Warning: a tiny bit smutty. Maybe. idk. Graphic too...? Also, it's hella long.

You crash through the door of the motel you're staying at with Sam and Dean. You almost fall, but grab onto the door handle. You look up to see Sam toss his gun on the bed and rush toward you. He picks you up, bridal style, slamming the door shut with his foot, and carries you to the bed.

"Got a lead on the wendigo," you force out. "It went after me. It's dead now." You can barely keep your eyes open. Your hands grip the side of the bed. Laying down is not an option; you'll just pass out. Sam's scanning your body, looking for where you're injured.

"It got you good," he says.

"No kidding," you mutter. "Help me take off my clothes; I can't do it myself." There are three deep claw marks across your chest. They start at your right collar bone and go down diagonally. It'd ripped through your favorite bra.

Off goes the jacket, and then, hesitantly, the shirt. Your breasts and stomach are covered in blood; the claw marks are so deep. "Oh, my god." You roll you head back. You have to scoot back on the bed and lean against the wall. Your breathing is ragged.

"Well shit," Sam says. "Take these." He hands you a bottle of Jack and some pills that seem to appear out of nowhere. "I'm gonna get the suture kit from the car. Don't move," he cautions.

When he's gone, you groan and close your eyes. It's been a long time since you've been hurt this bad. You swallow the pills with a generous amount of whiskey. Then, you lean forward and clench your jaw. It's almost impossible to get your bra off. Your fingers are shaking and it hurts to move.

Sam walks in then. "(Y/n), what are you doing?"

"Trying to get my bra off. The cuts go down beneath it and you'll be able to get a better angle for stitching." At least it's your nice bra. Even though you aren't looking up, you can tell Sam's embarrassed. The relationship is fairly new and you haven't had sex yet. He copped a feel. Once. Dean's kind of a cock-block since he's around all the damn time.

Sam comes over and sets the suture kit down. He sits down on the bed to your right, next to you. His fingers are deft as he unhooks your bra on the first try. "This ain't your first rodeo," you say and laugh a little.

"Nope," he says as he slips it off your arms. Thankfully, or not, most of your breasts are covered in blood. "You're beautiful. Minus the gruesome injury." He strokes your breasts, making your shiver. Turning more serious, he says, "Okay, let's get this over with." You grimace in anticipation.

He starts by cleaning the area around the cuts. The warm towel is so soothing. You relax slightly and close your eyes. The soft strokes let some pleasure mask the pain.

After a minute, Sam says "I'm going to start with the cuts now. Ready?"

You shake your head and open your eyes. "No. I need more whiskey."

He leans sideways to pick it up off the floor. His shirt pulls up to reveal a strip of his skin. Nice. He hands you the bottle. "Don't drink too much. We might need some for sterilization later. Oh, I've gotta call Dean. Give me a minute."

It's so weird. The situation is anything but normal, yet the weirdest part is the fact that you aren't wearing a bra. You take another long pull of the bitter liquor.

Sam crosses the room and starts closing some books and things. He dials Dean's number. "Hey, man. You can cut off the hunt for the Wendigo. (Y/n) found it." A pause. "It's dead, but she's hurt." Another pause. "No, no. Not that bad. A little worse than the vampire a few months ago, but I've got it. Yeah, uh, just - don't be here for awhile, okay?" Long pause. "Because the cuts are in an ... awkward place. On her chest."

"Ha!" Dean yells so loud that Sam takes the phone away from his ear.

He glances at you and you both look away. "It's not funny, Dean."

You can't hear him, but it's easy to imagine what Dean's saying: "No, I know. You just do your thing and I'll stay out of the way. I won't be back till morning."

Sam hangs up. He walks up to the bed. "Okay. I'm gonna wash my hands and then come back." He brushes your sweaty hair from your face and strokes your cheek. Your eyes follow him to the bathroom. His hair falls forward while he washes his hands. He tosses his head to fix it.

