1910/We're All Okay Here

We're All Okay Here
Date of Scene:	10 August 2017
Location:	West Harlem - Mercy's Garage and somewhere in the wilds of NYC
Synopsis:	Sam and May pop over to Mercy's garage to check in, while Loki brings lattes and the battered form of Dean. With car.
Cast of Characters:	Mercy Thompson, Sam Winchester, Melinda May, Loki, Dean Winchester
Tinyplot:	Tayaniye
Tinyplot2:	Blood on My Name

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Mercy Thompson has posed:
Quitting time.

That's the name of the game and Mercy's Garage is no different.

The front office is already locked down tight, whereas the side entrance isn't. The wide segmented garage door is still up, open and welcoming, with the light inside the actual garage workspace shining and bright. The majority of the garage is clean and tidy as usual, with only one work bench holding an array of scrap metal and tools upon it. There Mercy stands, her back to the door as she slowly leafs through a small notebook. She's currently dressed in her blue mechanic coveralls with hair pulled back into her typical braids. At the edge of the work bench where Mercy is at, sits several drinks; soda, water and even a few cold bottle of beers.

Sam called ahead to warn her of this particular visit and so Mercy, being the polite host she is, prepared drinks.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam arrives right on time, though he takes public transportation. His car got stolen, after all, and now he's ambivalent about stealing another one. He'll have to wait until he gets enough consultant checks to do this thing right. Dean took off in the Impala. He arrives in jeans, a blue t-shirt, a blue and green plaid shirt, a green canvas tactical jacket. He arrives looking solemn as well.

"Hey, Mercy," he says, softly, entering the space. "Thanks-- you didn't have to-- " He gestures awkwardly at the drinks, and flashes her an equally awkward smile, a quick cut across his face that soon settles back into furrowed brows and something very like anxiety.

Melinda May has posed:
"You know, standing with your back to the door is never a good idea."

This is the second time that May has chosen to sneak up on the mechanic, though this time she was likely detected a moment before she started speaking as she made a point of scuffing one shoe near-silently against the floor. Anyone else already in the room? They're on their own. She also waits for Mercy to acknowledge her presence before stepping any closer than just inside the segmented door.

Loki has posed:
You know, cars are irrelevant for someone capable of teleporting through dimensions to get the best crab rangoon from Earth-1598, on the other side of the Fifteenth Dimension. Why such a place entertains him so is one of the great mysteries, along with the cyclical nature of Ragnarok and how many licks it takes to get to the centre of a Tootsie Pop. Neither is demonstratably relevant; they're always broken before the event happens.

Sneaking inside is admittedly a whole lot harder given what else decides to make this place their haunt, and it's a man holding a latte they might want to worry about. Three lattes, in fact, juggled with expertise between both hands rather than one of those trashy cardboard carriers he despises. Loki, Prince of Asgard, chief trickster, says screw you to flat whites and conventional foam. "Are you inviting her to be pressed up against it on her belly or ripping down the door in favour of classical arches, perhaps?"

That's how hi goes.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Sam's arrival is heard and then likewise May's. Though May's earns a flash of surprise from the mechanic.

However, it's Sam who gets her first look, as Mercy turns her eyes to the young man in his plaid shirt and tactical jacket. She's giving him the one over, a serious once over, to see how he's doing. Then she's inhaling subtly to check his scent - does it still smell off, like the night he was rescued.

"Sam." Mercy says in greeting, "How're you holding up?" The concern that touches her expression likewise shadows her voice and with that question asked the mechanic now turns her attention to Melinda May's arrival. The SHIELD agent earns a crooked smile from Mercy, even as the coyote abandons the work bench and that notebook of hers. "No, it never is, but I'm a risk-taker." A hint of sarcasm touches her voice now, even as she likewise gives May a quick once over. "You look like you're in pretty good shape. I'm glad."

