Dean, Sam, and an old family friend from their childhood, Katie, are all in the middle of a hunt when a snowstorm hits. Things don't always go as planned. Katie get hurt, and it's up to Dean to nurse her back to health. Caring!Dean.

"I'm going outside," Katie said out loud.

"No you're not," Dean said. "We don't know what's out there."

"I wasn't asking," she said as she snatched her coat from the of the chair and stormed outside. She just needed some fresh air. They had all been cooped up in that tiny motel room for way too long. The looming threat of snow was the only reason Sam had risked venturing out. They needed food and supplies to wait out the storm, and she'd been jealous that he got to be the one to do it.

She was doing laps in the tiny wooded area near the motel parking lot, thinking about everything they had been through the past few weeks. She had always hunted alone; always been alone since the death of her father. She could related to the Winchester boys on that level-but she thought how nice it was, even if Dean did drive her mad, not to be alone. While having partners in crime took some getting used to, she wasn't ready for this case to be over or to say goodbye.

It really was cold out.

Dean was inside the motel room when he heard her scream. It's thin walls did very little to drown out the sharp cry. He was out the door in seconds.

He saw her, on the ground bent over and clutching the side of her leg. He held his gun raised, holy water poised in the other as he ran to her side.

"What was it? Which way did it go?" he asked.

"Dean."

"What? Did you see it?"

"Dean," she said through clenched teeth. "There isn't anything."

"What? What happened?"

"I fell. Patch of ice," she said gesturing to the frozen ground beneath them. "I think I landed on something sharp."

There was blood-and a lot of it-coming through the long tear in the side of her jeans. She was already putting as much pressure as she could on it, but it hurt.

"Let me take a look," Dean said carefully examining the wound. He couldn't see much in the dark, but he did she what broke her fall-a long, round, rusty piece of metal partially embedded in the frozen earth. "We need to get you inside. Do you think you can stand?"

"Yeah," she said, though she was struggling to get up.

He swiftly draped her arm around his neck and hoisted her up. Her grimace didn't go unnoticed. Dean knew she was tough; her dad had trained her well, and she had seen a lot. He also knew from the time they were little kids she hated to seem weak or inferior in front of the Winchester boys.

The sharp metal had sliced through her outer thigh. The cut was long, deep in the center, and still bleeding steadily.

She had patched herself up plenty of times before, but the sight of her own blood still made her queasy. She was on the bed unsuccessfully trying to peel her jeans down past the wound when Dean approached with scissors.

"I think we're going to have to cut them off."

"We're cutting them off?" she said, emphasizing his assumed we.

Her sass was a good sign she was hanging in there, he noted.

"Well this isn't normally what I picture before I'm about to get the pants off a girl, but-"

"Dean," she cut him off.

"What," he said with that Dean smile that was impossible to stay mad at. "I'm just trying to lighten the mood," he said with a grin before turning serious. "This next part is going to suck."

He was four stitches in, and still had five to go, he estimated. She was sweating, and her face was scrunched in pain, but he had to hand it to her, she was tough. He knew from experience how hard it was to stay still while someone drove a needle in and out of your wounded body. When he had cleaned out the wound with a generous pour of alcohol, a deep guttural noise had emerged from her lips, but during the stitches she was quiet, her eyes squeezed tightly together.

When he tied off the last stitch, she exhaled. He grabbed a clean bandage and taped it over the wound on her upper leg.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, knowing she was in pain, but trying to ascertain just how much.

"Okay," she said through gritted teeth. "Thanks for that."

"Of course." He could have made a joke about how they had avoided demons and monsters of several kinds over the course of the past week, and yet a patch of ice had taken her down, but decided against it.

She was still sweating, but shivering. He went to his bag, and pour out several painkillers into his palm. He filled a glass with water, and brought it to her.

"Take these, then we have to get you warm. Do you have more clothes?"

She didn't move to respond, only glanced painfully at the blood-stained heap formerly known as her jeans.

"Hmm," he said going over to his duffle and rummaging around. She laid on the bed with her eyes closed, her eyebrows knit together at the lingering pain.

"Here," he said, tossing a pair of deep green sweatpants on the bed. "They're mine so they'll be big and loose, won't tug on the bandage or your stitches," he said. "They're really warm too," he added.

"Thanks," she said carefully sitting up on the bed and pulling them toward her. He was right, they were soft.

She didn't move.

"Dean," she said, her voice small. "Do you think you could help me put them on?"

"Of course," he said as he walked to the edge of the bed where she was sitting and kneeled down.

She went to stand, using his shoulders for support. "Easy now," he said gently, "it's a little soon to be popping those beautiful stitches."

She smiled, and leaned on him as he gently lifted and guided each foot in to each pant leg before slowly pulling the pants up carefully around her injury, and to her waist.

They were enormous on her tiny frame, but she looked good, he thought to himself. He liked the sight of her in his clothes.

He helped her lay back down and pulled the covers up around her. The pain medication he had given her was taking effect. Her face was more relaxed, and her eyes were having a hard time staying open.

He settled into the chair next to her bed, ready to keep an eye on her throughout the night.