Stark smirks at the blatant defensiveness in that quick response, but stops staring, turning to look out the window though the night is dark enough, and they're near enough to the edge of the suburbs, that there isn't much to see there. "Yeah, you feel the same, it's still your soul - I'm sure of that - just like before." He pauses a second, then qualifies. "With some added post-traumatic hell syndrome, or whatever. But mostly like before.
"The rest can't be all you, though. It made you out of, y'know, nothing, so what you were before isn't what you are now. Scars, wounds, muscle-memory, that all musta been erased, some." This all sounds merely philosophical, because like fuck Stark knows for sure what that angel did, exactly; he's not trying to actually get any answers from Winchester. He flicks ashes out the wing mirror absently, musing silently. What else is he supposed to do on the road to Vegas, with an uncertain resurrected creature and a radio playing shitty 80's rock?
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"The rest can't be all you, though. It made you out of, y'know, nothing, so what you were before isn't what you are now. Scars, wounds, muscle-memory, that all musta been erased, some." This all sounds merely philosophical, because like fuck Stark knows for sure what that angel did, exactly; he's not trying to actually get any answers from Winchester. He flicks ashes out the wing mirror absently, musing silently. What else is he supposed to do on the road to Vegas, with an uncertain resurrected creature and a radio playing shitty 80's rock?