Sam tucks away the pictures, calm as usual, and zips up the bloody jacket to get the full warmth of it. He sort of wishes he had his old gloves; he'd given them up to someone else who was more deserving. That's sort of just what he is now. Not that it gives him much comfort, after what happened to the world, but it does feel right when he can give someone something, anything, to make this all easier.

"I'm the moron? You're clean, Dean. Been almost two hours since she attacked you, no symptoms, not even a change in temp or heart rate. Nothing other than being pissed off, but I'm starting to notice you're always pissed off."

He shakes his head, rising to his feet. "Shouldn't shoot until you know who'll make it. There's not enough of us around as there is. But sure — you wanna wail on me, do it. I see the look in your eye. You wouldn't be the first."

He's probably been dying for the reason to, anyway.