A pained groan escaped Dean’s lips, mingling with snide remarks and endless refusals of help.

“Considering you’re receiving the finest medical attention in all of England, without being quizzed by doctors and policemen, I’d suggest you allow my friend to do his job, hm?”

“Yeah, maybe not while that thing is getting away!” It was of no use. Just like every other time he’d challenged Sherlock’s judgement, that arrogant prick had blocked out his sound before he could finish giving his opinion. Each was too cocky for his own good, and once the two were placed in a room together, it was war.

John was there, as always, to smooth things out. Between stitches on Dean’s leg, he tried to reassure the hunter. “Well, I wouldn’t call myself England’s finest. But you’re not going to accomplish anything by bleeding on it,” the doctor laughed.

The first smirk of the week formed on Dean’s features. “‘Tis only a flesh wound.”

They shared a small laugh at this. Then John took a look about, noting the angel’s puzzled expression and the detective’s failure to register the reference. When he returned his gaze to Dean, he was met with a nervous look.

“Jesus, you too?”

[whoops i didn’t really explain anything did i]