"You know this is a trap, right?"
dean runs a calloused hand down along the lines of his profile, lifting away from his motel bed, almost an act to physically avoid having to answer his brother's question honestly. yeah, there was a part of dean that understood the gravity of the situation, but he doesn't lean into that admittance as he reaches to their mini fridge and pulls free a cold glass of beer that has been sitting in there for maybe several hours, and now here he is, tearing into the package already. "humor me, at least." dean deflects, his timbre teetering on the edge of something akin to a joke and a lowly agreement.
"what's the worst that will happen? huh? we get a lil' roughed up and maybe y' have t' un-dislocate my shoulder or two." dean doesn't want to let sam catch on to the fact that all they have are the two shoulders, and all it takes are those two shoulders to dislocate. "we drown our sorrows in shitty whiskey, some pool, and some chicks down at the bar, sleep and move on to the next shitty job with the shit pay and the shit hours." dean doesn't want to talk about how if their salt rocks that they are basing a hypothesis on won't work on the damn thing, or if the sigil that they had to talk to an old professor who looked like one wrong tornado season away from being nothing but dust to get, or if the possibility of them not surviving this case. or worse, one of them doesn't. dean knows that there's not a universe he wants to live in if his brother doesn't get the chance to settle down with a white picket fence and a gal who knows how to make dean's favorite pie whenever he visits them now and then between hunts. sam was supposed to be better than this life. "c'mon, stop moping and have some beer."
