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As much as you hate doing the dishes, and that’s why you own a dishwasher, you’re still doing them. Jody cooked for you, saving you from the pseudo-food in your freezer. Plus your mom taught you that manners matter, especially if you’re the guest. It doesn’t help that Jody excused herself to the living room to take a call from the station.
Honestly, it’s her fault. She straight up left you alone with the dishes.
It’s not that bad anyway. Considering you never do your own it’s almost a novelty. The soap Jody has smells like a poor imitation of roses. It’s pink anyway. And the whole thing is keeping you entertained while she's busy. Idle hands are the devils' playthings and all that.
You’re humming to yourself since there’s no music. You’re offended by the lack of a radio or anything but Jody probably didn’t count on being gone this long. Or the fact that you’d start doing chores in her absence. She’s going to smack you upside the head when she gets back but the dishes will be done so you know she’ll be grateful too.
It’s a particularly stirring moment of the tuneless song you’re humming when the back door slams open, “Jody! Little help here!” Two hulking masses of flannel amble in with no consideration for the fact that they are total stranger dangers.
Obviously, you scream.
The noise begins shrill and high pitched. Like how you imagine Macaulay Culkin screams now that he’s come of age. Then it morphs into a roar of attack all without taking a breath.
Of the two men who have burst in unannounced and covered in blood, the taller one scrunches up his entire face. Dramatics aside you’d think the noise is causing more pain than whatever injury he has. The shorter one leans his friend against the wall and then raises his hands in a calming, defensive position, “sweetheart…”
You finally take in some air, by which time Jody has come running in guns blazing. But you’re not some defensive, wilting wallflower. You can look after yourself. You dip your hands into sink again hoping to find a knife or other sharp kitchen implement. What you yank out, dragging a trail of dirty, soapy water with it, is a metal potato masher. Determined to not die like this you do the only that seems reasonable since Jody hasn’t fired a shot yet.
You throw the damn thing.
It spins as it cuts through the air and hits the shorter man square in the face. Success. You’ve fended off your attacker, or at the very least softened him up. Now all you need is some butter and you’re in business.
“Shit!” He growls as he rubs the wet spot on his face while your weapon clatters to the floor.
“Y/N! Y/N! It’s fine.” Jody’s tucking her gun away and stepping between you and the potential murderers, before you attack again. “I know these dummies.”
She throws a pointed look in their direction as you finally feel your heartbeat calm enough to think rationally. “They didn’t knock.” It’s the most important thing your coherent mind wants to say. You’re not crazy, because it’s them who are uncivilized.
She smiles at you like you’re a child but her tone is clearly meant to chastise the lumberjacks behind her. “That’s right they didn’t knock because they were born in a frickin’ barn. Y/N, this is Sam and Dean.”
They’re both introduced together so there’s a solid minute where you’re still not sure which one is which. You only know that collectively they form a duo known as ‘Sam and Dean’. The taller one, all hair in his face, whichever one he is, seems to be struggling to stand straight. Although, considering his height the air might be that much thinner up there.
“Listen, Jody, we’re real sorry to barge in like this but Sam he’s-” it’s the shorter one talking, at least now you know which is which.
Jody takes one look at Sam and her friendly annoyance becomes motherly concern real quick.
“What the hell happened to you guys?” You watch your friend go across the room and eyeball Sam's blood-soaked undershirt. Dean, still watching you with annoyed suspicion in case of more flying utensils, pulls her in to whisper in hushed tones. She pushes him back with an elbow to the ribs, “what am I going to do with you two? Help me get him upstairs.”
“Jody what’s…” you start.
“Y/N I’m sorry maybe it’s best if you went on home?” She doesn’t outrightly say she’s throwing you out but it sure as hell sounds like she’s throwing you out.
Dean chooses then to grit his teeth at Sam’s weight back on his shoulders. You scan his body for the source of the pain and see a sizeable cut in his now red stained jeans.
“At least let me help him with that while you help… um, Sam.”
Dean looks about ready to argue but Jody catches your meaning and rolls her eyes. “So, you’re both hurt?” She sighs like they're both so exhausting although you can read the worry behind it.
“It’s fine, I’m fine. Can you just patch up him please?”
“Sure, I’ll patch him up. While my nice doctor friend takes a look at you.”
Dean doesn’t argue but then Jody has that power over the majority of people she meets. Sheriff or not, she gets her way most of the time.
You follow behind them as Jody carries most of the weight but somehow they manage to get Sam moving. Between the three of them, it’s all limbs and sideways shuffles but they move him upstairs and out of sight.
