A male victim is laying on the floor of a dark house, lots of blood everywhere.
Dean: *stomps downstairs two steps at a time, walks over to where Sam is kneeling down next to the dead body and kicks his foot a little bit* Dead, or pinin’ for the fjords?
Dean: *shines flashlight directly in Sam’s face, grins*
Sam: C’mon, dude’s big, help me roll him over.
Dean: *tucks flashlight under arm and squats down* Back door’s busted, signs of a struggle in here, but nowhere else, just like the others.
They roll him over and look at the cavern in his chest where his heart used to be.
Dean: Yep. *stands up, brushes himself off*
Sam: *touches some of the blood with his finger, but it’s all dry*
Dean: I figure dead since sometime this morning, maybe around eight or nine.
Sam: *looks up* You’re getting that from the state of the blood, or what? Rigor?
Dean: No, there’s still breakfast dishes on the counter.
Sam: *looks around* He’s got some nice stuff but dude’s not the greatest housekeeper in the world, the dishes aren’t necessarily from this morning. I mean, it’s pretty cluttered.
Dean: No, they were definitely from this morning.
Sam: *anticipatory bitchface*
Dean: Bacon he cooked still tasted pretty good. Cold, but not like —
Sam: *shines flashlight accusingly on Dean’s face* Oh my god.
Dean: *badly mimicking Sam’s voice* You’re contaminating a crime scene, Dean, this werewolf will never see his day in court.
Dean: Somethin’ pretty obvious you’re missin’ here, Sammy.
Sam: *looks at the corpse more intently* What?
Dean: Dude’s well over six feet tall.
Dean: Would you describe his shoulders as… broad?
Dean: Would you describe his build as “lumberjack with an absurdly long torso”?
Sam: Ohhh. *straightens* Shopping.
Dean: Aw, Stanford gets it now. *tosses Sam his duffel*
Sam: *almost doesn’t catch it, flashlight angrily back in Dean’s face*
Dean: Up the stairs, swing a left. I think I saw some suits.
Sam: *starts up the stairs*
Dean: *doesn’t even try to mumble* A suit we don’t need to have altered for once, Ginormica.
Sam: *bitchily from halfway up the stairs* Don’t you have some dead guy breakfast food to be eating?
Dean: Mmm, yes I do. *looks at the victim’s feet* Hey, try on some shoes, too!
Sam: *distantly* Shut up.
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