Ron hadn't gone using that bowie on him, which was a huge bonus in Dean's book. He relaxed just a little, focusing on Ron's voice and using it as an anchor to keep him grounded and conscious. It'd probably be all too easy to gray out but while he could now trust Ron not to go stabbing him, that didn't mean he was comfortable with a guy undressing him while he was knocked out either, Samaritan or not. Soon enough his first layer of clothes was in tatters, the red and white plaid shirt peeled off and then joined by the gray one he'd been wearing, leaving the hunter sitting bare-chested.
He didn't notice yet that he was missing the amulet that he always wore around his neck.
Dean's skin was still cold, the color drained away from whatever that bitch had done to him and beads of icy water still clinging to his back and chest. He glanced blearily at the remains of his shirt, not looking forward to the part where his jeans would be the next to go. Dean attempted to undo his belt buckle, but his fingers were stiff and numb, he could only pry at the buckle without much success, fumbling with the metal. He cursed whoever thought up belt buckles and made them so damn hard to deal with.
"Thanks, pal," he mumbled. "Gotta get th' rest. Towel-dry."
He forgot they weren't near any towels, instead just resorting back to what he'd pulled from what Dad drilled into his head about this, as if he was reciting something. Dean's head hung low as he rested his elbows on the knees of his jeans. He still didn't know who Ron was or where he was from, but he seemed to be pretty solid proof that not all civvies were soft, squeamish people who had no head under pressure. Ron's hand had been surprisingly careful as he wielded the big bowie, and while Dean vaguely registered the blade touching his skin, he hadn't actually been cut. The cuts that'd reopened from trying to fight that girl in the rec field were still bleeding, but it'd slowed for the most part, the red stains on the bandages on his forehead and around his chest no longer growing. Supposed he should be thankful for that bit, at least. Ron seemed to be doing a pretty awesome job for a civilian, but he didn't want him falling apart at the sight of a lot of blood when he happened to be holding a big ass knife.
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He didn't notice yet that he was missing the amulet that he always wore around his neck.
Dean's skin was still cold, the color drained away from whatever that bitch had done to him and beads of icy water still clinging to his back and chest. He glanced blearily at the remains of his shirt, not looking forward to the part where his jeans would be the next to go. Dean attempted to undo his belt buckle, but his fingers were stiff and numb, he could only pry at the buckle without much success, fumbling with the metal. He cursed whoever thought up belt buckles and made them so damn hard to deal with.
"Thanks, pal," he mumbled. "Gotta get th' rest. Towel-dry."
He forgot they weren't near any towels, instead just resorting back to what he'd pulled from what Dad drilled into his head about this, as if he was reciting something. Dean's head hung low as he rested his elbows on the knees of his jeans. He still didn't know who Ron was or where he was from, but he seemed to be pretty solid proof that not all civvies were soft, squeamish people who had no head under pressure. Ron's hand had been surprisingly careful as he wielded the big bowie, and while Dean vaguely registered the blade touching his skin, he hadn't actually been cut. The cuts that'd reopened from trying to fight that girl in the rec field were still bleeding, but it'd slowed for the most part, the red stains on the bandages on his forehead and around his chest no longer growing. Supposed he should be thankful for that bit, at least. Ron seemed to be doing a pretty awesome job for a civilian, but he didn't want him falling apart at the sight of a lot of blood when he happened to be holding a big ass knife.