******TRIGGER/CONTENT WARNING****** This chapter contains graphic, detailed descriptions of physical wounds, sickness, pain, blood, and medical care. This chapter is especially graphic, read at your own risk.

The ride back to the farm took a little more than an hour for the two men, due to Castiel's horse tiring out. He tried his best to urge the normally docile animal faster throughout the ride, but there was only so much Dan could take before his gallop slowed, increasing their time away from Dean. Frustration and worry welling in him, Castiel didn't think or bother to bring his horse to a stall for water, and instead hastily tied him to the porch, rushing into the house with the doctor not far behind.

"Dean?" He called, despite the likely chance the farmer couldn't hear him as his feet automatically guided him to the back room. "Dean, I've got the doct-" He continued, words dying in his throat as his eyes fell upon Dean's pale, limp form on the bed, blue lips drawing rapid, shallow breath.

The doctor was right behind Castiel when his words halted, and instantly he knew what was wrong with the suffering man on the bed. "He's going into shock." He said quickly, walking forward to feel for a pulse. "I need you to hold his feet up off the bed, don't let them drop."

It took a moment, but soon Castiel found himself moving forward, following the order in a hazy, shocked state of his own as he grabbed for Dean's boots to hold them up off the blankets.

"What's his name?" The doctor asked, opening Dean's mouth to check for any vomit or saliva that may have been choking him.

Castiel watched helplessly as the doctor, whom he didn't even have a name for yet, worked. "Dean." He replied, the farmer's name almost breaking when it came from his lips.

The doctor nodded and began to remove the tourniquets banded around Dean's shoulder, discarding the bloody rags to the side as he began cutting away the farmer's shirt. "Dean, I need you to focus on my voice." He commanded, taking Dean's good arm out of one of the shirt sleeves before he moved to the other side, not daring to attempt to move the damaged arm. "Breath slowly and deeply." He continued, cutting away the sleeve near the farmer's wound to leave only a small, ripped patch over the torn, bleeding flesh.

Castiel watched in horror as the doctor finished cutting away Dean's shirt, leaving his pale chest bare save for the ripped material still covering the wound. Watching worriedly, he soon had to turn to avoid being sick as the shirt was peeled away from the puncture site, taking with it stringy clots of blood and what he could only assume were bits of muscle.

Dean moaned softly at the pain, still drifting on the fine line between being awake and unconscious, still confused about what was happening. However, he was just coherent enough to follow the unknown man's orders, breathing slowly and deeply, despite the way the action hurt his shoulder. Soon, he gained a handle on his surroundings, his heart beginning to pick up pace as he blearily looked around to see Castiel at the foot of his bed, looking helpless.

"Good, he's comin' back around." The doctor said, discarding the last bit of blood-sticky shirt off to the side. "You can rest his legs back down."

Castiel did as he was told once again, standing awkwardly and helplessly as he awaited another order from the doctor, who was currently uncapping a flask.

"You said it was a tree branch he fell on?"

Castiel nodded, watching carefully as the man leaned forward for a closer look at the torn flesh.

"There's bits of bark in there that have to come out before I can go any further. I can flush most of 'em out with the whiskey," the doctor explained, gesturing to the flask in hand, "but some are stuck right in the muscle, I'm gonna have to pluck 'em out."

Paling, Castiel swallowed the rising bile in his throat. "There's nothin' you can do to help with the pain?"

The doctor shook his head gravely. "I'm afraid not. You'll have 'ta come over here and hold him down. Put one hand on his good shoulder, and one on his chest. Don't worry about pressin' too hard, he hasn't broken anything else."

Castiel felt himself pale at the phrase 'hold him down', but followed the instructions, pressing Dean tightly onto the bed.

"Wait, no, don't-" Dean began to protest as the doctor tipped the flask, not having much time for any sort of slurred denial of what was happening before a scream ripped from his chest, the liquid sliding over and through the wound on his shoulder, causing pain to flood his every sense.

Castiel felt panicked tears sting at the back of his eyes at the scream and held Dean's writhing, surprisingly strong form still as he could on the bed, although he wished he could run out of the room and never return to the nightmare.

"Now, don't worry if he passes out in these next couple of steps, it's natural with the amount of pain." The doctor reassured, retrieving tweezers from his bag.

"Is it a lot? The wood pieces?" Castiel found himself asking, still holding Dean down despite how limp he had gone, fatigued from the immense anguish he was going through.

Shaking his head, the life-saving man wiped at the instrument in hand with a dry cloth. "It's only about three pieces, from what I can see. After I remove 'em, which shouldn't take long, I'll reach in for a bit to figure the damage, and then cauterize off the bleeding."

Castiel nearly passed out at the mere description of the procedure but nodded, adjusting his grip on Dean before the doctor began to remove the bits of wood.

Again, the farmer writhed in pain, back arching as much as it could from the bed during the thankfully quick process. However, before he had time to relax from the large splinters being pulled from his muscle, the doctor wet his fingers in whiskey and prodded into the puncture, feeling around for mere seconds in order to access the severity and breakage of cartilage and bone.

Cringing as Dean's scream sounded once more in the room, Castiel pressed back any emotion he may have and held his friend down to the bed with so much force he was sure there would be bruises left on the farmer's still pale skin.

Then, to his surprise, Dean fell still under his grip, gaze meeting his own as tears slipped from his green eyes.

"Cas..." Dean whimpered in a plea, too weak to do anything but lay on the bed in anguish, his vision swimming. "Please, make it stop." Then, without another word, he slipped back into the dark, unconscious.

