Dean got scraped up on a hunt. Nothing life-threatening, nothing enough to make him flinch. He hadn’t been expecting to be fussed over.

The second he walked in, you insisted with the first aid kit and the blah-blah-blah. Maybe you hadn’t insisted. And maybe it had just been a question of courtesy. Maybe he said yes after not so much convincing.

He hates being babied. Hates it. It hurts his pride he holds so dear.

But sometimes, deep down, he likes it. He gets a taste of the overindulgent care he never got much of growing up. Maybe that’s why he didn’t put up so much of a fight when you offered to fix him up.

He would rather go back out there with that vicious werewolf than admit this though.

On the wooden stool, he does his best to keep still for your steady hand, watching you meticulously clean his wounds with a cotton swab. Gently swiping along his jaw.

“…Thanks doc.” He says, cracking a smile as you clean him up.