Dean nodded as she explained that the wound was worse than she originally thought it was.  He understood that.  The one time that he had almost died from an injury, one that John brushed off, was when he fell on his own knife and didn’t realize it.  The knife had been in his bag, and when he was thrown, it pierced the canvas and stuck into his side. He nearly lost a kidney, but John kept insisting it was just a bruised rib.

He shuddered at the thought of the memory and reached his hand carefully behind him, running the top of his fingers over her thigh, “I know.  But I was there.  I will always be there, because I don’t want you put in those positions, no matter how simple of a hunt.  Things go south, and you have no backup, and you end up banged up.  No one is going to ask you if you’re alright, in this business…”

He took a deep breath and continued, “In fact, in this particular situation, I would have been toast too.  I don’t make good decisions when I’m alone.  Why do you think I’m so scared for Sammy?  Or to be away from my Dad?  I’ve never been on my own…”

As he spoke, he barely noticed that his eyes were starting to flutter closed.  He stayed in the upright position, but he was now starting to feel the effects from the head injury, a bit more acutely, now that his adrenaline was fading.  He swayed a bit, but pulled his hand forward and placed it on the bed to straighten himself.  Concussions were nothing, but they made things a little complicated when trying to care for someone else.

“But now it’s me and you…”, he spoke with a tiny slur and a smile.