expression still completely flat. He lets Dean recover himself for a second by virtue of grabbing a paper towel to clean up the burrito mess. Then? He's right back at Dean's side.

His voice dips to something more gentle. "So, this is the moment where I go ahead and insist you come to SHIELD medical with me right now anyway, man. I really gotta get a tox screen anyway, and you need to make sure your rib isn't about to puncture your lung. And I'm not taking no for an answer, Dean."

It's rare for Sam to put his foot down. Really, he usually prefers to use puppy eyes. Confrontation isn't his deal. But the stubbornness in his jawline is unmistakable. The fear in his eyes is pretty unmistakable too. He offers a hand.

"Right now," he adds firmly. "I'll get you a burger later if you promise to eat it like a person instead of a Velociraptor. But now."

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean's head cants upwards to watch his brother's eyes. And for a moment, the steeliness in his own gaze has vanished. His eyes soften further. And he reaches out for his brother's hand to give it a quick pat. "I'm okay," he reassures as evenly as he can. "Sammy," he inhales another deep breath, "//Sammy//. I'm okay," he soothes softly.

The hand is accepted and Dean's shoulders draw together more when he stands. "Fine. It's just... a few damaged ribs. People don't die from damaged ribs," except when they do. "It better be a big burger." Pause. "I'll drive."

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sammy pulls Dean up very gently. Relief spreads over his entire face, and he nods his head without arguing one way or the other. Not about the driving, not about whether or not Dean thinks he might die. The fact is he nearly did just die, and it's close enough for Sammy. He's all but vibrating with tension as he turns to leave the apartment, fishing out keys so he can lock the place up for them. He swallows hard, a bit of a shake in his hand that will cause him, once Dean is through and the locking process starts, to miss the lock three times before he finally clicks it.

But he gets in the car in silence, taking his customary seat in the shotgun position, exhaling and saying only, "It can be two. If you promise not to choke on them."

He lets Dean drive without saying much though, trusting his brother to know the way.

And then they're there.



The huge, gleaming cylinder of the Triskelion is impressive and imposing alike. Sam's mouth quirks into a wry, self-depricating smile all of a sudden, but he chooses not to share the reason for the expression. Instead he digs out his access badge, telling the guard softly, "Sam and Dean Winchester for SHIELD Medical."

The guy at the front calls May almost immediately, letting them know the brothers are apparently on their way to Medical.

Melinda May has posed:
May is there to meet them at the front entrance, a small med team (comprised of a hand-picked group of the least threatening-looking individuals from Medical) waiting behind her. She doesn't touch the Impala as it comes to a stop, giving the brothers the option to disembark under their own power.

She's probably already discussed this with Sam if not Dean: The only one May will permit to touch their car if they can't drive it into the garage themselves is Coulson, because she trusts that he'd give Baby every bit as much respect as he does Lola.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Even behind the wheel, Dean's expression stiffens when they drive towards the Triskelion. Every muscle in his body stiffens, and for a moment, he imagines this is what it would feel like to be plastic without joints. When the team enters his sights, he manages a forced curl of the edges of his lips and a small three fingered wave.

Dean pulls the Impala towards the garage. No one will touch his Baby if he can help him. He puts the car in park, takes out the keys, and opens the door. Getting out, however, is met with a long groan when he straightens.

He presses his hand to his ribs and treads towards May and the team. "We're fine.It's not an emergency." It's possible Sam will disagree with this assessment.

Sam Winchester has posed:
"Dean's ribs need to be checked," Sam says, ignoring Dean's comment about how it's not an emergency. As far as Sam is concerned, it's an emergency /now/. He's still entirely spooked by the incident. Not that he's very hard to spook right this second, truth be told. "He choked a little while ago, which might have complicated matters. He took the Winter Soldier's big metal arm to his chest last night."

