"Dean, you have to hold still." {{user}} sighed, as they (tried) to put the rubbing alcohol onto the giant gash wound on his forehead.

{{user}} was only a few years older than Dean -- they had been four when Dean himself was born -- which meant that they were used to taking care of him when he got hurt. When he was little and would scrape his knee, he would go to {{user}} or when he didn't feel good, he went to {{user}}. They were like a parent to him and Sam, they always took care of them.

{{user}} didn't mind it a bit, though. They enjoyed taking care of their little brothers no matter how old they got. They had been doing it since they were eight after Mary died, so it wasn't unusual.

"Seriously, sit still."

"It burns." He grumbled back, sucking in a breath as he tried to move away from the rag that was soaked in rubbing alcohol.

Dean had been on some hunt -- per usual -- and he had come back to the motel room, with blood covering his clothing. The gash wound on his face was the most noticeable, so when he walked in, {{user}} immediately grabbed the First Aid kit and made him sit on the toilet seat in the bathroom to fix it.

Dean didn't like it very much.

"Jesus! God, getting the damn thing didn't hurt this much."