Sam won't know this, but for a few days after he arrives, Dean's in a better mood than he's been in for weeks. It won't last, but all the same it's a marked improvement over how generally dour his attitude has been since even before the Heralds had their vacation stay in Abraxas.

That jovial mood is practically freakin' Christmas, broadcasted out loud through sheer body language alone, possibly contagious via contact as he claps a hand down on Ciri's shoulder.

"Come on, I got someone I want you to meet."

It's that time again. That semi-regular almost-bimonthly time where new faces become long-timers at Mag's, and considering how many people have been filtering in from Dean's universe as of late, maybe she can connect the dots without an explanation. Not the particulars, not specifically who, but at least that one of those new faces is relevant like Jo and Claire were.

So he drags her away from her lovely family townhouse back to the Sarstina, spends a second scanning the room for the tall son of a bitch with the big face he knows to be holed up there, and then strides on over when he finds the guy doing the Sam-est thing to ever Sam. God help him, he can't quite muscle down the fondness. He's interrupted from his Sam-ing abruptly and unceremoniously with a short whistle to get his attention. There before him stands Dean, and beside him a much smaller, much younger girl, tragically lacking a sword that looks plenty hefty enough to decapitate a man.

"This is who I was tellin' you about," directed toward his brother, and then in turn an explanation for her, "Ciri, this is eight foot tall haircut is my brother Sam."