“You know, if you weren’t so violent you wouldn’t suffer any punching injuries.”
“And if you weren’t so aggravating I wouldn’t need to do any punching!”
Your voice was swallowed up by the bunker’s cavernous rooms, shouting after Dean as he made his way to the kitchen to get ice and leaving you with your hand begrudgingly cradled against your chest. The thought of accepting help from him made you twist in your seat, because what could be more embarrassing than an injury sustained while trying to deck someone else? Especially if that someone was Dean Winchester. You cringed at the thought.
When Dean returned he was carrying a bowl full of ice water, which you lowered your hand into with a wince but made no sound. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Then after a few minutes in the freezing cold Dean finally spoke.
“Alright, come here,” he said, holding his hand out for yours.
You simply glared at him. “And if I don’t feel like it?”
“Well, you can try punching me with the other hand if want, but I doubt that would do you much good.”
You frowned and pulled out of the ice water, wordlessly putting your hand in his.
“Okay, try to open your hand,” he said, causing a slight surge of panic to run through you. But you managed, slow and steady, to unfurl your fingers and splay them out against his palm. It was an effort not to think about the contact. “And close it.” You did. “Does that hurt?”
“Enough to make me want to hit you again,” you muttered.
Dean chuckled at that and only earned himself another glare. “I think you’d better hold off on that for now.”
Once Dean had made you turn your hand up and down and in a circle, did what seemed to be a temperature comparison between your left hand and you right, and made you squeeze his fingers in a gesture far too similar to the “pull my finger” trick for comfort, he finally seemed satisfied. “No immediate bruising, no sunken knuckles,” he muttered, still poking your hand for good measure. “I think you’re okay. A bruised knuckle, fracture at the most. Just try not to move your hand much for the next few days.”
And to that, you didn’t know what to say.
Thank you for looking at my hand? Sorry for punching you in the face? You totally deserved to be punched and I wish I could do it again?
You thought better of the latter and settled on a quiet, “Thanks,” eyes darting down to the floor.
Dean smiled, the beginnings of a bruise forming on his jaw, and said, “You’re welcome,” as he turned to leave. But then he stopped, smirking back and you. “And when that hand’s healed, I’ll teach you how to throw a real punch. Then next time I mouth off you can knock me out instead of just on my ass.”
You couldn’t help but smile.
*These gifs are not mine, both the gifs are from Google Images*
