For a moment, Dean was almost expecting Sam to say something about where he’d been when he’d died - he hadn’t realized it, when he asked, but that was the answer he’d expected. It was stupid and irrational, because this Sam hadn’t been dead recently - not like the Sam he’d left behind, laying cold and still and dead in an abandoned house in South Dakota. So when the Sam in front of him started talking about hunting, it threw him off for a second, but not so much that he didn’t have time to nod at the appropriate moment, continuing to poke distractedly at his pie’s crust.
>"What we do here seems kind of bland, in comparison."
Another nod, and his free hand came up to curl around the bottle of beer on the table, lifting it to take a long drink before he responded aloud. “I don’t get why I’m here. Why we’re here. We’re hunters, not... soldiers. It’s different.” The level of authority, for one thing, was definitely not what he was used to. With Dad, it was different - it worked, because he was Dad. Here, with Anna being all high and mighty, and the general feeling that he was waiting on orders, it was stifling. He was used to the open road, the freedom to go anywhere and do anything he wanted, pick which case to take and how to finish the job and where to drive to next. He could sleep when he wanted, eat when he wanted, drive wherever he pleased. Here, it was mindless routine and empty time with nothing to fill it.