Laughter escapes your lips. Sam walks toward you, confused. Grinning, you say, "You're pretty. You have nice hair and eyes. Oh, my gosh, your nose is so cute! I bet you have a really nice body too." You snort.

The corner of Sam's mouth turns up. "Thank you. I guess the pain meds are working now."

Then it dawns on you. "Ohhhh. That's what it is. It feels like I'm floating, Sam," you slur.

"Okay, I'm gonna start now."

"Aww," you complain.

"Cross your legs," Sam says. (Criss-cross-applesauce or Indian style).

You do, and he sits in front of you so that your knees touch. "I know you're high and drunk, so try to remember that this is going to hurt. So, be careful."

You nod and frown a little.

Sam leans forward so that his face is only a few inches from your breasts. You focus on his eyes, which are a color all their own. He's biting his lip a little, concentrating. Even in the narcotic induced haze you're in, it still hurts like a son of a bitch. You push your lips together and whimper. Your fingers curl around the covers. Your eyes are shut tight.

"Shh, shh. I know it hurts. I'm sorry." He continues to shush you, his voice gentle. Eventually, you open your eyes slightly, and focus on him. The movement of his eyes as he watches his work. His furrowed brows. His hands pulling the needle up into the air and back down. He looks up at you. "How you doing?"

"It hurts," you slur.

"I know. I'm almost done, then we can do whatever you want." He goes back to work.

"Whatever I want?" you ask suggestively, then flinch when the needle goes in.

"Whatever you feel up to." You see his smile, partially hidden by his hair.

You lift your arm, which feels heavy from the drugs in your bloodstream. You tilt up his chin. "Kiss me," you murmur, not really able to move.

He leans forward and puts his lips to yours. He's an amazing kisser. Your eyes close. Your hand grips the back of his neck. He's careful not to touch the wounds, but his shirt touches the tips of your breasts, making you shiver, and your nipples harden. You kiss back until you can't breathe.

Your hand falls back to your side, and you breathe fast and ragged. When you start to breathe evenly, he says, "I've got to keep going with the stitches, okay?"

"Yeah, okay. Can you talk to me? It might help."

"Sure. I'll talk about you." He starts again with the stitches, and when you groan, he starts talking louder. "If we were normal and had friends, they'd get so annoyed from how much I'd talk about you. I love your soft, (y/h/c) hair. And your eyes; I can get lost in your eyes. Even your name, (y/n). The way you look when you're interviewing someone, like your listening to them, and their pain is the only thing that matters in that moment. Your voice. Your laugh. The way you kiss. You have amazing lips. They're a little pale right now, but that'll get better soon. You're beautiful and smart and kind. Very brave, especially right now. I know how bad this hurts, and you're holding it together really well. You're the strongest person I know, (y/n), and I love you."

"I love you too, Sam. For almost all the same reasons. I'm too tired to monologue like you just did, but I feel the same way for you."

Sam chuckles and looks up. He leans forward and kisses your nose. "I'm done now." He sets down the needle and thread, and picks up a cloth to clean the area again. "How're you doing?"

"Better," you answer.

Sam runs his fingers over the stitches. It causes a sort of pleasure-pain. "Much better." He keeps going, his hands roaming your breasts now. "Sam," you whisper. Your hands reach up and go into his hair, gripping it. "Kiss me," you say again. His warm lips press against your icy ones. You move together, in pure pleasure now.

Sam starts to lean back. "No, stay." You try to pull him back towards you.

"(Y/n), you can barely breathe; you can barely keep your eyes open." You start to complain, but he cuts you off. "When you're all better, in a week or two, we'll kick Dean out. We can have proper sex. We can make it romantic - candles, flower petals, whatever you want. I'll do whatever you want. Okay?"

"Yeah, okay." You relax back down against the wall, and let your eyes fully close.

Sam puts bandages on your wound, and then helps you put on one of his flannel shirts. It smells like old books and soap. He helps you under the covers, then gets in himself. You curl into his warm chest, and slowly drift off to sleep.