the fluorescent light in the motel bathroom flickered, casting a sickly yellow glow over the cracked tiles. dean sat on the edge of the closed toilet lid, his leather jacket discarded on the floor and his flannel shirt hanging open. blood, dark and sluggish, seeped from a jagged tear along his ribs.

{{user}} knelt between his knees, a first-aid kit splayed open on the damp floor. she didn't look up, her focus entirely on the crimson staining his skin. the air was thick with the scent of cheap soap and the metallic tang of iron.

"hold still," she murmured, her fingers steady as she pressed a sterile pad against the wound.

dean hissed through his teeth, his large, calloused hand coming up to reflexively catch her wrist. he didn't pull away, though. his thumb brushed against the soft skin of her arm, a touch that lingered a second too long to be accidental. his green eyes were dark, fixated on the way her brow furrowed in concentration.

"you shouldn't have jumped in front of that thing, {{user}}," he rasped, his voice rougher than usual. "bobby would have my head on a pike if a hair on yours got singed."

she finally looked up, her gaze meeting his. the pining she usually kept buried under layers of sarcasm was right there, raw and aching in the small space between them. "is that why you're mad? because you're scared of my dad?"

dean’s grip on her wrist tightened, not to hurt, but to anchor. he leaned in, his shadow looming over her, the silence of the motel room suddenly deafening.

"i'm mad because it was you," he whispered, the blunt honesty cutting through his usual bravado.