[Dean hasn't had a chance to change, yet, so he's now walking around in his torn up, blood-spattered jeans and a scrub top from the infirmary, his ruined shirts balled up in his hands; the edge of gauze peeks out at his collar and at the hem of the shirt arm just above his biceps, and he keeps that shoulder on the opposite side of his body from her, unconsciously protective of it. There's a bruise spreading across his cheek, dark and fresh, and a cut over one eye that's been cleaned and butterfly-bandaged. He's glaring in that way that suggest he doesn't really mean to, but right now he can't make his face into any other expression.]
[Spam]
No. It's handled. It's been handled.