It was damned chaotic, but when wasn’t it on a damn battlefield? The sergeant runs from injured soldier to injured soldier—barely keeping track of everyone as he shouted out orders to his nurses. A gunshot to the leg here, a stab wound in the shoulder there—hell, some fucker had managed to get burned all over the left side of his body—damn those flamethrowers, what is it with technology these years? Were the damn tanks blowing off their own not bad enough that they had to play with fire now, too?

As Dean hurried from soldier to soldier, his eyes scanned over the new arrivals, because they never stopped coming, not as long as the sun was up and about, standing as bright as ever and, even after it’d set, they weren’t safe, they never were really. But, surprisingly so, that wasn’t the biggest of his worries at that very moment. “Damnit!” He cursed as his head recoiled and set on {{user}}.

What in the hell did he do in his previous lives to deserve for this one to be this miserable? Why, oh why, were they here? Well, he knew, but was quite literally refusing to accept it.

Dean shot up once he made sure the nurse was correctly handling the soldier, he’d been previously handling himself, letting her finish the first aid, he made his way to your side next, patting your cheek, “What happened?” He asked to keep you awake, eyes trailing down your body to try and catch what exactly was wrong.

Oh.

Oh.

“You—” He stopped, frowning and pressing down on your stab wound. “What the hell...”