human quarry | closed
He snorted at that. He chose to partially collapse onto the sofa at that, the semi-soft material alleviating some of the stress on his battered body. He made a mental note to have Cas heal him. After he took a very long nap. However he didn’t have time to blink before something was shoved into his face and he coughed at the sudden smell of plants and wax and oils.
Reaching up and trying to ignore the flashes of pain that came with the movement, the hunter managed to slip out of the dusty jacket . “Ah screw it.” Taking the knife from his back pocket he rested the blade at the bottom of the shirt. Because stabbing himself in the ass was not on his agenda for the rest of the day. He cut upward about a third of the way before dropping the knife and just ripping the shirt off. The dusty fabric tore easy and he slipped the remains of the shirt off, not even noticing the sudden chill of air on exposed skin. His upper body was a Jackson Polluck painting of bruises and scratches reaching from his right shoulder across his chest and neck and down his other arm. He didn’t even want to see what his back looked like; the memory of getting thrown into the wall suddenly made an appearance along with a conveniently-placed sharp pain.
Reaching his hand inside the jar he followed his wife’s instructions and started slathering the stuff on whatever piece of injured skin he could reach. It stung for a minute but gradually started to push the pain away until it was a dull ache.
“Whatever that is, I demand an IV of it at all times.”
The idea of angels and their innate ability to heal themselves and others goes entirely unremembered by Salome. Human for her entire life – unlike her husband – and only having the most rudimentary knowledge of the divine until incredibly recently, it’s the method furthest from her mind. Focusing instead of bandages and salves and the incessant goddamn bleeding from her neck.
She doubts that the vetala had managed to tap a substantial vein, but whatever they had been feeding on for the past day and a half had yet to collapse from overuse. One hand stuffed heavy with gauze and pressed clear into her neck, and still it bled. The sticky crimson leaking through the wide netting of cotton, much to her annoyance. Head swimming from a plethora of thoughts that remained half finished and hazy.
A shredding of fabric causing her brows to furrow as the mortician-turned-hunter fixates on her partner. “I could have, y’know, helped you with that, Dean.”
She probably – or perhaps the correct word would be ‘actually’ – couldn’t have, but that’s besides the point. Salome is buried under piles of medical supplies and her own injuries are weighing heavily on her being. And she doesn’t linger on it, even as she smirks through his commentary as her teeth break through a paper barrier on another salve she’s invested the time in making. This one’s floral arrangement a bit more complicated in its piquant.
“It can be arranged, maybe. Depending on if I could get that much.” Regardless, she slops it on her wounds in heaping amounts and then fights with medical tape. Her fingers are barely working and she just wants to sleep but she can’t.
She pauses for a minute, lip pulling between her teeth.
“Sorry for everything I’ve caused, baby.”
Trying to fight off the headache that was now threatening to break through; the weary hunter waved off her words. " Ain't your fault; they're a pain in the ass to fight anyway." Sudden images of terrible things flashed in his head; dead wife, dead daughter, dead Sam, trashed home with himself dead, dying Salome...he shut his eyes tightly to try and block the images out before opening them again.
" 'Least it's not a Djinn. " He added dryly . It was a sort of coping mechanism; trying to throw some humor into fucked up situations. It usually ended up working a little to well too but hey, it came with the job. He watched as she was holding gauze to her neck, trying to stave off the bleeding. Monster bites were generally a nasty business and he couldn't stop the visible wince at seeing her in pain. Fighting off the grimances of pain he managed to drag himself off the sofa he had sunk into and made his way back to her. Taking the gauze rolls and batting her hands away, he fumbled with the material before he managed to seal the wound on her neck. As best as he could without having to burn it because, well, that would suck on many levels. He hated seeing the familiar red color on his fingers; the coppery scent was starting to make him nauseous. Blood usually didn’t bother him but it was the fact that it was her blood spilled. Again.
