Author's note: I am not a medical expert of any kind, but even I know that some of the things I wrote were most definitely wrong, especially the order of treatment, but for the sake of the story I am sticking to it all.

Michael needed to really reconsider his logistics problem. If he put Dean on the bed, the hunter would bleed all over it as Michael dressed his wounds, but if he put him on the table, he would not only get a better access to his body, but a mess that would be easier to clean. Of course if he put him on the table and immobilized his leg, it might be a problem to move him later, because the wound might open up and then he would have the mess on the bed all over again.

The archangel signed.

This would be so much easier if he had access to his grace. He would simply swap his hand over Dean's body and heal him with only a strain of a thought.

But he chose to do this, and now he has to face all that it brought. The good and the bad. And sure, the hunter was heavy, but at the end of the day, he might just have saved his life and that... Well that should be rewarding all by itself, right?

There was of course no ulterior motive here. Not like he felt guilty over something or anything like that. No. It was simply a good deed. Something he could do, so he did. Simple as that.

Except there was nothing simple about dragging Dean a mile across the woods, trying to bring him up the porch stairs without knocking his head on every step and now up on the bed. In the end, Michael decided the bed would be the best option, if he simply put a tarp under him as he fixed him up.

Dragging Dean over to the bed, Michael took a moment to catch his breath and gather his strength, looking over the hunter. He was bit pale, but with a red blush, probably from the cold. Still it indicated his blood loss might not be too bad. His mouth was slightly ajar, his head lifted up and his neck exposed and it made him seem so vulnerable.

And to think that this man put a wrench in a 3 millennia old plan.

Michael took a deep breath, figuring how best to tackle this situation. Then he stepped over the hunter, his feet right next to the man's hips. He reached down, slid his hands underneath him, grabbing just under the shoulder blades to lift him up. His hands gripped the tight muscles there and he used all his vessel's strength to hoist him up, grunting and barely managing. He brought him up just enough to be able to set his upper body on the bed, but not having anticipated the hunter's weight to be that great, and not counting in the gravity and his own poor stance, as he deposited Dean on the bed, he almost came down on top of him.

Lucky for him, his vessel still had it's good reflexes, and Michael's hand snapped, landing right next to Dean's head, holding him just above the hunter's face. Surprised and caught in the moment, Michael froze. Dean stirred, just a bit, a moan of pain escaping his lips, his brows furrowing up for a moment before he relaxed again, falling deeper into the unconsciousness.

Being this up close, Michael couldn't help but notice the hunter had freckles. He had never noticed that before, and now that he had a moment to observe him, he couldn't help but think how he was still so young and how the life made him look old and tired. How all his troubles wore him down, but at the same time made him stronger. A thing to be admired.

Michael rose back up, then as gently and as carefully as he could lifted Dean's broken right leg first, then the other one too. He took a deep breath and walked around the bed, to take a better look at the broken bone. Dean had a few deep gashes over his chest, probably made by the werewolf's claws, and a few scrapes on his arms too, but nothing too serious. The broken bone was what worried Michael the most.

Choosing the best course of action, he brought some supplies from the kitchen pantry and two straight wooden planks with some rope from the shed. Knowing that working on the broken leg might wake the hunter, he chose to work on the deep gash on his chest that was still bleeding a bit before he would focus in the leg.

Michael managed to remove Dean's jacket and flannel button up shirt in one go, without much fuss, and then tore what remained of his Led Zeppelin shirt and undershirt, that were already torn from the werewolves claws. Michael's vessel was a bit more skinner and just a inch or two shorter, but his clothes will still fit the hunter after... He could dwell about it later. Right now he needed to clean the wound.

Looking over the man's bare torso Michael couldn't help but think how soft and smooth his chest looked. Not much of that manly hair, only pure, tender skin. Luckily, the claw mark went right past his anti-possession tattoo, not breaking it, so Dean was safe on that front. Michael picked up a cotton ball, put some peroxide on it and started cleaning the gash. Best to his knowledge, it didn't seem like it was going to need stitches, so he made sure he cleaned it good before setting butterfly stitches.

Next up was the leg. Michael had no choice but to rip the jeans and carefully remove them, trying not to pay attention to the white briefs with red hearts over them. His hands would ever so often brush over the skin of Dean's calf or thigh, and it sent some very odd tingles through the archangel's body.

Was it the grace acting up? Did it feel it's perfect vessel, does it know it is him?

But no, the grace fell dormant, it has been for weeks now, it should not be able to awake, not with this, if it hasn't done so when Michael was attacked by the werewolf. But if not his grace, then what was it?

Michael really needed to stop thinking and stop messing around. The wound on Dean's leg might have stopped bleeding, but it was still gaping open, the bone sticking out and he really needed to snap that in place and then fix the wooden planks so he doesn't move the leg and finally stitch him up.

Michael took a deep breath as he set his hands on either side of the open fracture and closed his eyes for only a moment. The very second he snapped the bone into place, Dean woke up screaming, shooting up to a sitting position, his eyes flaring open and boring straight into Michael's, hurt and scared as if they were asking 'why? why would you do this to me?'

Michael gasped, and his lower lip trembled at the sight of a hurt man, but before he could say a word, Dean fell back on the bed, his eyes closing, his consciousness slipping into darkness once again.

It was a reaction, just a reflex, nothing more. Michael wasn't trying to hurt him, he wasn't. Still, that look in his eyes was all Michael could think about as he bandaged his leg and stitched it up. It was all he could think about as he removed the tarp from under the hunter and covered him with a duvet. It was all he could think about as he took a blanket and curled up on the old recliner chair, the only other place beside the floor he could sleep on.

It was all he could think about, as sleep overtook him, those bright green eyes, filled with hurt and pain, boring into him. Asking him Why?

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