[That is, in fact, what is giving Dean a bit of pause too; he's more than skilled enough with simple cleaning and wrapping that he knows to trust his gut instinct when it tells him something is wrong, or that what he's doing hasn't been enough. He's not entirely sure how much time has passed, not really, but some of the cuts have dried up and clotted over like they're supposed to. Others...
Dean glances up at Stiles when he comes in, just his eyes flicking up, and then back down to his efforts. The hunter is holding gauze against the deeper end of the long, curling cut, watching it slowly bleed through just above the inside of his elbow. His lips are pressed together too as he works to puzzle it out.]
S'okay. Dirty knives, probably. [He glances over to a set of drawers along the opposite wall from his bed, some of the only ones to survive his last bout of temper; he is very careful not to otherwise move.] Holy water, second drawer. Bring it here.
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Dean glances up at Stiles when he comes in, just his eyes flicking up, and then back down to his efforts. The hunter is holding gauze against the deeper end of the long, curling cut, watching it slowly bleed through just above the inside of his elbow. His lips are pressed together too as he works to puzzle it out.]
S'okay. Dirty knives, probably. [He glances over to a set of drawers along the opposite wall from his bed, some of the only ones to survive his last bout of temper; he is very careful not to otherwise move.] Holy water, second drawer. Bring it here.