"All right, well, belay that 'get yourself together' bit, let's get this stuff off you pronto." And me, Dean thinks as he gestures for Cas to follow him, visions of the two of them wandering aimlessly around the Bunker trying to remember what the hell they're doing dancing unsettlingly in his head.
With that in mind, he wipes his bloodied hand on his flannel shirt--here's hoping that can be safely cleaned--and takes out his phone, dialing Sam.
"Hey. What's up?" his brother's voice comes over the line.
"Hey, Sammy. Not sure yet. We got a situation brewing--nothing to freak out about, I don't think. But do me a solid...call me back in about ten minutes and ask me if we made it to the mud room."
Which would be the room he and Sam installed for situations like this one. The Men of Letters were all about research, not quite so strong on field work. For a couple of hunters who could come home at any time covered in God knows what kind of gross goop, having a dedicated place to clean off, with drains isolated from the public sewers, is a must...though the holding tanks are a problem in their own right that they're eventually going to have to deal with.
For now, though, his mentioning that room and the word we is enough to clue Sam in to some extent. "...uh, yeah. Okay, no problem. Cas there with you? You guys all right?"
"More or less." He glances back Cas's way, some apprehension showing. "I'll fill you in when we know more. How's the case, you turn anything up?"
"Nothing solid yet, but I'm working a couple of leads. I'll keep you posted. Meantime do whatever you guys gotta do, I'll talk to you in a few."
"Thanks." He hangs up and pushes the door to the mud room open, pointing at a curtained enclosure with shelves of towels and supplies and a hamper next to it.
"All right, in you go, get that crap off. If that doesn't help then we'll come up with a Plan B." He shucks off and tosses his flannel in the hamper, twists a couple of knobs on the wall to direct the rinse water to an empty tank, and then heads to a large sink to wash his own hands thoroughly. "I dunno, scare up some kind of haz-mat gear and head back to Grandview if we need to..."
no subject
With that in mind, he wipes his bloodied hand on his flannel shirt--here's hoping that can be safely cleaned--and takes out his phone, dialing Sam.
"Hey. What's up?" his brother's voice comes over the line.
"Hey, Sammy. Not sure yet. We got a situation brewing--nothing to freak out about, I don't think. But do me a solid...call me back in about ten minutes and ask me if we made it to the mud room."
Which would be the room he and Sam installed for situations like this one. The Men of Letters were all about research, not quite so strong on field work. For a couple of hunters who could come home at any time covered in God knows what kind of gross goop, having a dedicated place to clean off, with drains isolated from the public sewers, is a must...though the holding tanks are a problem in their own right that they're eventually going to have to deal with.
For now, though, his mentioning that room and the word we is enough to clue Sam in to some extent. "...uh, yeah. Okay, no problem. Cas there with you? You guys all right?"
"More or less." He glances back Cas's way, some apprehension showing. "I'll fill you in when we know more. How's the case, you turn anything up?"
"Nothing solid yet, but I'm working a couple of leads. I'll keep you posted. Meantime do whatever you guys gotta do, I'll talk to you in a few."
"Thanks." He hangs up and pushes the door to the mud room open, pointing at a curtained enclosure with shelves of towels and supplies and a hamper next to it.
"All right, in you go, get that crap off. If that doesn't help then we'll come up with a Plan B." He shucks off and tosses his flannel in the hamper, twists a couple of knobs on the wall to direct the rinse water to an empty tank, and then heads to a large sink to wash his own hands thoroughly. "I dunno, scare up some kind of haz-mat gear and head back to Grandview if we need to..."