[Dean is in pretty awesome shape himself; he did manage to swap out jeans somewhere along the way so he's only been wearing these for two days, but it was two days of chaos and desperately trying to keep up with the superpowered people around him accustomed to dealing with these kinds of crises. Also he has new boots as his old ones pretty much bit the dust somewhere in the ice and snow, but that's neither here nor there; his black t-shirt is dirty and torn at the hem on the side and his dark green overshirt has blood on it, and he's not looking at any of it. He's whistling, low and appreciative, at the lovely display along Dick's ribs.]

You know you're s'posed to dodge that shit, right? [He teases, but he's got an idea of the damage now, cataloging the bruises, the scrapes, the cuts, and what each will need. He pushes himself stiffly to his feet and heads for the kitchen, finding a couple towels to wet with warm water, stuffing one with ice; he stops to deposit the one with the ice twisted into it in one of Dick's hands.] Here. Put that where it hurts most. [And then he's moving to crouch at his duffel, hauling out both his own somewhat depleted emergency medkit and the one he'd given Dick. The latter has been used, too. He returns with both to his original position, dropping them to the floor, and folds one of the wetted towels in his hands.]

We'll get some of this cleaned up and then you can work on your beauty sleep, because damn. [His hands are steady despite how tired he is, one reaching to steady Dick's elbow, the other beginning to wipe up the fabric remnants, debris, and blood stuck to the man's skin. He's always been good at this part. He doesn't look too closely at what that says about him.] You hit your head at all? Any reason to think concussion? Don't lie - don't dick around with that shit.