Dean heard her voice before he saw her face.
"Look, I realize he's your nephew, but I don't think he's interested in rehabilitation. You asked for my considered opinion, and now you have it." A British accent, if Dean was any judge. "Don't worry, I'll handle the clean-up. Just… look, get him to take it. Or I won't be the one sent out to retrieve him next time."
She was just steps away now, and charging forward like she was planning to walk right over him. A light flared in front of her, like some kind of high-beam flashlight, and she let out an audible gasp.
"What on earth!? How…"
In an instant she was at his side, examining his pitiful attempt at bandaging himself. He could hardly see her in the glaring light, but on the off chance she was just a civilian, Dean seized on the nearest cover story.
"Can you help me?" he said, in a weak, gravelly voice he didn't have to fake. "There was this big dog, I think it was wild…" Dean trailed off, breath coming in short pants, now that he was forced to make use of it for speech.
"Just… just hold still," the woman said. The hesitation in her voice came off a bit odd, like she didn't quite believe him, or like she was expecting something else. "I've got a friend nearby, we can get you to hospital…"
Just as swiftly as she'd approached, she shot to her feet and marched away, until she was at the edge of the clearing, taking the light with her. In silhouette, Dean saw her pull out a rectangular device that didn't quite look like a cell phone, and speak into it.
"Harry. Harry... yes, I'm… we have a situation. He's awake… Yes, I did, of course I did… Look just… I need you on site. Now, please?" And with that, she shoved the object in her pocket and marched back over to him, to sink down by his side once more.
"My friend is on his way, he'll know what to do. He's a...a doctor." She fell silent for a moment, and she fidgeted with the hem of one of the wide sleeves on what looked like a rather long coat. "He won't be a moment, he's not far away."
Dean was about to ask her...well, something, but he was distracted by a loud noise, like a large branch breaking off a tree. Her head shot up, and she looked expectantly towards the sound. Another figure was making his way across the clearing at a jog, from the direction of the woods.
"What seems to be the trouble?" His tenor voice, also British, sounded clear and rather young. If this guy had finished medical school, it'd been less than a year ago, Dean would put money on it.
"He's hurt. He says he thought it was a wild dog," she replied, in a meaningful tone. It was almost like when he and Sammy did, when they were undercover, or dealing with their dad. The words were the literal truth, but they were weighted with some irony or double meaning Dean wasn't privy to.
"You tied off the wound, that's good," this guy—Harry, Dean supposed—told him directly. "Do you feel like you can stand, or should we take a look at it here?"
" 'S pretty big," Dean told him, slurring slightly, although he tried not to. "Lookin' here's prob'ly better."
"Alright," the guy said, nodding once. With deft hands Dean couldn't quite track, Harry untied the knot he'd just jury-rigged for himself, and turned a critical eye on the wound underneath. "It's stopped bleeding, at least," he muttered, half to himself. "I'm going to touch it, if that's okay," he said, more directly this time, and Dean gave a curt nod.
Dean felt cool fingers prodding a tender spot on his stomach that was much smaller than he remembered when he'd tied the bandage. "You're very lucky," the guy said as he covered the wound back up, and tied the shirt back in place, much more firmly than Dean had been able to. "This could have been much worse."
There was something in the guy's tone that hinted at much more than what he actually said. It was enough to get Dean's hackles up.
"So, doc," he half joked, "do you think I'll live?"
"I can say that, yes, with all confidence," he replied with a wry, lopsided grin. "It might scar a bit, but that's to be expected with...scratches like this."
"Is that what you call it?" Dean challenged, half-jokingly again, but with an edge to his voice. The memory of putting his hand on his...his viscera had been fading since these two had shown up, but he couldn't believe that what he'd felt, even when he bandaged it, could realistically be called 'a scratch.'
"I think you'll find that it's really not as bad as you may have thought," the man replied smoothly. "I would give yourself a week to ten days before you attempt anything too strenuous, however. You have time you can take off, from your occupation, to recuperate?"
Dean gave another curt nod, letting the exhaustion of the evening sweep over him, as though this was an unusual and distressing ordeal. When they give out Oscars, someone'd better sign me up, he thought with a suppressed smirk.
The two of them helped Dean up then into a sitting position, and when Harry had ascertained that he could, in fact, sit up unassisted, he and the woman had carefully hoisted Dean to his feet. The pain Dean had been expecting didn't show up at all. Now it was more like he was dazed from a fall, not physically drained from blood loss.
They walked him back to his motel, steadying him on the uneven sidewalk as they went. Dean said nothing until they reached his doorstep, where he mumbled his thanks and a promise to have it looked at tomorrow at the urgent care place down the road. He closed the door on the two of them and fell into bed, where he passed out before he even heard them walk away.