PMT (POST MAULING TANTRUM)
Dean's been carved up good and he's having a right little foot-stamper …
Disclaimer: Own nothing except a worryingly perverted imagination.
Patching up after a tough hunt wasn't easy; and harder still when Dean was in 'one of those moods'.
Sulkily nursing a deep gash across his flank, he'd dismissed Sam's offer to stitch the wound with a pouty snort of "I c'n do it."
Unable to watch the twisting, flinching, fumbling spectacle that followed, Sam walked away from the frustrated contortions listening in amusement to huffy gasps, grunts and muttered oaths.
Eventually Dean slumped in dejected defeat, hem of his T-shirt gripped between his teeth. It was beyond pathetic.
Sam gently pried the needle from Dean's clenched fingers.
"Hate you …"
"Sure you do …"