"I don’t need this shit," he grumbled, perpetual frown etched into his lips, proclaimed to be the most frequent, if not only, expression he had. His eyes strayed to the peeling and atrociously patterned motel wallpaper, an unlikely distraction as a means of avoidance, keep his gaze from your surgically steady hands repairing his wound; a nasty deep gash on his arm, courtesy of a werewolf and poor decisions, habitual impulsivity, and recklessness.

"I can take care of it myself," he insisted, voice gruff and filled with irritation that hit the wrong target, inadvertently forcing self-deprecated anger onto the sole provider of solace. Weakness was, well, weakness. One thing daddy’s little soldier couldn’t be was weak. Permitting someone else to clean up his mistake was weak, irresponsible and would get his head done in if his father were there.

Endless protests and anxious commands, Dean very very reluctantly allowed you to drive Baby, not without sweet promises to never let your hands touch the wheel again. Remarking over his admittedly creepy infatuation with his car sent a biting glare your way only to be met by laughter. A stumble and roll of his eyes, he landed in the passengers side, rag held over the slash in his arm to keep from bleeding on his pristine seats.

Trudging into the motel room, he kicked the duffel bag across the floor, dropping haphazardly into the nearest seat, wincing at the stinging burn in his wound. His lips parted, streams of protests placed precariously on his tongue, eager to be spoken but quickly silenced by a wave of your hand. He temporarily acquiesced, letting you mend the injury out of his reach. One or two stitches in, his mouth was open again, spewing macho nonsense of just how "perfectly fine" he was.

"It’ll heal," he huffed, clutching onto the edge of the table with his free hand, nails biting and tearing at the scratched wood. "You don’t have to do this. I don’t need it," he urged again. "Don’t need to be coddled like some goddamn baby."