FDR isn't starting a damn thing, except in on soup that almost tastes like Nana's. It's different somehow, though. A touch of Dean. And that has him smirking into a spoonful. But he can see the bunched up ball that Dean is right now, so he doesn't bother saying anything about it.

Too amusing that he's got himself worked up over food. So, he can't quite stop himself from licking off his spoon and literally poking Dean. "What's up? Wanna talk about it?"