He pauses. He looks down. He finds he can't look at May, a look of shame and remorse on his face that he can't hide either from his brother, or from this woman who has been trained to read emotions. Sam slides his hands into his pockets, shoulders slumping a little bit, letting his head tip forward so that his brown, shaggy locks curtain his face. "And I'd like a tox screen please. I don't think I have any broken bones or anything, but I was given a lot of injections. I want to see if we can find out what they are."

Melinda May has posed:
Having followed the vehicle into the garage (by taking a shortcut through the interior of the building), May watches Dean straighten out of the Impala and makes a mental guess as to the number and extent of his injuries. Ribs, at least ttwo bruised, two more fractured, one possibly completely broken. Back, strained at the very least. She watches him for a moment to try and gauge his breathing before her eyes shift to focus on Sam as he explains. She gives him the same visual evaluation, noting signs of dehydration, malnutrition, exhaustion, and very much intentionally hiding his eyes from her.

The medical team is still standing back, waiting for May's okay to approach, and then turn to head back inside at a slight headshake from May. The brothers can walk there on their own, she's going to let them. Of course, if either or both of them decide to collapse, then she'll call the medics back and the boys can complain uselessly all they want.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean's head snaps to face Sam, and as it does, he clutches his ribs tighter and hisses a nearly inaudible curse under his breath. "Why didn't you say something?" his eyes hone in on his brother. His lips part to say something else, but he holds onto it instead.

His slowed paces, laboured and unsure close the distance. "Like I said," his eyebrows lift, "not an emergency. Just... " he forces a tight-lipped smile. "..what it is."

Sam Winchester has posed:
"What could you do about it last night?" Sam asks quietly, still staring down at the floor. "And if they didn't kill me after 20 days, they weren't going to kill me while I got fed and cleaned up." He has at least had a couple of meals since he got picked up. A shower, a shave, sleep. "I just don't know. What they were putting inside me. Or why. And I'd like to."

Once they're in the medbay the doctor has him roll his sleeve up. They ignore the sheathed knife at his wrist and glare at the bruises and trackmarks. Sam just looks down at his lap while they go ahead and get a couple of blood samples from him. "This won't take but 5 minutes," the doctor says, courtesy of SHIELD technology at its finest.

And then: "It is what it is, and what it is...is something you need to stay still and let them look at, Dean, before you create real complications for yourself by ignoring it." Winchester the Younger, playing voice of reason.

Agent May hasn't spoken, not even at all. He swallows and exhales.

Melinda May has posed:
Standing at the edge of the medbay out of the path of the doctors and other medical staff, she watches the pair as Sam has a blood sample drawn and Dean... stands there. She pulls her phone and taps a quick message into it before approaching the brothers though still staying well out of arms' reach. And then she just stands there and watches Dean.

And the medics have yet to even give Dean more than a cursory glance as they move to check Sam over. Quite probably again waiting for a cue.

Dean Winchester has posed:
"You don't know that," Dean interjects about the injections not killing Sam with food and a shower. "Toxins work differently." Not that he knows much or anything about toxins. "Look Sammy, you can't wait on stuff like that. Not when there's so much we don't know."

After that's spoken, Dean's head turns to see May... watching him. He lifts his hands in surrender and slides to the bed adjacent Sam.

Carefully, Dean sheds his jacket and shirt. The tape he's used as a makeshift brace fails at providing support to his body. He lays on the bed as one of the medics peels the tape, actually earning a cringe from Dean. Which actually makes his ribs hurt more.

The purple underneath the tape speaks volumes about the state of the injury even before he's ever really looked at. "It should heal on its own," he objects as one of the medics sizes up the injury. "As long as I don't need the Heimlich again."

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sammy can't stand it. The silence from the Agent. As he waits for the results he finally drags his gaze up to her. There are some things a man says while looking square at a body. Dean taught him that.

"Agent May, I owe you an apology," he says, very softly. "I should have brought SHIELD in from the moment I figured out the true identity of the Winter Soldier. I should not have tried to bring together my own group. As a result, I caused a great deal of trouble for SHIELD, for the two wolves who were there last night, and for others. I also lost my ICER and the jacket you gave me. I was afraid that by telling you that I'd put you in a bad position, that SHIELD might want to harm Sergeant Barnes, but I made things way worse. You've been nothing but good to Dean and I, and I was wrong to cut you out of the loop."

