Dean scoffed at how dramatic he felt like Mika was acting, but he started to get a small pang of fear creeping up in his stomach at her tone.  Obviously something was wrong, other than a small scrape to the head, if she was being so harsh with him.  He held out the vodka bottle with a heavily shaky hand, and took a deep breath.

“Okay.  Okay!  I’ll be good.”, he muttered, the fear not leaving his stomach as she told him to start counting.  He counted in his head to one, before she started the stitches.  He gasped, his body tensing.  He almost flinched his head away from her, but thought it a bad idea.  So, he simply stayed where he was and gripped the duvet tightly.

“That hurts, you know…”, he muttered through gritted teeth, “I don’t like you to see me like this.  I’m not helpless.  I don’t need a babysitter.  If your leg wasn’t screwed, I’m sure you would just run away…”

In his delirium, he spoke the quiet part out loud to her, and cringed as he did so.  He bit his lip, trying to stop the verbal diarrhea from slipping from his mouth.  He had already said enough.

“I didn’t mean…”