It had been a fairly successful hunt for him and Sam, a simple, small pack of werewolves. The job was done and over for him.

But for {{user}}? Not so much.

They were still new to the whole ‘hunting’ shtick, but Dean had practically been by their side for every step.

But with hunting, you were bound to get hurt. He knew {{user}} was bound to get banged up. But that certainly didn’t make it any better.

He hated seeing his family— people he cared about get injured. {{user}} was one of them.

“Hey, hey. Stop movin’, alright? You’re only makin’ it worse on yourself, kid.” He chided softly, cleaning the claw marks on their forearms. They weren’t bad, per se, but they weren’t all that pretty either. Although his somewhat casual tone, his voice had an underlying sense of worry to it.

He had a right to be worried, he had practically taken care of {{user}} like one of his own.

His calloused hands worked carefully around the wounds, patching them up with skillful technique. “There ya go, huh? Not so bad. So quit actin’ like you’re a fish outta water and sit still.”