Of course, when Loki joins the group Mercy doesn't look quite so surprised, so expected. His words, however, do earn a slight look from the woman. Though her look doesn't stop her from walking over to help Loki juggle those lattes of his. "Why don't you all come in." Mostly that's for May, as she lingers just a step outside. Once all is inside introductions will be made quickly, "Liam this is Agent May, Agent May this Liam."

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam Winchester's scent definitely still smells off. Now that he's clean he smells like himself: woodsmoke and beer, aftershave and clean soap, herbal shampoo and his own personal scent. But there's something that's just tinging that scent now. It's like...a sweep-sharp smell that's not exactly comfortable to the nose, a hint of something burning, all sprinkled across his being like pepper on a dish that neither needs nor wants the spice.

And for a moment he doesn't answer, because the spectacle of Loki juggling lattes tugs a smile out of the young man. It's touched with incredulity, but it's genuine enough. He does come in, all the way even, and hesitates.

"I probably should have brought something," he says, in his gentle way. "I couldn't think what would be appropriate though. I wanted to thank you for coming for me, Mercy. Actually I didn't thank you either, did I Agent May? I should have, I'm sorry."

He's a bit off balance, yes. He glances quickly at Loki, as if to silently ask if Liam was there but missed in the chaos. If he owes thanks to him too, he'll certainly readily offer them.

Melinda May has posed:
May's eyes cut over to Liam, but other than his ascerbic wit and what has got to be a lethal caffeine addiction, she doesn't really see anything that badly off about him. Not even his height can be complained about overmuch. Not with Sam already here. She steps over toward where Mercy and Sam are, nodding to the latter and seeming to give the former's worktable a serious look.

"I'll leave bending people over tables to you, Liam. I was more thinking the table should be rotated about one hundred twenty degrees counter-clockwise so that door is within her line of sight and can still be used as cover if something unfortunate should happen."

Loki has posed:
The amends of kindness dictate that Loki -- Liam, to anyone familiar with him in this most human of guises -- deliver his lattes before he goes about handling other weighty matters with lost souls, wicked assassins, and scaly monsters with a propensity to regenerate as insidiously as polling numbers for Congress. He carefully maneuvers his way around Melinda and into the shop, that central latte neither springing up nor sliding to the floor. Hints that the Englishman's got a deft hand at such matters.

"Would the return of the arch one day demonstrate a restoration to more civilised times. Well, can't win them all." The hint of his accent imposes not in the least, but crisps every word neat and clean. "Refreshments. Though I fear not quite enough." Observation made, he gifts Mercy with that housewarming present and hopefully not spilling it upon her.

"Agent May, good to meet you." He casts a look in Sam's direction that does not really measure up to 'askance,' but close enough to be exceedingly polite. "I reckon if anything unfortunate happens, she's got a few feet of stone, wood, and people to get through first." And bullets aren't precisely something he worries about.

Dean Winchester has posed:
It's not unusual for the Winchester brothers to fall of the grid. Hunting often meant entering dead zone with little or no cell reception. Which is why Dean had thought to leave Sam the note he did. It was standard in a way, a kind of, 'don't worry, I'm falling off the map for awhile' notice.

It's been days since he took off, most of which time he spent peeling himself away from the wilderness Bucky had left him in, leaving a lovely blood trail for other things that bump in the night to find.

Finally, after literal days of dragging himself through the woods, he collapses alongside the Impala--a gift and relief mashed into one. He leans his back against the car, allowing his eyes to lid a moment while he catches his breath and collects what he can of himself. Wearily, he reaches for the phone in his pocket. Pale skinned and trembling despite the unusual warmth of the outdoors, he extracts it and hits a single button.

The call to the SHIELD number had been pre-programmed into the machine--not a usual call for Dean to make, and certainly not one Agent May would likely expect to receive. Haphazardly, he hits the button to put it on speakerphone.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
With lattes secured, Mercy will pass one to Sam and one to May; no matter that one was likely for her. Loki likewise gets to keep his.

Guests always come first in Mercy's household. With Sam's mention of bringing something Mercy just waves that off. Clearly not something she was expecting from him.