Castiel felt tears finally well in his eyes at Dean's broken tone, at the easy nickname he hadn't used ever since their argument. But, as the doctor stood and wiped off his now bloody hand, he blinked away the emotion and straightened as well.

"I'll need something metal, heated up, it has to be small enough to fit in the wound so I can seal off the veins."

Castiel nodded numbly, turning to walk to the kitchen. He couldn't think, not now, he just had to keep going, keep functioning until everything was done. Then, and only then, could he rest. With this mindset, he started a large fire in the stove and began to hunt for anything to use for the cauterization process. It took a while to find something the right size, but soon Castiel pulled out a pan, the handle the perfect size to use. Wrapping a towel around the opposite end of the skillet, he placed the long handle into the fire roaring in the stove's belly, shoulders slumping under stress as he waited.

As he kneeled in front of the stove, Castiel looked down to the pan once more, recognition flooding his mind: it was pan he had used on his first morning at the farm, the pan he had scraped his failed pancakes from. Fresh tears springing to his eyes at the sudden memory, he watched for the telltale sign of redness in the handle and thought back.

Dean had been so kind, that first morning. Even with the cabin filling with smoke under the failure of his breakfast, he still had acted quickly and helped finish the meal preparation. At the time, Castiel remembered, he had been humiliated at his lack of skill and competence, and wanted nothing more than to run out and never come back as the farmer cleaned up his mess. However, in the short two weeks he had already spent getting to know Dean, Castiel now was grateful for the help, realizing his employer was a good, kind man, and would never mock him or humiliate him, and was only truly trying to help.

Which, Castiel thought as he removed the now glowing metal, was why this was all so unfair. Dean didn't deserve any of this. Pressing back his now present sadness, the blue eyed man re-entered the room, the iron tainted scent of blood hitting him.

"This'll be a quick process, now that he's passed out." The doctor explained, relieving Castiel of the small skillet. "I need to get his back first, so I need you to roll him over on his side and hold him like that for a minute."

Castiel found himself nodding once more and made his way over to Dean, turning him over gently to rest on his good shoulder.

"Don't let go, no matter how much ya want to." The doctor warned, bringing the pan close to the entrance of the injury. "I don't want to have him burnt further than necessary."

Castiel could do nothing, it seemed, but nod, all words gone from his lips as the doctor began the process, pressing the searing handle against Dean's flesh.

It sounded, in short, like chicken fat frying away over a stove, popping with high pitched searing sounds. However, despite the familiar sound, nothing could have prepared Castiel for the smell. Instantly filling the room and invading his olfactory senses, he could almost taste the horrifyingly sweet aroma. At first, it reminded him closely of badly burnt beef, which, for a split second, wasn't as terrible as he would have imagined. But then, instantaneously, the smell was permeated by a sickly sweet odor, one that could only be described as the scent of burning iron, sugar, and charcoal.

Tongue flying to the roof of his mouth to suppress a gag that surely would have caused him to be sick, Castiel turned his gaze away and focused on the wall until the doctor told him he could set Dean down. Complying, he gently laid his friend back to rest against the bed, the doctor wasting no time as he set the still-hot metal against the front of the farmer's wound. Stronger this time, more potent, the smell returned, and after everything he had endured that day, Castiel couldn't hold back any longer. Turning as a wave of sickness washed over him, the blue-eyed man was barely able to stumble over to the wash basin before he vomited, emptying the contents of his stomach in shuddering wretches as the horrendous smell continued to overcome him.

He didn't know how long he was kneeling on the ground for, head resting against the wall as he caught his breath, but soon Castiel felt a strong hand close around his arm, tugging him up gently to lead him from the room.

He followed without a word, and in a haze brought on by dehydration, shock, and sickness, sat in one of the kitchen chairs, vaguely registering it was Dean's.

The doctor rummaged around in the kitchen for a moment, unnoticed to Castiel even as he exited out the back door for a moment. "Sip this." He instructed gently once he returned, setting a full glass of water in front of the blue-eyed man.

Castiel, as he had done all day, complied and drank a bit of the water, looking up to the now doctor, who sat across from him. "How is he?" He found himself asking without much forethought.

The doctor looked towards the back of the house in thought for a moment before answering. "He's alive, and pretty stable for what he's been through. I've got him bandaged and cleaned up as best I can."

Castiel found his stomach sinking and became alert one more. "What's the damage like?"

"From what I felt, the branch pretty much destroyed the joint connecting his shoulder and arm, along with the ligament that allows him to lift his arm." Looking to Castiel in order to ensure he was getting the information, the doctor folded his hands in his lap solemnly. "The only thing holding his arm to his side is skin and a very small amount of muscle."

Sucking in a sharp breath, Castiel felt his hand fly to his mouth as he tried, subconsciously, to conceal his emotion. "Oh god..." He murmured, swallowing around his dry throat. "Will he get better?"

"I'll do everything I can to help him heal," the doctor answered, "but I don't think he'll be able to use much of that arm anymore."

Castiel nodded, letting the information sink in as he took another larger drink of the water he had been provided. He would work with that, just as long as Dean was alive and healthy. It seemed, at the moment, it was all he could think about, all he could hold onto in order to keep going. He would be there for Dean, he decided, would help him, would keep the farm running until he was better. He would provide Dean with the same kind care he had needed previously, he would repay every kindness the farmer had given him, he would give his friend everything he deserved.

Looking back up, Castiel studied the doctor for a moment, realizing he hadn't even asked the man his name. Wiping his slightly bloody hand on his half-buttoned shirt, he extended it to shake. "I didn't even get a name for you." He said apologetically.

The doctor smiled ever so slightly, understanding flooding his kind eyes as he shook Castiel's hand firmly. "Bobby. Bobby Singer."