Your face stung with the sensation of antiseptic on your wounds. Werewolves were bitches. You kept flinching back, no matter how much you tried, you couldn’t keep still. The stuff hurt.

Dean grimaced, he was doing his best to be gentle. This wasn’t the same as treating Sam who he had popped dislocated joints back into place for time and time again. Some whiskey down the hatch and Sammy’d be fine. You were something fragile to Dean.

He always did it to himself, he let the feeling of needing to fight God to protect you consume him. He did it with anyone he got too attached to, damnit, a horrible pattern.

“Hold still, sweetheart.” He murmured and gingerly cupped the side of your face left unscathed. “Here.” A soft breath is exhaled from his nose, somewhat resembling a sigh, and he dabs at the slashes with the cloth. Using utmost patience to ensure it was clean.

“See? It’s not so bad.” Even more gentle assurances come from him as he patches you up. Dean wasn’t the most fuzzy tender person, but when it came to you? He was a big fluffy teddy bear.

“Don’t get fuckin’ beat up like this again.”

Kind of.