show a little skin :: open

@qisms sent: ❀  - Asking your Muse to help put medical salve on a wound (on his back) / cain to heathcliff, i just think it would be funny for him to ask heathcliff of all people to help him with something that needs a delicate touch. for context, cain is a wizard but he can’t use healing magic well yet

"...what, me? Can't reach it yourself? Bloody hell. Spare me the sad puppy look. I'll take a gander." It's a clear conclusion that Heathcliff has no experience with healing magic. Or taking proper care of his wounds to begin with. Just taking the jar in his hands it almost seems out of place against the menagerie of scars across his fingers and up his arm. The werewolf bit came later, since then anyway things have had a mite better time patching themselves up.

...this made him all the more reckless. Leading to scenarios like this, perhaps. Where people around him think they oughta be right gits and help out in a fight. Well, stop it in Cain's case. Some sorta weird pacifist it felt like. Heathcliff may actually feel the spark of ... guilt, here? Rubbish. This sad sop does need the help, though.

"Make weird noises and I'll club you quiet, yeah? Give you a real spot to whinge about. Uoh." Having pulled away the ripped coat and lifted the stained shirt, Heathcliff is taken aback by the sight. Maybe a little deeper than a scratch, yeah. "Props to ya for handling this like a legend. Ah, take it this way. Might leave a nice little decoration for your canvas back here. Aight. Hold still. Wager this goop'll sting." Taking a small scoop in his fingers, he presses it in. Brows narrowing as he awkwardly dabs the unguent where it would work its little spell or what all.

Rubbing his digits together after, he wipes the last bit off on his pants, then after dropping the shirt, smacks the spot he just treated on Cain with nary a care.

~8-4-2024~

“What are you doing?”

Sam looked up at Dean across the motel room. He took his thumb out of his mouth to answer, “Huh? Just researching.” He gestured at the pile of books to his right and at the laptop in front of him.

“No, not that. That.” Dean pointed at Sam’s mouth.

“Hmm?” Sam took his thumb out again and looked at it. “Oh, my thumb? I got a splinter. I haven’t gotten around to dealing with it yet.” He shrugged and resisted putting it back in his mouth.

Dean tsked and got up. “I’ll be right back.”

Sam went back to his reading and, engrossed, he was startled when Dean gently pulled at his hand, which had made its way back to his mouth. Dean dragged a chair close and slid the lamp over so he could examine Sam’s thumb in the light.

“I see it.” Then, with surgical precision, he pinched with the tweezers and held up a tiny splinter before exclaiming, “Hah!”

But instead of letting Sam’s hand go, he lifted it, looked intently at a small bead of blood, and after a pause, he brought Sam’s thumb to his own mouth. Sam watched, astonished, as Dean parted his lips and placed Sam’s thumb on his tongue. Then Dean closed his mouth and sucked.

“Uuurgh,” Sam uttered. He felt Dean’s tongue twirl around the tip, over the pad where the splinter had been and around the nail bed. Dean proceeded to explore the entire top joint with his tongue, pursing his full lips and licking around the knuckle.

Too soon, Dean removed Sam’s digit from his mouth with a soft pop. He cleared his throat and said, “There. All better.” Then he picked up the tweezers and the first aid kit from the Impala and left the room quickly.