"Patched up.."

Patched Up: Sam.W

He worked while sitting at the dining table. All the supplies he needed were laid out in front of him.

Sam's hands were steady while trying to stitch the cut on his side, but it was at an angle difficult for him to reach. From your spot on the couch, you could hear him when he sucked in pained breaths every now and then.

He said he could do it himself, and you believed him. But the longer you surreptitiously watched him, the more you were unwilling to just sit there and do nothing.

He glanced up at you when you came over and rested a soft hand on his knee. He offered you something of a smile, just a bit strained.

"Can I help?" you asked.

"I've got it," he assured. You bit your lip, glancing at the blood dripping down his skin.

"You're about to stain the hardwood floor," you tried teasing. His lips twitched at a better smile. You implored, "Please?"

When you pulled those eyes on him, it wasn't often that Sam could say no to you. You were so sincere about it, not joking or playfully ribbing at him like usual (or like Dean would). So he relented, handing you the needle and thread.

He watched you focus yourself and continue what he started,l. All the while, Sam tried not to stare at you too much. It was an oddly intimate thing, having you so close, touching his skin, even if it was for a purely clinical purpose.

Maybe it was because he knew you cared. You knew he'd gotten hurt and slashed a thousand times before, and would again. But you cared. He saw it in the way you took pains to measure and pull each stitch—in a way he hadn't quite seen before outside of a hospital. It looked professional.

"Did you forget to tell us you're a trained nurse?" he asked, only half-teasing. You glanced up at him in amusement.

"High school Home EC," you replied. "You should see me with a crochet needle."

Sam huffed a short laugh, smiling in apology when you narrowed your eyes at him for disturbing the stitch. Soon enough you were finished, tying off the thread with a looping double knot.  

He steeled himself at the feeling of your hand lightly resting on his abdomen, while you leaned over to grab a damp paper towel. You cleaned the blood from his skin, then your own hands, and you sat back to look at the wound from all angles.

"Well, I'm no nurse, but I think it's okay," you said.

There you go, selling yourself short. Sam smiled, shaking his head.

"It's perfect, thanks."

You looked up at him, and that smile on your face brought a swell of affection rising in Sam's chest. But he could also swear he saw a blush staining your cheeks.

Sam couldn't help it. He reached out and brushed his thumb against your cheek. Your eyes widened, but you didn't pull away when he slowly leaned in. And he pressed a lingering kiss to your lips.

It momentarily short-circuited your brain. When he backed off a little to gouge your reaction, a silent question in his eyes, all you knew was that your lips were tingling and you wanted him to kiss you again.

So when he did, you had an answer ready for him.