His thanks, however, is what earns Mercy's full attention upon him. "Of course. You're a /friend/. If anyone of us here were in that same spot of trouble you'd have done the same thing. I'm just glad we got you back safe and sound." As for May, the other woman's words earns something close to a grin. "I'll take that under advisement." Says the coyote, when May offers her assessment of the work space around. As for Loki, a nod is given to his words. Well, the last portion of his words. "Liam's right, I do have some protection here and I have better senses than most. I think I'll be okay. Thanks for the concern, though."

It's only once the four are settled somewhat comfortably that Mercy's attention drifts back to Sam. Her scenting is less subtle this time, a flare of nostrils, as the coyote says, "Sam, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your scent is still off. Have you been given the once over by anyone in the medical field? Or magical?" She'll say, those last words of hers causing a look to be darted over to Loki.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam takes the latte, warming his hands around it. His smile is quick but similarly warm as she declares him a friend, says he'd do the same. He would, in fact, but he doesn't rush to declare it. It fades back into a too-serious expression. Haltingly: "Is there anything I can do for the family of your-- I mean your friend, he died, and the other one who they-- " He swallows.

And then she's telling him his scent is off. "Yeah, I got a tox screen, but no magical screening. You're welcome to do that if you like, Liam." He keeps his head bowed, a little uncomfortable, but adds, "I didn't think to ask myself if the injections were magical in nature. That...should have entered my thought process."

He finally decides to sip the latte; another sip says he finds it both quite good and quite welcome. May's phone rings and he doesn't even glance in that direction, it hardly seems that unusual for the busy agent to get a call.

Melinda May has posed:
May promptly hands the latte back to Mercy. "Thanks, but I prefer water." Technically, she prefers tea, but since that's not on offer here, she's not going to mention it. And to prove her preference, she claims the water that Mercy had already set out. She looks about to add something to Sam's words about the wolves lost in the rescue when her phone goes off. She frowns ever so slightly, her eyes flicking toward Sam for the briefest second, and then she'll pulling the phone from her jacket pocket. "Excuse me."

Stepping away to answer the call, she doesn't put it on speaker phone. Because the particular ringtone used is on her phone for only two people, and one of them is currently just a few feet away appreciating a latte. "May."

Loki has posed:
The cat's not fully out of the bag, but enough at the look given by the mechanic to the antiquities consultant. A thorough vetting of his background would only give further reason to surmise Liam knows a few things about the hidden corners of the world. His smile deepens a touch, ironic in its acknowledgment. He hides behind the last latte, sipping the profound experience of fair trade, properly made coffee and milk infused by a proper barista and not some $12-hour kid from Bed-Stuy wearing a two-finned mermaid on a green apron. Conversation spins around him. Sometimes silence suits the god of stories better than wordplay.

It's not as though those bright green eyes turn into multiple manifested spectra at once, staring through the veil of mortality with the merest nudge of will. His sensitivity for all things arcane and strange needs only a moment to adjust, proverbially slipping off the sunglasses. Such explains the lasting silence while he skims. "Injections? Amounts, description of what or their effect?"

Precise data makes the world go round, even as he tips his head a degree. Loki can adopt an almost bored look when May's phone decides to awaken, and the device once again reminds him. "I prefer the cube," he tells no one in particular. Probably Mercy.

Dean Winchester has posed:
In the space while the phone rings Dean can actually feel himself getting dizzier and his eyes begin to wearily wear shut. But the single word answer on the other end snaps him back to life and causes an exasperated altogether relieved huff of air from the back of Dean's throat. He feels strangely distant yet still present in an odd bid to keep some prescience of mind. His eyes turn up to the sky and he sees a cloud that reminds him of the Impala, prompting his lips quirk to into a too-chipper smile for his current state.