Everything happened so quickly that the sudden silence of the room now that it’s empty is deafening. There’s scraping furniture and muffled yelling from above while you’re left there staring at your nails.
A minute later and Dean starts hobbling back down the stairs. Apparently, he’s forgotten you’re there because he’s grimacing with every step now that Jody and Sam are gone. It’s only halfway down that he notices you still standing in the middle of the living room and straightens his jaw. “I’m fine by the way."
“You sure look fine,” your arm stiffly points at the dining table. “Sit.”
He grumbles under his breath but still slumps into the chair, Jody and her superpower must be rubbing off on you.
You lean over and use careful, measured touches to peel the frayed denim away from the cut. You don’t normally deal with patients so you’re paying extra attention to the pressure of your fingers. Shooting for gentle. It still has to hurt though. The cut is deeper than it looks. “Dean right?”
“Yeah.” He grinds through clenched teeth.
You stand up swiftly. Quickly enough to give yourself headrush if you weren’t so focused on the task at hand. “The jeans, lose ‘em”.
You don’t hang around to see his mouth twist in confusion. There’s a first aid kit under the sink, god knows what Jody is using upstairs. You know where it is because you’d been here a few months back when Claire cut her hand on something or other. Of course, she’d only needed a bandage at the time but you know it will have the tools you need now. In the past, you’ve never questioned why your friend has such a large at home medical kit. Now you’re guessing evenings like this are why.
When you wander back into the living room with the hefty plastic box in your arms you’re instantly irritated at the sight of Dean still clothed. “Do you need help taking those off?”
There’s a reason you don’t work in clinical or surgery, you have a shitty bedside manner. Though Dean, to his merit, seems to be riling you up extra fast.
“I don’t need to take these off.” For someone who looks like a male stripper he sure is being a brat about taking off his pants.
“That cut needs stitches and I need to see what I’m doing if I’m going to sew you up all pretty. Normally I’d cut them off but I’m guessing you want to be a big boy about this?”
He frowns petulantly, then sighs and finally starts working on his belt and fly.
“Don’t get excited or anything sweetheart. This is strictly professional.” He’s trying to claw back some of whatever macho bravado he thinks he has.
“Don’t fall in love. Got it.” You quip back at him complete with a finger gun. It’s all fun and games anyway. That is until his pants drop.
The guy is handsome. That’s not a question. He’s an Adonis. You don’t need to dwell on the sharpness of his jaw, the emerald hue of his eyes or his lips that are the perfect mathematical curve for kissing the fuck out of.
But the guy almost murdered you tonight, in your mind at least. So, you’d made an effort to not let yourself be distracted by his face. You’d been doing well so far. You hadn’t looked at him much at all, even if you’d thought about it.
At least you hadn't looked until those pants dropped.
It’s hard to pinpoint what makes your throat tighten. Is it his black boxer briefs that leave nothing to the imagination? Probably. The guys got a third arm for crying out loud. And it’s so inappropriate that you’re even noticing but damn, those thighs. He's got those bowed legs, which are hot on a regular day, except Dean also has these thighs that are pure sin. Toned, muscled tree trunks that look like they could slam into you with all the force off…
He whistles, waves a hand to his face and lets a self-satisfied smirk settle on his lips. “I’m up here sweetheart.”
Oh god, you’d been staring. It wasn’t professional but then again your patients are usually a lot less chatty and a hell of a lot less handsome. No one is handsome when they’re dead. It’s not your fault. You’re at Jody’s. You hadn’t been prepared for this.
Somehow you have the gall to act affronted by his accusation, “and your gaping wound is down there genius. I’m a doctor for crying out loud.”
Good. He looks confused like he can’t decide if you’re a pervert or medical professional. The truth is a little of both. It’s hardly your fault that his cut goes all the way up his thigh to the edge of his underwear. Wait, what if it goes further? No. No, it can’t.
Once you open the first aid kit everything flows on autopilot and his dumb half-naked body fades into the background. You know this, it’s as easy as blinking. You sterilize the needle and lay everything out like you're at work. A latex glove gets pulled over each hand and you remind yourself to be careful since he’s still breathing.
"This is going to hurt," you warn him with alcohol in your hand.
“I’ll be fi- shit!” He’s so busy trying to be brave that he doesn’t brace himself for the sting as you clean the cut and blood drying on his skin. His fists clench at his sides but other than that he stays deadly still while you finish.
Then when you're ready to put Humpty Dumpty back together again you find yourself pausing to look down at his leg. You’re too high off the ground to do this without killing your back. You already know that there’s only one solution and as much as you don’t want to you slide to the floor. Resting your knees between his thigh gap, all the better to stitch him up.
