( dean lets his head slump against the mattress once he's fairly certain she's not gonna change her mind and hightail it out the door. he can't imagine why she would, but the mind does strange things when you've lost a lot of blood, and dean's always waiting for people to leave (waiting to push them away). his eyes squeeze shut briefly, brow pinching when she starts peeling away bloody bits of shirt from his skin. he's had worse, but, god, he could really use a drink. he gestures vaguely (limply) in the direction of where he thinks his duffel is. )
Might be fishing line in the duffel if you ain't got thread.
( which he mentions far too casually, like this is just something that happens often enough that he needs to carry fishing line around with him in case anyone needs to get sewn up. it's — well, not too far from the truth. you never know when someone might need stitches. part of the life is always being prepared for the worst, though he might have severely underestimated the worst in this particular case. still, this is a bag he almost never unpacks, only adds to. if bev doesn't have what he needs, he more than likely has something stashed away, either in his duffel or in the trunk of the impala.
honestly, he'd expected her to be freaking out way more than she is, so when stitching him up is the apparent least of her worries, it sends something almost like pride coursing up his spine, settling in the warm curve of his mouth. he reaches for one of her hands; his are dirty and caked in dried blood, but the sentiment remains the same: you can do this. more than that: )
I need you to, Bev. ( his stare hardens, though it's mostly out of desperation. ) Believe me, you do not wanna walk me into a hospital like this. Too many questions. Someone could recognize you, things could get complicated. I can't afford more complicated. ( he doesn't want her lying for him, anyway. it's bad enough he's dragged her into this mess as it is. his gaze drifts to the bag she brought with her and he nods at it. ) Hope you brought booze. ( he huffs a laugh, dryly. ) For disinfectant, but you know I ain't gonna pass up a drink.
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Might be fishing line in the duffel if you ain't got thread.
( which he mentions far too casually, like this is just something that happens often enough that he needs to carry fishing line around with him in case anyone needs to get sewn up. it's — well, not too far from the truth. you never know when someone might need stitches. part of the life is always being prepared for the worst, though he might have severely underestimated the worst in this particular case. still, this is a bag he almost never unpacks, only adds to. if bev doesn't have what he needs, he more than likely has something stashed away, either in his duffel or in the trunk of the impala.
honestly, he'd expected her to be freaking out way more than she is, so when stitching him up is the apparent least of her worries, it sends something almost like pride coursing up his spine, settling in the warm curve of his mouth. he reaches for one of her hands; his are dirty and caked in dried blood, but the sentiment remains the same: you can do this. more than that: )
I need you to, Bev. ( his stare hardens, though it's mostly out of desperation. ) Believe me, you do not wanna walk me into a hospital like this. Too many questions. Someone could recognize you, things could get complicated. I can't afford more complicated. ( he doesn't want her lying for him, anyway. it's bad enough he's dragged her into this mess as it is. his gaze drifts to the bag she brought with her and he nods at it. ) Hope you brought booze. ( he huffs a laugh, dryly. ) For disinfectant, but you know I ain't gonna pass up a drink.