For too long the silence is left, probably because Dean has lost complete awareness of what he's doing. And then with a shake of his head, he gets back to business, "Oh, yeah..." his eyes squint while he touches the Impala behind him. He just remembered, he made a call. "...Uh.... this is Dean... Winchester... in case you know more than one..." his voice is off. It has its humour, but lacks its usual pithiness. His lips curl on one side. "I..." his eyebrows draw together and he looks at the sky again "...need an extraction..." From where? Dean isn't really sure.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The wolves. As soon as Sam brings them up Mercy's expression turns less open, more closed off. The coyote shakes her head at Sam's offer of help, "No. The pack takes care of their people and their families." Then, "And they understood what they were getting into when they took this mission. They knew the risks." And while those words of hers are said with very few hiccups to her tone, there still might be the sense that Mercy is saying that for her benefit just as much as Sam's.

Thankfully, there are a multitude of other things to focus upon. Like the latte being passed back to her. Automatically she'll accept it from May, even as Mercy watches the other woman snag a water from the work bench and then answer that call.

With the other woman busy with the call, Mercy's attention is back upon Sam and Loki. For Sam, the coyote nods, her voice dropping low, "That hydra they had wasn't from around here and reeked of magic. "Best to check all fronts." Then it's back to Loki, though before she can even snort at the mention of the cube, or watch to see what he's going to do Mercy's sensitive ears figuratively prick upward. Straightening from her casual pose the mechanic starts to reach for her work bench, intending to set the latte aside. Mercy's attention is fully on Melinda May and the voice on the other end of her phone.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Loki asks about the injections, and Sam lets the curtain of his hair cover his angular face. Mercy mentions the pack takes care of their own, and he only silently nods. His shoulders slump and curl in on themselves, but he answers.

"I-- time's a little weird. There was nothing to help me mark day or night. I don't know what was in them. I wasn't allowed to see. They didn't give me any at first. Then after the interrogation they sort of ran a pattern. They'd beat the crap out of me, then they'd inject me with this stuff."

He swallows. He doesn't want to admit the next part, but, "I started looking forward to them. They helped with the hunger. And the pain. Maybe they were just...medicinal? Something that couldn't be caught in a tox screen?" He sounds hopeful, but not /particularly/ hopeful.

Melinda May has posed:
It's the prolonged silence that gets May's attenetion. She KNOWS the call is from Dean, and usually the man has a difficult time shutting up. That means he's either under duress or is injured. By the time he finally speaks up, the latter is confirmed in her mind and she's already pulled a second device from her jacket and is working on zeroing in on his location. And from what she knows about the elder Winchester, if he's asking for help, it's BAD. And there's no way to NOT make Sam fret. So, she doesn't try.

"We're on our way, Dean. Keep this line open." She turns back to the others, the tiny shred of relaxed demeanor she had before completely gone. This is Agent May, the one who shot enemies in the face to get Sam back. "Sam, it's your brother. We need to go. Now." She looks to Mercy and Liam and adds, "We'll talk again."

The other device is still triangulating, but she offers her phone to Sam so he can stay on the line with Dean while they get to the SHIELD vehicle that May arrived in.

Loki has posed:
Liam spends an inordinate of time appreciating that latte. Might as well assume the conversations go right over his head for how long he communes with the gods of the mighty arabica bean and the foamy finish that normally wouldn't be a feature to sing about. Praises given silently arc the line of his smile up. It takes someone astute in their observatino to note there's no shine of a smile in his eyes, nor do those pupils reflect anything directly ahead of him: neither Sam or the garage interior surrounding them. For all those green irises are largely normal, they're not actually reflecting anything visible either.

Don't ask what they do show. Some things aren't meant for mortal minds.

He finally lowers the latte and sighs. Because he *knows* the same way Agent May knows that his drinking time is going to be interrupted by the fickle hand of necessity. Chaos is his middle name, just about, and he runs his hand through his shock of chestnut hair. "Going forward, I ought to just buy all of you cubes and make a good British company very pleased with that order. Miss Thompson, I presume you have nothing sufficient to transport the lot of us with the expediency the matter requires?" The question is more rhetorical than not. He doesn't really comment on Sam's medical history or the pharmacological implications of his fate, not yet.