Whatever he wants to say he holds in. Thankfully. If you’ve got to ignore being this close to his dick then the least he can do is keep his perfect mouth shut.
It’s a grueling silence at first. You’re not talking because you’re concentrating on how many stitches you want to make. He’s not talking, you imagine because it hurts. It's only after the first few stitches are tied that he’s used to the jab of the needle enough to speak.
“So, you’re a doctor huh? That how you met Jody?”
You’d shrug or laugh if your hands weren’t busy, “I mean, I’m a doctor but not a doctor doctor. We actually met over a dead body.”
He stiffens under your touch and you don’t think it’s because you hit a nerve. Unfortunately, it’s not an unusual reaction when you tell people about your line of work.
“I’m a pathologist. So, I deal exclusively in bodily fluids, specimens, and autopsies. I mean, I’m great at stitching things but my patients are normally pretty stiff.”
He laughs at you and the sound is refreshing. There are no questions about why you’d want to cut open a dead body or how you can stand to do it. “That why you don’t have the whole soothing doctor thing going on?”
“Exactly. I never was a soft touch and cadavers don’t talk back.”
You’re going faster now. He isn’t so tense under your fingers and you’re finding a rhythm.
“I can’t believe I’m nearly finished and you still haven't told me how you got this.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you darlin’”
God knows what it is about the way he says darling but it stops you from sinking the needle into him again, at least for a second. From your kneeling position between his legs, you can’t help but look up at him through your lashes. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and you wonder if you're the only one who can taste your heartbeat.
“Try me.” You don’t even know what you mean when you say it. You don’t even know what you're offering.
Jody does.
“Y/N! Dean! What the hell?”
Jody is standing at the bottom of the stairs with a freshly sewn together Sam, who is better able to support himself on the banister. And they’re both wearing equally shocked looks. All raised eyebrows and open mouths. It’s only when you look up at Dean again and how the green of his eyes has all but disappeared that you understand.
No less than an hour ago Dean burst in as a stranger. Now you're on your knees in front of him while his jeans and belt sit around his ankles. And when you paused to stare into his eyes like a lovesick puppy you rested your hand on his uninjured thigh. Something you’re only noticing as the heat of him seeps into your fingers.
Yeah, you can understand what Jody thinks she's walked in on. You get what this looks like.
“It’s not what it… I just have one more stitch and then he’s free to go.”
Well, now it sounds like you’re the one who orchestrated all this. Like you’re keeping Dean here against his will. He doesn't seem to notice their entrance. Or care. He hasn’t stopped looking at you with this curl to his lips like he thinks the whole thing is so damn funny. He might be right. You’d see the funny side if it wasn’t you on your knees.
You tie and cut the last stitch with Sam and Jody whispering as your soundtrack. As soon as you’re done you jump up and pretend that you don't need to get away from the heat between his thighs.
“I… erm. I need should wrap that up and you need to keep it dry for a few days.”
“Whatever you say doc.”
It’s not fair that he’s so comfortable now. You almost regret stitching him up. Now that Dean isn't in pain he's far more dangerous than when he was busting in the kitchen to kill you.
Jody’s helping Sam to the sofa even though he insists he’s fine and they’re both so there. But Dean's still looking at you like they don't exist.
You pick up the gauze intending to wrap his thigh and realize with him sitting this might be harder than it looks. “Um, can you…?” You point upwards to motion standing without thinking of the consequences.
You bend down again to wrap his thigh only realizing halfway through that because he’s standing you’re now eye level with his dick.
His barely concealed by his underwear dick.
You cut the gauze probably before you should and secure it so you can jump back again. The smile on Jody’s face definitely isn’t making you want to blush. It’s just a dick. Every second person has them. Or at least, that’s what you’re telling yourself.
“Ok, you’re good to go.” You say loudly enough for the room while packing up the first aid kit.
He pulls up his still bloodstained, ripped jeans chuckling to himself, “thanks, doll. Hope I was a better patient than a dead body.”
“Debatable,” you glance at him out the corner of your eye.
He holds a hand to his chest dramatically, still staring at you, as Sam hauls himself up again. “Come on dude, we’ve still got to clean up that thing.”
Dean all but ignores Sam, once again focussing on you. “Right right. I should swing by and see you though? Get these stitches removed by a professional?”
Jody starts pushing Dean out the door, finally sick of them both, “if you wouldn’t mind not accosting my friends. Any more than you already have.”
“I’ll see you in a week! Doctors orders!” you call out from behind Jody. She closes the door giving you a look that’s half warning and half judgment.
You 100% don’t care.