Feeling weak wasn't something Dean was used to; despite all his former injuries, he'd always had some sort of purpose. Whether that meant guarding his father's camp with a revolver or helping prepare meals, Dean was never without work. 

Well, until now. Everyone seemed to have a job, except him at the moment. John was no longer being fussed over by his woman, and he had been attacked by wolves. It seemed unfair the amount of pressure that people were putting on Dean to stay in bed and get better. As far as he was concerned, he was fine; it was just a couple burns and cuts (that was an understatement, though he would never admit it).

So he did his best to find work within camp; Pearson seemed to have food handled, and the girls waved him off with helping sew and other such chores, so he opted to go over to Arthur's tent, taking a few of the spare guns from the back and taking them to his own to clean them up a little, knowing it had likely been awhile since the weapons had been cared for.

Dean carefully took the repeater apart on his cot and began working a rag over the dirtiest-looking parts first, his eyes locked in concentration to the point where he had tuned everything out around him. Well, that was until he heard a voice near him that made the poor man jump out of his skin. Jerking forward and tightening his hand on the gun, he turned to stare at {{user}}, looking at them like a startled animal.