Dean x Reader One Shots

Selfish Motives (Angst) (Dean getting emotional after you get shot)

Summary: Imagine taking a bullet for Dean and he gets emotional while patching you up.

Word Count: 3,485

You swore. Several times, in fact, and while you had certainly handled a gunshot wound before, that didn't make this much easier. Dean was wearing medical gloves, his hand digging in the area of your torso that the bullet went straight through in search of any sign that it might have punctured an organ; you felt his fingers delving around in the hole, felt them rub up against some of the different tissues and organs on your side. Sweat was beading on your forehead and you were clenching the edge of the table below you so tightly that you felt your skin begin to split, but you weren't about to cry out.

"Christ," you groaned, throwing your head back against the wall behind you while Dean, though he was trying as hard as he could to be gentle, explored your insides in a very non-sexy way. "Hurry up, if you haven't found anything I—" you growled when another spurt of pain rushed through you and you clamped your teeth together, the pressure of your jaw's clenching making you slightly dizzy.

"I need to make sure I'm not missing anything."

"Well speed it up," your voice was low, gruff, your words hardly coherent when you spoke. Your eyes slammed shut and you threw your head back against the wall once again, feeling your veins in your neck pulse when you snarled. "I haven't died of shock yet, but that doesn't mean my body isn't going to rebel from the—" your voice caught and you flinched away from Dean, needing to take a few seconds to gather yourself before finishing. "Two parasites digging around in a gunshot wound."

"I'm almost done," Dean's voice was soft when he said this, and while you could see him because your eyes were clamped shut while you tried not to kill someone, you could tell there was a lot more going on with him than the typical cleanup attitude. "Just a few more seconds, I need to make sure it didn't puncture your large intestine."

"You've been on my large intestine for the last—" your breath caught, you groaned, "Few minutes, I think it's good."

"Well I don't want you dying of septic shock, so I'm making sure."

You would normally have glared at Dean after that, especially given how snappy his voice was and the roughness his tone held, but you were too busy trying to keep from passing out to do anything. He was irritated more than anything, apparent from his delivery of the words, which was curious to you.

Finally he removed his fingers from the wound and you felt another surge of pain rush through you when he was gone; you may not have had two different fingers digging around your side, but that didn't mean the pain was over. No, you felt a heat radiate toward the wound before it erupted and you growled again, your hands tightening around the edge of the table.

"Hurry up," you managed to cough out, eyes slammed shut, "I'm going to bleed out if you don't—"

"I know."

You felt Dean press gauze to the wound, applying a pressure that sent stars to your head when the pain sharpened ten fold from the newfound compression. It wasn't until he started sewing you up that you gathered enough of yourself to open your eyes, look down at him while he held his eyes just in front of the wound, one hand looping the needle and floss through to form a suture while the other held gauze dipped in alcohol on the non-sutured areas. His eyebrows were scrunched, his jaw clenched, anger more apparent than any amount of worry he held in his eyes.

"Thank you," you said, hoping that maybe your expression of gratitude might lighten his mood. "Sorry, I didn't mean to complain, I really do appr—"