"He is related to you, Mr. Winchester? Agent May, can you confirm? It makes things far more convenient, all in all, if he is." He unbuttons the cufflinks on the underside of his smart French-cuffed dress shirt under the jacket. Who does that but someone about to throw a punch rather than pull one? The first coin falls into his hand. The second will join it a moment later. "What's the saying about cats and bags? Ah well. It may as well be said."

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean's eyes drift closed again and he leans his head back against the Impala. He inhales a long breath and then vaguely suggests: "...I... have Baby here..." instinctively he reaches behind him to tap the car. "...I just... can't drive..." or get into the car--mostly because he used all of his energy peeling himself from a tree and dragging himself through the would-be woods.

And then a single word processes from that statement, causing Dean to curse quietly under his breath. The line though is left open and Dean continues to just remain slumped against the car--paled and bloody.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Sam earns a sympathetic look from Mercy. He really does. But, before she can say too much more the conversation upon the phone is completed and May is giving the low-down to the room at large.

It's enough to bring Mercy's attention around to the SHIELD agent. "Wait, we can help too."

With Loki's remark, Mercy's attention shifts again. It's more for his question about transportation, versus cubes, which earns a head-shake in the negative. "I don't. Not for this many people." She'll add for the benefit of the group, even as her gaze moves over to Sam again. Concern is once more back upon the mechanic's face, this time for both Sam and now his brother.

And then that concern shifts back to Loki at with those last words of the trickster's. Cat out of the bag. Or more like secrets are out of the bag this night. For the moment, Mercy just stands there, hands empty and concern writ all across her features.

Sam Winchester has posed:
"Dean!"

There are certainly very few things on the planet that can snap Sam Winchester's attention away from himself, from great lattes, or from anything else faster than the knowledge that his brother is in trouble. The fact is, his brother taking off had done more of a number on him than he would have cared to admit. So Liam's decision not to comment flies right over his head as he stands up. Instead, he focuses on the question.

"Yes, he's my brother," he tells the -- wizard? Wizard is what he settles on; he can see Liam is certainly a lot more than meets the eye but even as much as Liam has done, and said, hasn't produced a positive ID yet. Then again, give him time. He might just make it yet. As for Dean, naming him as his brother at least clarifies the relationship, and Dean's involvement at the New Croton Dam, for anyone who didn't already know.

"Dean, we're coming," he says over the speaker phone.

And then, "It's /bad/ if he says he can't drive Baby, we gotta get there."

What's a cube, anyway?

But he doesn't ask that question either, not now: it is 100% irrelevant.

Melinda May has posed:
May's eyes flick to Mercy and Liam as they both seem ready to pitch in and help. And NOW she's getting the impression that Liam is more than just an acquaintance of the mechanic. But she'll deal with that later. Right now, Dean is the top of her priority list. "Thompson, if you have a medkit, get it now. Sam, try to keep him talking. I'll drive." She knows there's a first aid kit in the vehicle (standard SHIELD issue), but it's very small and she suspects Mercy would have a more comprehensive setup. "Let's go. Now."

Loki has posed:
Sam's reaction does what very little else verbally could, confirming the suspicion of a casual phone call and name drop. The cufflinks go into the jacket pocket, patted slightly to assure they go nowhere. Liam unbuttons the collar of his shirt just the one, avoiding gratuitous displays of flesh. Wrong Asgardian. This is not Hammer Time. This is better than Hammer Time.

"Incorrect. A more accurate statement, he is coming. Miss Thompson, may I prevail upon your garage? Is there sufficient room for this aforementioned death trap?" No doubt this is going to earn a punch from someone if they key together the ironic, amused tone to anything serious. Baby, you'll understand one day.

Loki smartly turns, heading for the actual mechanic's bay, and gestures for them to follow. Notably Sam. Visible differences apply, all in bearing. Gone is the somewhat restrained movements, replaced by a leopard's prowl through the jungle coupled to an assured postures that exudes a command over the situation. "Brother to brother will do. Parent would be better, but I can work with the bond. Mr. Winchester, kindly take a spot as far out of the open space as you can and think happy thoughts about your brother. Everything about him, how much you want to smack him sideways for getting himself imperiled *yet* again." No, no fraternal issues here at all. "Agent May, kindly the same? I wouldn't wish you to be crushed, and I cannot guarantee relative elevations are the same. If he's at four thousand feet or higher, I'm going to have to compensate for velocities and such."

