A/N: These are a series of One Shots written and posted separately by the individuals of The Objectifying Dean Team as ffnet doesn't allow joint posts. Check out entries from lostatc, Bird2K, DeansBabyBird and Katricrush.

Unconscious, by Bird2K

It's a glorious autumn day and, despite the slight mist, the air feels fresh and cool in your straining lungs as you jog through the woods. You can feel your heart thumping, pumping the blood around your body in time to the rhythmic pounding of your feet. Your iPod is set on shuffle and you grin in pleasure as the distinctive intro to 'Kashmir' plays. As you lightly jump over a log in your path, the beat of your heart and the music and your feet fall into sync and you feel good. You feel alive.

It is early morning and the few animals that stick around for the colder months are just emerging, snuffling through the thick layer of fallen leaves. A darting movement at the periphery of your vision catches your eye and your gaze flicks to the side. You don't see any further movement but instead glimpse a flash of blue, out of place among the brown and gold and red of the leafy carpet. You slow your pace and cautiously approach, pulling the iPod's buds from your ears.

As you get closer you can see the prone body of a man. Your gaze flits briefly over his still form, trying to work out why he is here and what happened. Finally you allow your eyes to rest on his face and, even beneath the smears of blood and dirt, you can see that he is a very handsome man. Full lips and long lashes, high cheekbones and a straight nose. He is almost pretty and you have a sudden urge to wipe away the grime to see if there are freckles underneath.

Shaking your head at such a random thought, you attempt to pull yourself together. This man is unconscious and clearly injured, and at no point in your first aid training was 'take the time to daydream,' ever mentioned.

You call out a soft, "Hey."

And then, slightly louder, "Hey. Are you alright?"

But there is no response.

You move even closer, dropping to your knees on the soft, damp ground and tentatively reach a hand toward his neck to feel for a pulse. You are surprised by the intensity of relief that hits you when you find one. Withdrawing your hand slowly, your fingers caress his strong jaw line and you tell yourself you're just checking his temperature. After all, he could have been lying here all night. But his skin is warm and you enjoy the light scratch of stubble under your palm.

Somewhat reluctantly, you remove your hand to place it on your lap as you look more carefully over his body for obvious injuries. His leather jacket is open and beneath it he's wearing a button-down shirt over a t-shirt, and both are cut and torn, bloody gashes visible through the holes. The wounds are still seeping slightly, further indication that he hasn't been here all that long. Because you can't assess his injuries with the clothing in the way, you pull at the holes in his shirts to rip them a little further, granting you a better look at the wounds beneath. Your hands move lightly, delicately, across his broad, firm chest as your fingers press just enough to feel the muscles and bones of his ribs under his smooth skin. You examine each of his ribs, gently following along the smooth curve of his ribcage, but nothing feels cracked or broken.

Your hands move higher, intending to examine his neck and head but you find it difficult to focus on the task at hand and you suddenly realize your hands have paused in midair and you're watching him. Shaking your head, you mentally berate yourself for losing your focus when someone is so helpless.

His head and neck seem unhurt, so you finally pull your hands back into your lap again, away from temptation, and continue your assessment visually. Relatively satisfied that the cuts on his chest are superficial, you turn your attention to the lower half of his body. Your eyes skim over his narrow hips and carry on down to his thighs. The denim here is also shredded, but as you peer more closely at the cuts beneath the material, you notice that they, too, seem shallow and already they've stopped bleeding. The skin of his thighs, the parts visible through the extensive rips in his jeans, is pale where the blood hasn't stained, as if it's never seen the sun. Taking in the leather jacket and biker boots, you would bet this man, whoever he is, doesn't do shorts, preferring to sweat like a real man in his jeans.

You are pulled from your internal debate over whether or not you can trust yourself enough to actually touch his thighs for an examination, by a low groan and your gaze is instantly drawn to his face. His eyes are moving beneath the delicate skin of his lids and, as you watch, the long lashes flutter slightly, as his lips twitch and part with a sigh. You lean over him, hand resting lightly over his heart so you feel, as well as hear, the second groan as it rumbles up through his chest. He mutters something, you can't be sure, but it sounds like "Sammy," and his hands come up, brushing against yours.

At that brief contact, a frown mars his brow and then his hands are moving, up along your arms to your shoulders, dislodging your earphones so they fall next to him unnoticed, as he reaches for you. His hands are gently testing and stroking, questing as they investigate you through touch alone, and you can feel the strength within them being held in check as his fingers do their job. Suddenly, his eyes fly open and you're caught, frozen, mesmerized. His pupils are blown wide but a clear ring of the brightest green you've ever seen surrounds them.

"You're not Sammy."

His voice is low, husky, and that one, simple statement is loaded with so much. He tenses, but then something else seems to grab his attention and he turns his head slightly to the side, towards your forgotten ear buds. You realize the song, though tinny from this distance, is unmistakably "Stairway To Heaven."

Gradually he relaxes, a smile spreading across his face as his eyes flutter closed again. His lips part and you lean further forward, just in time to hear him mutter, "Zepplin rules."

And then he is still once more, breathing even and his face peaceful.