[Thank god he feigns confidence well, because Terry has only the barest idea what he's doing. There's a lot of things he'd like to do before this, like maybe study more medicine than a first aid course and a youtube video, but he's just gonna have to settle for pushing as much hair out of his face as he can and cleaning his hands with an alcohol wipe.]
How about you don't bleed out in my bed and I'll buy you a bottle tomorrow to celebrate?
[Right. Okay. This is fine. Terry chews his lip in concentration; first he uncaps the water and pours a little bit over the wounds, dabbing it with the towel to clear off enough blood and misc so he can actually see what's going on. Which is awful. It's awful. But mostly he just needs to see which one is biggest before he leans over and gets to work. He doesn't have any of the fancy tools that go with the sutures, but needle and thread in one hand and — ugh — pinching the wound closed with the other, that'll do it. It's like sewing a patch to his jacket. A very fleshy patch to a jacket that is also made of flesh.]
Gee, I'll do my absolute best, despite the war wound I'm sporting.
[ Just think of it that way, Terry. Dump some rubbing alcohol on it and treat it like you're mending a hole in your pants.
Dean grunts when it's pinched together, trying not to flinch away cause it friggin' hurts. A few deep breathes and he closes his eyes and grits his teeth. Go on then. ]
[There's a strong temptation to slow down when Dean flinches, but intellectually Terry knows that'll only make this whole thing hurt more. So he forges on. Careful not to rush, doing his best not to linger or drag on. He deserves a prize honestly.]
[He's not doing too bad. Like this is deeply uncomfortable and it sucks and certainly cements the fact that he would never survive in medicine, but otherwise it's not too hard to get a rhythm going if he trusts his hands not to fuck this up.]
[That said, what Dean says absolutely makes him pause for a second there.]
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How about you don't bleed out in my bed and I'll buy you a bottle tomorrow to celebrate?
[Right. Okay. This is fine. Terry chews his lip in concentration; first he uncaps the water and pours a little bit over the wounds, dabbing it with the towel to clear off enough blood and misc so he can actually see what's going on. Which is awful. It's awful. But mostly he just needs to see which one is biggest before he leans over and gets to work. He doesn't have any of the fancy tools that go with the sutures, but needle and thread in one hand and — ugh — pinching the wound closed with the other, that'll do it. It's like sewing a patch to his jacket. A very fleshy patch to a jacket that is also made of flesh.]
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[ Just think of it that way, Terry. Dump some rubbing alcohol on it and treat it like you're mending a hole in your pants.
Dean grunts when it's pinched together, trying not to flinch away cause it friggin' hurts. A few deep breathes and he closes his eyes and grits his teeth. Go on then. ]
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What did this to you anyway?
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[ You got this, kiddo. ]
A friggin' wendigo got a good slash in on me.
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[That said, what Dean says absolutely makes him pause for a second there.]
A wendigo.
[Dean you goober, those aren't real.]
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Yeah. Nasty bitches.
[ He’s deadass serious. ]
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[You know what let's just focus on this sewing, that's fine. Wendigos are a thing now.]
Okay.
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…no. You didn’t know they exist?
[ terry ur a demon how do you not… ]
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[He sighs.]
And that's a whole thing to deal with.