"Well. There goes your deposit." FDR mutters, head shaking at the frantic creature using sheets like a paper towel. "I got it."

With a huff and a roll of his eyes at Dean, he takes his hand off the gun and heads into the bathroom to grab a bandage and a wash towel. He doesn't plan on taking the same soft approach to this that Dean's seemed to settle on. But watching himself flailing over a little blood is just embarrassing.