No wizardly mumbo-jumbo here because the majority of what he does requires no real flash and spark. No vast circular mandalas burning aflame; no ruins in the air.

Simply the careful movements of his hands towards the end as he starts warping and folding space within the garage roughly large enough to hold a mammoth. Because that's probably what Dean drives. A neolithic Mammoth-mobile.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean takes to utter silence following whatever he picks up in the background of the phone call. The cloudiness that threatens the edges of his mind leaves little question of the state he's in, and, for once, he's thankful he couldn't manage to climb into the car let alone drive it.

There's a pause that follows the notion of coming. Dean's chin drops to his chest and his mouth gapes at the sad state he's already in. And then, instinctively, he follows up with reassurance rather than honesty. "Sammy... I'm going to be okay... Sam it's fine..." the words might be more reassuring if he managed not to groan through them.

He actually chortles when he notes, "I'd walk it off, but y'know," that would require walking--an unspoken necessity of walking it off. He closes his eyes again and admires the way the lights shine through his eyelids.

When he forces his eyes open lazily, they widen moments later. He reaches for the gun holstered against his side beneath the jacket, drawing it, aiming it, and moments later the world begins to spin. The weapon remains trained on its target momentarily, until the bobbing of the movement sucks the world away--drawing the colour, sound, smells, and feel of the woods away.

Around him, the fourth dimension warps in a vast array of colour around him. And then as quickly as it began, the world of the garage unfolds before Dean's eyes.

To everyone else, the elder Winchester bends into the space out of thin air, and he certainly looks worse for wear. His blood stained face and clothes, purpled appearance, and general inability to sit up straight against the car all indicate that Dean Winchester is not himself. The Beretta pointed solidly in the direction of the party speaks to something else altogether. And with the weapon drawn, Dean proceeds to do the only sensible thing anyone who travels through space can do: he leans over and empties the contents of his stomach.

Loki has posed:
Don't forget the Impala. She's coming too because that's precisely why Loki needed so much room. Making his car appear through a portal stretched under it along with everything else is why they relocated to the garage. When going into the street is just too damn obvious, make the magic happen behind the scenes.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Death trap. At another time that might earn a grin from Mercy, but for now it simply earns a pointed /look/ from the mechanic. That look holds a combination of unspoken thoughts from Mercy; 'behave' is definitely there, because this is Loki, but more importantly and most of all is something akin to 'you don't need to do this, but thank you for doing this'. Yes, that's pretty much what Mercy moved to convey with that look of hers.

Then it's back to her part, which entails grabbing her med-kit. She can do that. She's done that many times before. Werewolves they like to fight and sometimes for the right reasons too.

While the others move to take their appropriate places, Mercy moves to a locked cabinet. It only takes a few seconds for her to pull the door open and pull out a large white box. A familiar blood red cross can be seen across it, shining starkly against the snowy background. Then she's back with the others, near a wall, waiting for the teleportation to occur. When Dean Winchester appears Mercy Thompson doesn't seem too surprised by it. So, either she's seen this trick before, or she knows that he can do such tricks. Not that it currently matters, not when the poor man is purging the contents of his stomachs upon the cement floor of her garage. And while that gun point just so does give her pause, Mercy simply steps out of the line of fire, even as she takes one cautious step closer to Dean. "Hey, you're among friends." She says gently, "Sam, Mercy, May and Liam." Not that he knows Liam, but it's good to name everyone here, "We're here to help." And thankfully, unlike some, Mercy has firm control of her gag reflex. No sympathy puking from her, thanks.

Sam Winchester has posed:
"He raised me. He practically //is// my parent," Sam says, wincing with love and some pain as Dean does what he always does--tries to reassure him.