He cants a glance at Dean, then stares at his sleeve as he starts rolling it slowly down, buttoning it over his messed up arm once more.

"It's not just going to heal on its own, Dean," Sam murmurs. "Would you please just let them do their job? I'm sorry I didn't mention the shots right away. I was just really tired. I just wanted to clean up. I just wanted to sleep."

The doctor clears his throat. "Any more injuries, Sam?"

And Sam grimaces. Because he doesn't really want to reveal the nature and extent of them. Not to strangers. Not to May. Not to Dean. The dark of the night last night hid most of them. He'd let Fred see, but...more as a side effect than as an intentional reveal. But finally he pulls his outer plaid shirt off, and his t-shirt, revealing a chest, neck, and back that are just a mess of bruises layered over bruises of every color and size. "I don't think anything's broken or fractured," he says softly. "Or bleeding internally or anything. They were very professional."

The doctor casts May an exasperated look, shakes his head, and goes to check.

Melinda May has posed:
"I'll accept your apology, and ask for a promise. That you'll both considering letting us know about anything that's more than you can handle on your own." She glances at Dean but continues to keep her distance as the doctors start to do their jobs finally. "We might be feds, but we're not the bad guys."

With a nod to the doctor who gives her the exasperated look, she then adds, "When you're both ready," she glances at her phone, "the commissary makes a decent burger." And then she steps back over toward the doorway so she's out of the path of the medics again, but still within decent earshot.

Dean Winchester has posed:
"Dammit, Sam," Dean doesn't mince words.

His hands press to his face and he releases an audible puff of breath. The hands fall to his sides, but his expression has turned to complete stoicism. Silently, his jaw tightens, and hands ball into fists. Rage openly reflects behind his green eyes.

The medics attend to Dean's injury and he becomes silently complicit in each of the examinations and treatments. Throughout the entire ordeal he maintains that silent. When finally patched up, Dean reaches for his shirt and tugs it on and does up the buttons, curtly sliding each button through the holes.

After he's dressed, the medic offers him a bottle which prompts a vague roll of his eyes as he tucks them into his pocket before sliding off the bed. He shoots Sam a look and makes a small tick of his head towards the door. He will have a burger.

Sam Winchester has posed:
The doctor does his examination and says, "They'll heal on their own." He offers a bottle of painkiller to Sam. Sam dryswallows a couple.

Meanwhile, the tox screen comes back. "Nothing," the nurse who is doing the screen says. "No opioids, barbituates, or other unusual drugs in his system."

Sam, who had been noting the signs of Dean's rage on his behalf, as well as May's acceptance of his apology, finally snaps his head around. "Nothing?"

"Nothing," the nurse confirms.

The doctor hands Sam his t-shirt. Sam pulls it painfully over his chest, and the doctor says, "It could have been sugar water. It could have just been a mindfuck, Mr. Winchester."

Sam half shakes his head, as if this makes no sense to him. But in the end he just pulls on his own outer shirt, exhaling. "So good. That's good. I'm glad it wasn't heroin, or anything." With the air of a man who had totally expected to hear heroin, which begs the question...what was he experiencing when he got those injections?

But he doesn't argue. He swallows and hops down from the bed, a shiver rolling through him. "I haven't forgotten your burgers, Dean. Which way to the commisary, Agent May?" He hasn't spent a lot of time wandering this place, or trying to find his way around it in any way shape or form. He's gone primarily to places he's been shown to.

Melinda May has posed:
May leads them to the commissary, and almost as if they'd been expecting the trio, one of the staff brings them glasses of water and waits to see if they want anything other than burgers. May simply nods slightly, so she must have a standing 'favorite'.

"Anything you want, but some things will take longer than others."

