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"This is Sam -- just leave a message, I'll get back to you."

[Sam's totally about to defend his right to awesome moving target points, but then he takes one look at that freaky-ass thing and immediately leans back. Because what the fuck did he just shoot.]

I -- uh.

We could try?

...

Birdshark?

[???????]

[Dean makes a face. Don't get him wrong, he enjoys eating, and he's taken a kind of domestic pleasure in trying out the different animals around the city — although he'd never admit it — but eating a hybrid like that just seems a little wrong. Do you prep it like chicken or like fish? Will it taste like one or the other — or both?]

We'll bring it back with us. Couldn't hurt.

[...Maybe.

Meanwhile, Dean looks up.]

Now I gotta find a bird or something and show you up.

[Since someone decided it was time to move on to moving targets.]

[He snorts at that last bit, but points to the bird.]

You make that into something that actually tastes good, I'll give you this shooting match.

[And yeah, fine. You win the pouting contest thing, too.

He's starting to forget you're an absolute butthole.]

No way. Who do I look like, Rachael Ray?

[He isn't taking that wager, and besides, he wants to earn his win the right way. Not by taking an out like that.

But he's glad to see that this is working and Sam's no longer pissy.

He catches movement up ahead, and readies his bow, waiting.]

Yes.

[Deadpan. You're so Rachael Ray.]

Dude... just don't get us in trouble for wiping out the animal life...

[Am not.]

Are you serious?

[Dean breaks his attention away from his target long enough to toss Sam a look, brows knitting together.]

Dude you're the one who shot that birdshark.

... sharkbird? Birdark?

[dead serious]

Birdark? Really?

[He focuses back on the shot, takes it, and sends his prey falling. It's a good shot, right through the chest of the animal, but as he walks over to where it fell, Dean sees that it's...]

Just a regular bird.

[Somehow this seems not as impressive.

Damn it.]

More edible than the Birdark.

[There's something, at least. He drags the bird up by its legs, noting the utter deadness of it. Bless you, small creature, for tonight he feasts on your supple breast.]

This a tie, Rambo?

For now.

[Until the next competition, which Dean needs to make sure is more challenging.]

You hungry?

[Because he can try to make a meal out of these kills — some sort of pesco-avian dish.]

[He has faith you'll continue to bug him for shooting matches, to be sure.]

Sure. I'll even taste test the shark thing. Just make sure you have Cas on speed dial in case that thing hits me like bad Chinese.

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