You sat watching old reruns of some random show. It was getting late. You had to work night shift the next night, and you were trying to prepare your body to sleep during the day. You put a small handful of popcorn in your mouth. "God, why am I still alone. I have an apartment, I can cook, and I'm a nurse," You grumble to yourself, changing the channel. You heard your phone buzz. It was late. Anyone who was awake enough to text was either drunk or sending a booty call. Your eyebrows furrowed when you saw a message from Sam.
Samual 🤠: Dean is demanded I drop him off at your house. He doesn't want me staying. He's bloody and probably drunk.
Y/N: He's WHAT?!?!? ANOTHER bar fight?
Samual 🤠: I know...
You scoffed to yourself and, as if on cue, the door was being frantically knocked on. "I'm coming, Dean! Hold on!" You said while grunting to get up. When you pulled the door open, you let out an audible gasp. "What the actual fuck happened. Dean, you look like shit," you said, your mouth still hanging open. "You should see the other guy," Dean laughed but wincing quickly after. Dean walked into your living room while letting out sharp breaths with each step. "Dean, what happened?" You warned lowly while Dean eased into a chair in the living room. "Some asshole got in my face," Dean grumbled, wiping at the blood coming from his eyebrow. "I'll be back," you say, grunting as you grab the things you'd need. It was a secret that you bought stitching needles and stitching thread for Sam and Dean. They were hunters and things got messy sometimes. You grabbed some antiseptic cream, rubbing alcohol, some whiskey for Dean to drink, a roll of paper towels, and a few ice packs. Dean was going to need it.
You walked back into the living room, hands full. You let the things fall into the seat beside Dean. "The whiskey is for you to drink," you mumbled, watching Dean reach for the bottle. You shook your head. "I'm not drunk," Dean said with aggression while also taking a swig of his drink. "I believe you, Dean," You say, standing between his legs to get to work. "You don't," Dean said, raising his eyebrows. A gush of blood came out. You dabbed a piece of paper towel on the blood. "Dean you're acting like a punk," you snap. You lean over to grab an ice pack. "What hurts?" You ask softer. "See, these mood changes are not it. I need you to either be angry or be nice," Dean mumbled. "What hurts?" You repeat. Your voice was soft again, your eyes meeting his. "Chest. He got me in the ribs," Dean said, tearing his eyes from yours.
"We might need to go get you x-rays. We'll see in the morning," You whisper while pressing the soft icepack to his ribs. He winced, a hiss coming from his lips. "I know it hurts," you say, "but you have to keep it there," you finish. "X-rays?" Dean muttered. "If he got his knee up there a few times, he could have cracked something really bad, yes X-rays," you say, letting your attention turn to the cut above his eyebrow. There was also blood around his mouth and nose, but that seemed oozy. The blood on his eyebrow was giving out fresh blood. That concerned you.
"This needs to stop bleeding," you whisper, putting pressure on his face. "Fuck, that hurts," Dean mumbled. You were sure his body was aching. "I bet so, Dean. I'm sorry," you say, taking in a breath. You let the alcohol cover another paper towel with much difficulty. You wiped the blood on his nose and mouth area off. "Hold pressure while I clean you up," you say. Dean takes hold on the paper towel, once again wincing. You held a tissue to his nose, trying to see if it was still bleeding. When there was no blood, you nodded with satisfaction. You checked him carefully, letting your eyes trace his body. "I'm gonna get my stethoscope to listen to your chest, okay?" You say. You were talking softly, trying not to overwhelm him. He nodded as you moved, and walked to the book bag that has your hospital things in it. You walked back to him, smiling.
You dipped the stethoscope into his back. "Big breath," you said. With a quick inhale and an even faster exhale, things sounded okay. "Another one," You repeat. "It fucking hurts, Y/N," Dean said but took in another breath. "Well maybe if you didn't pick fights, it wouldn't hurt," You say. "You sound good," You whisper, pulling yourself back. "I didn't pick it, Y/N. He started it," Dean said, letting out a sigh. "You're running around like nobody gives a shit about you. People care about you, Dean," You snapped, setting yourself down in between his legs. Dean rolled his eyes, "Who, then?" Dean asked.
You let out an angry breath. "Me, Dean. I care about you. I wouldn't be fixing you up and spending my money to help you if I didn't. I would go to the end of the world for you," you snap, grabbing the paper towel on Dean's eyebrow. "I care about you. Sam cares about you. I think so highly of you, Dean. You're saving the world, but you're almost 95 percent alcohol and self-loathing," you finish. Dean's eyes meet yours. "That means, a lot, Y/N. It does," He said. "Then stop getting in fights. The drinking I can deal with, the fighting, I cannot," you say.
You threaded the needle. "Big inhale." Dean breathed in. "Big exhale." Dean let out a slow breath, and you pushed the needle through the skin around his eyebrow. You repeated this process for each individual stitch. "I'm glad we have you," Dean whispered. "I'm glad I have you," you whispered back. "Go lay down in my bed. I got the couch," you finished. "No way.
I'm not kicking you on the couch. I'll take it," Dean said, carefully standing up with small exhales and noises of discomfort. "Dean Winchester, go get in my bed. You might have broken your ribs. We can share if you're gonna be stubborn," you say, tossing the paper towels and the needle in the trash. "Okay. Fine," Dean said. He carefully walked down the hallway, letting out small grunts. "You need to me bring an ice pack?" You yell. "Please," his voice carried down the hall. You grabbed a second ice pack, quickly following after him.
You checked your phone. 5:36. You tossed your phone back into the couch, walking down the hallway. You walk into your room, watching Dean ease his shirt off. There was a dark bruise already forming across his ribs. He carefully kicked his shoes off and eased himself on the bed. "Here's your ice," you say, handing it to him. He carefully placed in on the large bruise, letting out a small breath. You swiftly unclasped your bra, taking it off under your shirt. You kicked your bedroom shoes off and pulled yourself under the blanket.
"Come here," Dean whispered. "Your ribs are bruised, I am not going to cuddle you," You laugh but scoot closer to him. He gives you a gentle kiss on the forehead. "Thank you," you whisper softly. "Thank you," Dean said back. You let him get comfortable, watching his close his eyes. "Goodnight, Dean," you whisper. "Goodnight, Y/N," he mumbled back. His breathing evened out, but it still sounded labored. You closed your eyes, letting yourself calm down. God, the Winchesters. God, you loved them.
