The universe could be really screwy sometimes. In fact, there were times it went out of its way to kick you in the ass.
That was the only explanation Jo had for why Dean Winchester was currently sprawled out on her sofa. Because, really, it made no sense to her, and she'd been trying to wrap her brain around it all night.
She hadn't seen either Winchester brother in years, and then out of nowhere Sam had shown up the night before, dragging a bleeding Dean next to him. She'd gotten a 'too hurt for me to take care of right now' and a 'don't take him to a hospital, too many questions' and he was out the door again, needing to finish whatever hunt they'd been on when Dean was injured.
Honestly, Jo was pissed. She'd stitched Dean up that one time and now she was their go to nursemaid? It wasn't like she had any formal medical training that even qualified her for the position. She'd just done a lot of research on her own and gotten a lot of practice in the field. That didn't make her Florence Nightingale.
But she'd stitched him up again, given him painkillers and antibiotics, and had spent the entire night getting up once an hour to monitor his fever.
She was tired, hungry, scared to look in a mirror, and she was definitely cranky.
Because Dean Winchester? Was a shitty patient. He was argumentative and irritable, morose and glowering, and a whole bunch of other things that meant 'asshole to the person taking care of him'.
She made coffee, watching the sun rise weakly through the thinning clouds outside, and tried to decide if it would be worth it to throw some in Dean's face. Sure it would amuse her after her sleepless night, but it would also make a mess. And maybe she still felt the tiniest bit of sympathy for the guy. He had been stabbed the night before, after all.
Looking at the clock she realized it was that time again. She grabbed the thermometer and headed to the living room, bare feet cushioned by the soft carpet. Dean was lying where she'd left him, one arm thrown over his eyes to block out the light, mouth hanging open, and she gave him credit for not drooling on her pillow.
"Dean. Dean, wake up. I need to take your temperature again, Dean. Come on." She poked his uninjured side lightly with her toe, watching him yawn himself awake.
"You know, I'm getting real sick of you sticking that thing in my face," he said without opening his eyes. She tipped her head to the side.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Would you like me to stick it someplace else? 'Cause I've got a few ideas." Dean snatched the thermometer from her and jabbed it under his tongue, opening his eyes to glare.
"'appy 'ow?" he asked.
"Keep your mouth shut," was all she said as she took his wrist to check his pulse. It was strong and steady, and a glance at the thermometer after it beeped assured her that his fever was gone and he was well on his way to recovery.
"Congratulations, Dean. You've survived being gravely injured, as usual, and now you can run along and annoy someone else. As usual." Jo grabbed the last remnants of her first aid kit and carried everything back to the bathroom while Dean hoisted himself off the couch, grumbling all the way. He was standing in the doorway, blocking her exit by the time she'd put everything back where it belonged.
"You gonna let me take a shower at least?" She wrinkled her nose.
"That would probably be a good idea." She reached blindly into the linen cabinet and tossed him a towel. "Hang it up when you're done, and if you touch my razor I'll use it to shave you bald."
She left him alone to go start scrambling eggs for breakfast. If she was going to have to operate on barely any sleep she was at least going to start the day right with the kind of breakfast her mom used to make. Dean could have some too, if he didn't use up all the hot water.