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean remains painfully silent until they're sitting down. The cogs in his brain have been moving, and in a way he almost feels like he's switched the controls to autopilot. He's there but not there; present but not present. And that strange vacancy becomes calculating with each passing moment. It's only when the water sets in front of him that he realizes he's been staring. His head turns put to the woman, "Two burgers. Bacon. Fries. Extra sauce. Mayo." His eating habits have always left something to be desired.

His chin drops and his eyes fall on May. His lips part and then press together--locking down whatever thought might've erupted. His heart pounds in his chest.

Sam Winchester has posed:
"I'd like a salad nicoise and a fruit juice, please," Sam says, in very quiet tones. It's a total 180 from Dean's eating habits, and he fully expects this will probably be a better salad than the diner salad fare he's used to. He's thinking strategically about his own body here. Nutrients! Omega 3s!

He's missed the signs of a brewing explosion from Dean this time, primarily because his shoulders slowly relax. There's a soft exhale of a relieved breath. He drinks the water in three sharp, short gulps. May wasn't wrong to think he's still dehydrated. He didn't make it much better by drinking beer today, but the beer had served other purposes for the young Hunter.

He seems content to let the silence linger over the table after making his order.

Melinda May has posed:
The woman doesn't actually write anything down. She simply nods at each request and disappears again, returning shortly afterward to refill Sam's glass and leave a pitcher on the table as well as a glass bottle of Mexican Coca Cola with a bottle opener in front of Dean.

After she leaves again, May offers mildly to the elder sibling, "The pills the doc gave you work best when taken with a meal." Whether or not she has any opinion of either food request, she doesn't offer any hints. She then takes a sip from her own water glass and waits for imminent explosion.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean regards the bottle with a hint of apprehension--as if the Mexican Coca Cola will magically be the source of his undoing. He slides the bottle opener closer to him and finally with a familiar release of pressure, opens the bottle. The opener doesn't return to the table, however, when he takes a swig of the soda.

His nostrils flare again, and he gets the sense that May sees through him. His eyebrows draw together sharply. "I don't need the pills," he hisses as he rubs his nose with the sleeve of his jacket and he leans forward. But he does need the burger. His eyes turn briefly to the door. "I need to feel this," his voice hisses through is teeth. "All of it."

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam pours the water, and his head snaps up at Dean's words. His eyes soften until there's nothing but raw empathy on his face. "Dean," he says, though he trails off. He's not sure what to say. He's not sure what to do, even. Except to do much as Dean had done earlier, lying on the floor.

He tries to reassure him. "I'm fine," he says, echoing words he said to Fred. Not that Fred believed them, but he says them with all earnestness. "You all came and got me. I'm here now. I'm fine now. I'm-- I'm walking it off, you know?"

Using the words that Dean uses so very often. Usually Sam isn't one for parroting John's words. He parrots Dean's words if he's going to parrot anyone's. But he chooses them now. He casts his gaze back to Melinda, worry all over his face.

Melinda May has posed:
"Maybe you do, and that's noble and all," May concedes, and fully expects the look of incredulity that Sam's going to throw her way. "But, are you going to let //feeling// slow you down if someone tries to come after Sam again?" She leans back in her seat and waits to continue until the woman has finished setting their meals on the table. Her own food turns out to be a salad similar to Sam's, but with still-hot slices of grilled chicken on top of the veggies.

"I've learned the hard way it's better to be prepared at all times for any eventuality."

Dean Winchester has posed:
Sam's reassurance wins a vague not-at-all-convincing smile. Dean stares at May as she poses the question. His fingers tighten around the bottle of cola, and he blinks owlishly as the food is set in front of them. The beauty of the greasy burgers would normally serve as a fitting distraction. But today Dean remains singularly focused.

The burgers are taken from the plate and Dean slides from the table. And it's then that he answers May's question, "They're not going to have the chance." He turns on his heel to tread to the door. He pauses in its frame, "You know what they say," the 80s pop culture wisdom is left to hang a moment before he finally fills in the gap: "live short, die young, and leave a beautiful corpse." He walks out of the comissary.