But he stands in the spot so indicated, closes his eyes, and thinks of his brother.

He thinks about classic rock, and pie, and gruff words that cover so much love and care. Of being annoyingly teased for being a 'girl.' Of his brother's neverending protection and fury on his behalf whenever he's hurt. How it was his brother, more than his father, who taught him to hunt.

The irreverant smile. The swagger. The warrior's fire that has carried him through so much. He thinks about how Dean always chooses rock, and decides he'll choose paper next time, that next time he'll throw their strange contest. He thinks about how Dean would sigh and pour the cereal for him as a young child, even if he hadn't had any of the Lucky Charms yet. Dean singing along to whatever classic rock number was on the radio. Dean, so proud of being given that car.

Dean, furious and proud simultaneously when he got into Stanford, and left the family business. Fist fights with one another, and then finally making up.

"No chick flick moments," he murmurs softly, like an incantation.

'Bitch', he hears in his mind.

"Jerk," he whispers, warmly.

And then Dean is there...

Vomiting all over his shoes.

Sammy Winchester looks up with a long-suffering gaze, mouth going long, tight, and flat, eyes narrowing slightly, nostrils flaring as he just stares stoically out into space for a moment.

Melinda May has posed:
May kept well clear of the space, though she can't help but wonder why they're wasting time with this and then... then Dean and his car are here instead of where ever they used to be, and she promptly rushes closer to pluck her phone out of Sam's hand.

No sympathetic puke reflex from her, either.

She ends the call from Dean's phone and promptly dials back out again. "Central. May. Send medevac to my location, Winchester protocol. Now." The call is ended just as fast. Fully aware of the fact that Dean's got busted ribs with less than a week of healing on them //before// whatever's happened to him now, she waits for him to stop reacting to whatever sort of teleportation Liam just managed on their behalf, then takes Sam by an elbow and steers him to sit on the floor against Baby's tire before turning to Dean.

"Med team's on their way, Dean," May tells the injured man with exactly the same level of Vulcan calm as she does just about everything else, including reaching to engage the safety on the man's chromed 1911 with a movement as fast as a martial arts strike but without so much as making the weapon wobble in his hand. "Sam's right over here. Think you can shift over toward him?" If she can fenagle this right, she'll get Dean to lean against his brother instead of the car and hope that takes some of the pressure off of his ribs.

Loki has posed:
Whatever that transition took out of Liam is expressed for the most part in his clothing. He's gone casual rather than exactly upright and perfect as someone of his English class ought to possess. Reality expresses its displeasure of his will enforced through mystic means by imparting a nasty headache. "I've a dire craving for something truly wretched, possibly involving a door or varying degrees of architectural mayhem." A warning given in a low, controlled murmur to Mercy.

Dean's emergence from a bloody chrysalis to someone as pristine as Claire's clinic, in a sense, brings a grin forth. He rebuttons his collar, tugging it side to side for an appropriately suitable fit. The bouncing of the Impala off its shocks as the prettiest of butterflies he won't be responsible for, though his particular vendetta with vehicles isn't aimed at the fancy murderhobo chariot. What minimal fluid leakage and squeaking it suffers is a dim shadow compared to its driver.

"I'll leave those more capable to do any damage assessments." Where was that latte? He needs a few moments to determine its location before striding off to recover the cup and down the cup in a single sip. Restoration on a grander level needs sterner stuff than a milky beverage at near scalding temperatures, but making do is what Midgard's unofficial motto is for anyone not from Earth.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean rubs his mouth with his sleeve, mopping up any remaining vomit from the edges of his lips before owlishly blinking at May turning the safety on his weapon. His aim remains several beats longer while his arm twitches from the growing pain within it. And then slowly, assuredly, he just drops it, allowing it to clang as it reaches the floor. Everyone should be thankful May got the safety on.

