The tiny walls of the motel room were filled with grunts and mutterings of expletives as you patched up the Winchesters yet again.

“Son of a bitch…” Dean grumbled, and after you rolled your eyes at him, you made your way over to Sam, who gives you a nervous look with his puppy dog eyes.

“I’m assuming it’s my turn now?” He asks timidly, already reaching for the bottle of whiskey you had set out for the pain.