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"Okay. Let's summarize all the information we have collected until now, shall we?"
"Will you stop twisting around like you're trying really hard not to get bitten by the squirrel that crawled into your pants if we do?"
If looks could kill, Dean could imagine himself getting kind of concussed by the frown Sam is throwing at him, the annoyance nicely subdued by the discomfort that comes from being a rather tall american man in a seat made for people that do not reach the six feet of height.
Sure, he may be feeling a bit cramped as well, but he can move his legs. He smirks in pure pettiness at the thought- take that, lanky ass motherfucker.
"Dean."
"I think the kids managing the cash register are currently taking bets on how long you'll last before giving up and just eating on your feet."
"Dean."
He raises his hands in mock surrender, or maybe to welcome the heavenly smelling burger currently being placed in front of him by some high schooler who thanks him for his patronage in slightly uncertain english.
"Alright, alright. Message received. Summarize to your heart's content, Sammy."
"Right. So, what do we know..." Sam takes a folder out of his backpack, spreading a bunch of newspaper extracts and pictures on the table. "Between the psychotic breakdowns, the Phantom Thieves of Hearts and what have you we have gathered lots of info, but very little to tie it all together. The Phan-Site operates on an anonymous basis, and the way the admin talks about it makes it completely unclear as whether he knows the Thieves personally or is just a very dedicated fanboy. Our usual modus operandi of investigation is also made considerably more difficult to apply as we're on foreign soil and neither of us is fluent in Japanese." He looks up, a rather desolate expression on his face. "What are we even doing here, Dean?"
"Well, I can't speak for you, but personally I'm eating the best burger I've had in a year or so." Also, looking at the couple of little... cosplayers? That just walked through the door and made a beeline for the booth right next to theirs, dragging some older kid with a very fluffy black mane and a terrible posture with them.
"Be serious."
"Oh, I am serious." They're pretty impressive costumes, to be honest- even from his disadvantaged spot, the fabric of the little blue porter uniforms seems of a high quality. And, as their hair looks pretty natural, it's either high quality hair care or a couple of extremely pricy silver wigs. Not to mention the vivid yellow contacts.
Surely nothing he would wear to go eat a burger, but what does he know.
"Agonizing over it won't get us through it, Sammy. Especially not on an empty stomach and still suffering from jet lag. I say we eat something, crash at a hotel and then call Bobby the moment we feel moderately more human. He probably has some contacts here in Tokyo, after all, and this is obviously a supernatural occurrence."
The little girl with buns snaps in rapid-fire japanese at the boy, who appears to be very alarmed by whatever she just said.
"I guess you have a point there."
Fluffy Hair turns to the other girl, evidently hoping she will make her sister (?) cease and desist in whatever evil scheme she has concocted, but her (admittedly far calmer) reply shuts off any light behind his glasses.
"Yeah, well, hands off my fries. Order your own."
The three's brief conversation with a waitress (which seems to involve begging, and Dean has never wished so badly for the ability to magically learn a language on the spot) appears to result in the sister's ultimate victory, and the boy very nearly headbutts the desk in his obvious misery.
"Dean? What are you even looking a- holy fucking shit."
Holy fucking shit indeed, agrees Dean inwardly, because what the waitress came back with doesn't even qualify as a burger. It's a behemot, composed by an entire cow's worth of patties, a loaf of bread and what must be an entire lettuce head all messily shoven inside to build an acceptable second try at the Tower of Babel.
It's so big they can smell it from their booth- there is no fucking way an adult human being could consume it all, let alone one of these kids.
The other patrons seem idly surprised as well, but more in a morbid curiosity fashion that makes it look as if they're preparing for the show of a lifetime. It takes Dean one look at the waitress to notice her holding a stopwatch and realize why.
It's a fucking challenge.
"We're about to watch a kid die" grimly mutters Sam, obviously having come to the same conclusion as him.
"His stomach is gonna burst before he manages to get through even just a quarter of that thing," he agrees.
They look at each other.
Shrug.
Well, nothing they can do about it, is there?
Ten minutes later, the kid is already halfway through that monstruosity and shows no signs of stopping anytime soon.
Dean is, admittedly, kind of impressed.
"Where the hell is he putting all that meat? He's half my size and I wouldn't be able to do that."
It's a trainwreck of a show- the utterly disgusting way Fluffy Hair is putting food away, with a voracity (albeit marred by the obviously daunting task) that is entirely at odds with his pretty normal appearance, is somewhat enthralling enough that Dean knows he wouldn't be able to look away if he tried.
The two cosplayers with him seem just as impressed by the show of sheer guts and iron willpower, if their appalled looks and what sounds like moderately worried commentary through the whole thing mean anything.
"You think he's gonna puke?" Wonders Sam after a few minutes.
"Shit, I'd be more worried if he didn't." He pauses, as Fluffy Hair takes a big swig of water, in a manner more than a bit reminiscent of a boxeur trying to recover from a particularly hard hit during a time out.
"To be honest, I'm rooting for him."
"If he wins I'm giving him one of our guns as a prize. He deserves it."
Sam eyes him. "You are absolutely not giving a gun to some random japanese teenager. Let's not out ourselves as stereotypical americans any more than we already have, especially in a country where firearms are heavily controlled, alright?"
"Okay, okay, fine. Just a knife."
"Dean."
As it was to be expected, the kid starts slowing down considerably after three quarters of the gigaburber. Even with a vacuous gaze and slightly greenish complexion, though, he keeps going like a burger-eating machine, determined to see this through.
Everyone in the restaurant, staff included, is at the edge of their seats.
"C'mon kid, you can do it," Dean finds himself mumbling, hands clenched so hard his knuckles have gone stark white. He hasn't felt this invested in something in ages, it's kind of ridiculous.
But Fluffy Hair must've heard something in his burger-induced fugue, because he raises his head to make eye contact with Dean.
For a long moment, they just look at each other.
Dean nods. Fluffy Hair nods back.
And, with newfound strenght, the crazy motherfucker shoves the last pieces of the burger in his mouth and raises his fists in victory, among the thundering applause and hollering of the patrons and staff.
Dean feels himself tear up a little bit as what must be some sort of fatherly pride courses through him.
(If the boy goes back home with a brand new silver knife he received while Sam wasn't looking, that's just between him and Dean.)