Nothing about the moment feels real. From the spongy sensation growing in the depths of his rib cage to the oddity of having been teleported from one locale to another seem more like fiction than reality. His head turns to where May moves Sam and the burning sensation in the back of his throat screams for some relief, yet the wondering of the moment hasn't remotely faded.

The encouragement to lean on his brother has him eyeing Sam skeptically. And then, as if testing the waters, he echoes his brother's thoughts aloud. "Bitch," it's gruff and couched in a groan as he finally follows May's consideration.

His gaze flits towards May, and despite himself, his lip curls on one side--old habits die hard. He's still not wholly convinced this is real, but simultaneously, he's not really in a position to object to any of it--illusion or not.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
With the gun taken care of Mercy will drop near the wounded brother, the med-kit being placed near.

There's two sharp clicks and the case is opened. This allows the coyote to begin to rustle through the neatly ordered rows. Bandages of various types rolled and sealed against germs, band-aids, a bottle of antiseptic disinfectant and even splints can be seen. It's only after a careful consideration of thought, that the coyote will say. "I have something that can help with pain too."

Wolves, most of them are ex-military and that's what her med-kit really looks like. A military med-kit. From the depths she'll carefully pull out a hard-plastic encased needle. Pre-filled and ready to go. "Dosage should be okay for his size." The mechanic says, even as she offers it to May. Sure, Mercy could try to give that shot to Dean, but she'll let the Agent handle that. Or Sam for that matter.

Then the coyote leans back slightly, crouched as she is, and turns her head just enough to look over at Loki. She heard that murmur of his and the controlled way he spoke. Nothing is said to it, however, not right now. Instead Mercy watches the trickster for a few silent seconds, but soon enough it's back to the severely injured brother.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam wraps an arm around Dean's shoulders to support him, and eases him to the floor while May calls in the medical team. Mercy comes up with an injection, and he nods gratefully at her, taking it. He smirks as Dean calls him a bitch, and ultimately ignores the mess on his shoes for now, gently rolling up the man's sleeve and pushing the needle into his arm. He doesn't flinch or wince at that, despite describing in detail the fact that he received multiple injections. This much is just par for their course really. Blood and guts and vomit and needles.

He looks up gratefully at Liam, too. "Thank you," he says quietly, even as he offers the emptied syringe back to Mercy. "Truly."

Melinda May has posed:
May nods her approval of Mercy and that actually well-stocked medkit, and lets Sam administer the injection. She's already guessed that it's morphine simply by the configuration of the syringe. And, since Sam seems to have his brother well enough in hand, she backs away and straightens up to add her thanks to Sam's.

"Your assistance has very likely saved his life. Thank you." Her eyes do notice the subtle changes in the Englishman's bearing, and from what she's heard from WAND associates, the kind of spellcasting the man just did was likely thoroughly exhausting. She steps toward him and offers a business card produced from her jacket. It's got a number printed on it and nothing else.

"If can assist you in return at any point, call me."

Loki has posed:
All traces of Loki vanish, so to speak, under the guise of Liam. Nothing about him radiates sorcerer of any given quantity, unless quality cufflinks and a tailored suit on his appropriate Sotheby's and Christie's retainer are mystical in any way. He is back to that mildly too upright posture, mourning the death of his latte, and awkwardly avoidant of eye contact or other American forms of familiarity.

Back to being charmingly polite and perhaps a little too wise to the world behind the veneer thick as the Antarctic ice cap. All he is is purely for show. Wolves and hunters prowl; a friend linking strangers. For them he smiles, and that smile is vanishingly harmless. He takes the card in question from May. "All in a good day's work."

And a pile of cookies. The nameless element. "Likewise, for Miss Thompson and her associates, do not hesitate to call." He too has a business card, stamped with his name, and that job title. It's legit; he even pays his taxes. Or Liam does. Loki probably collects them from really atrocious sorts who infringe on copyright or insists he's the mother of an eight-legged horse. (Answer: he's not.) "I do fear the floor's unbearable though."

A flick of his fingers and the sick is gone, vanished, along with any stain that encroached in the last decade within a meter or thereabouts. Sorry, Mercy.