[ God, he'd kill for a shower. Mow through all these nutjobs, actually - with little to no regret. ]

I seriously doubt that. Chuckles doesn't seem like someone that would vibe with me on any level.

[ He tosses the cloth into the bucket and settles back, letting his head rest against the wall, eyes closed. There isn't really a lot to say - Dean has no reason to have any extended conversation with the guy. Like. The bucket was great, he ate a little bit of food, but beyond that Dean's not really in a great mental space.

No one is coming. No one is coming, and it stings.

Dean's gotten himself out of scrapes before, crawled out of barred cells like it was nothing, but this is another ballgame. This is probably where every piece of who he is dies, and it's terrifying. ]

What do you need me to do so I can get the hell out of here?