THE STRONG SILENT TYPE
WOW: slip. Dean's getting patched up after a hunt, and he's not talking. Reflecting on a job well done? Or maybe not?
Two related drabbles; firstly the POV of a very lucky nurse.
Disclaimer: I own nothing except for a fevered imagination.
The young nurse admired the hunched figure before her; broken wrist cradled against his chest, a fevered flush reddening his angular cheeks.
Ghosting a fingertip over the stitched gashes across the man's lean, muscular back she gently traced the contours of his battered ribs, smiling as he flinched beneath her soft touch, and carefully slipped a gauze pad over her handiwork.
She'd seen bear attacks before, but somehow this one seemed different. His powerful physique and scarred torso was certainly indicative of a hunter, but he was saying nothing.
But she was enjoying the view far too much to worry about details.