"People die, Dean. It's what we do sometimes. Especially in our line of work."
"You had to have known that when you got him back into this."
And there it was. Dean had never been one to care what others think; screw them for thinking about him and his baby brother at all. Contrary to popular belief, Dean never really put on an act for those around him. He never faked having more emotions than he really did, and he never faked having any less. Sure, sometimes he thought he was hiding something better than he was, but that wasn't so much of putting on an act as it was... professionalism, as a wise-yet-barmy Frank Devereaux once called it. Crowley was wrong for calling it his 'macho act.'
I really just am that macho, came a stray thought out of nowhere, startling Dean out of his introspection. He huffed in exasperation and amusement, cocking his chin to the side.
He blinked. That breath of levity had cleared his vision dramatically. What was he doing here? He was no mourning widow to take the charity and sympathy of his hunter brethren. Even if some particular sympathies came in the form of delicious pie... no! He had things to do.
Abruptly raising his head from his steeped fingers, and effectively startling the others into momentary silence, he used the excuse to push the chair away and walk towards the door. Surprised that no one had stopped him, he grabbed his keys from Bobby's desk, and climbed into the Impala. Nobody had stuck around for Dean the way that Baby had, not even Sam, and he'd be damned if he'd make an important decisions without consulting her first.
As the door slammed shut, Bobby heaved a sigh. "I suppose the best we were hoping for was to reduce the mess that heartbroken idjit gets into after this."
The other hunters smirked sadly. Around the table, the characters varied from gruff to fully emotionally sociopathic, but say what you want about Hunters; they take care of their own.
It tended to be a family business after all.