The journey into the house alone was troublesome. Dean and Bobby had to carry Sam up and down many flights of steps and into the panic room, which they had decided was best. They worked quickly, bringing bandages, alcohol, and anything they thought they might need. Dean began pulling off Sam's blood soaked jacket and shirts whilst Bobby prepared the bandages. Dean hesitated momentarily before pulling off his ruined jacket being used as a bandage.
The jacket pulled away to reveal what only could be called a mess. More blood came pouring out of the severe injury that was Sam's arm. The body parts that usually made up the arm looked like part of a science project. Dean flinched away at the sight. He hadn't seen severed limbs up close often and certainly not those of his little brother. Bobby, however, advanced quickly with the bandage. He began wrapping the wound only to stop when Sam winced.
"Sam, you awake?" Dean asked slowly. He was met with a groan as a reply. Sam's eyes opened slowly and he coughed once—a hard cough that pulled him up at the torso and resulted in blood dripping from his mouth. His just focused eyes widened in horror.
"Sam, listen to me. I need you to lay back down. I need to finish patching you up," Bobby said, seemingly emotionless.
"Why do I need to be patched up?" Sam asked groggily with a confused expression. He tried to sit up. Unused to the lack of balance, he toppled onto his right, landing on his injury. His eyes widened, now clear of any drowsiness, as he turned his head to see the half-wrapped wound.
"Hold still, son. Let me finish patching you up." Bobby's soft side showed through the tough facade usually put up by the three of them.
Sam gasped through his teeth as the bandage touched his open wound. A bead of sweat rolled down his face as he squeezed his eyes shut.
"Dean, go get some more whiskey," Bobby commanded. Dean dutifully obliged. He couldn't bear to see Sam in so much pain any longer. He was his little brother and all he had left. Dean had always looked after him and hell, he practically raised the guy. In his mind, it was all his fault that this had happened to him, his Sammy.
What could he do? He'd been to Hell and he'd rather not go back, not for this. Something clicked in his mind. Almost without thinking, he murmured, "Cas. Help. Please."
The angel's voice answered his call. "Hello, Dean."
Dean turned around and breathed a sigh of relief, though his face still showed the guilt and panic that was barely hidden. "Listen, Sam—"
"I know what happened. Let me see him," Castiel interrupted calmly. He began walking towards the door to the basement. Dean followed, grabbing the required bottle of whiskey on his way.