Hi! Back again! I'm a writing fool these days. This is my SEASON 8 BIG BANG!11 *throws confetti* *bangs gong* I've been working on it for awhile, and I LOVE IT because it has a lot of everything: love, hurt/comfort, brotherly bonding, suspense. It also very different than anything I've written because most of the story is told from the perspective of an outsider. Please let me know what you think.

Prologue

There were two things that Dean Winchester knew with unwavering, rock-solid certainty: no matter how bad things were, they could always get worse and somehow all life would always lead to him holding his stricken brother in the mud.

Angels fell like burning rain, streaking through the sky in plumes of silver and gold, and crash-landed like rogue meteors. But Dean didn't care about angels or Heaven or even a half-cured King of Hades chained up in the derelict church. All that mattered was Sam, his jeans splattered with mud, his skin a silvery white, his eyes bulging from pain. Even in the low light, Dean could see Sam's pulse throbbing in his neck, feel his lungs stutter over shallow, puny breaths. Minutes ago, Sam had been arguing for his own death, and it looked bleakly obvious that his macabre wish may be answered.

Dean was sickened by the thought, and the fact that his brother was once again suffering because he thought sacrificing himself would make him worthy and pure.

He took Sam's hand and pressed it against his own stampeding heart. Because Dean had power of his own. It wasn't forged by demons or God's librarian, but by blood and family and love. Sam would live even if powered by Dean alone. "Just breathe, Sam. Like me, okay?" Dean urged. "You have to let it go, and just breathe. For me."

Sam's hand spasmed before it dug into Dean's chest, hard enough to bruise and maybe even bleed. His shoulders ground back against the car, back arching as he tried to inhale. The resulting sound was an ugly, dragging wheeze that pried open Sam's mouth and corded his neck. "You're doing great, Sam, just…a few more…"

An angel slammed into the ground a mere feet away, the Impala shuddered on its shocks from the impact. Dean shielded Sam as mud and tree branches and sparks shot out around them like divine shrapnel. "Time to bail, dude."

The back door opened with a fling and glide, and he heaved his hulk of a brother up and in the passenger seat of the Impala, and out of the rain. Sam was soaked and dirty and shaking, but he was still breathing. Dean stuffed his long legs in the footwell. "You keep it up, Sam, nice and easy. I'm going to fix this, little brother."

The steady grumble of the Impala's engine was a welcome comfort.

Instincts and desperation had him squatting in an abandoned motel miles from the nearest hospital. He settled Sam on the saggy mattress, bundling him in a sleeping bag. Sam's breathing was better, and the pain had seemingly minimalized, his brother was still half-conscious, colorless and whimpering. Dean threw the cobwebbed pillows on the floor and sat on the bed. Sam needed more help than he could give him; Dean needed supplies at the very least. "Sammy, hey..." he called, shaking him firmly. Sam's eyes barely opened, but they found Dean with unerring precision. "I need to go get you help, okay? I know you're tired and you feel like crap, but I need you to stay awake. Do you hear me, Sam? You have to stay here."

His brother's lips moved, forming words without sound. Dean pressed his ear against them, and his resolve crumbled when he heard the cracked, raw plea. "...hurry...Dean...I can't...it's in me...'n can't fight it..."

He tucked Sam's cell phone in the grip of his fingers, gnarled by pain, and gently coaxed a few belts of whisky into him. "I promise I'll bring back better medicine than rotgut," he smiled.

His face twisted and this throat burned he realized that the last image of his brother could be of him curled up in a dirty motel room, whimpering out his agony. He cupped his cheek, bending down to press his forehead to Sam's. "Wherever you go, kid, just remember that I'm followin'. You can do this, Sammy. I need you to do this for me."

Leaving him was gut-wrenching, but Dean scrubbed his face clean. He had work to do.

There was nothing more dangerous or more effective than Dean Winchester who stood to lose everything. While the falling angels made for a troublesome commute to the hospital, the chaos and injuries they'd caused were the perfect diversion. Within twenty minutes, he'd liberated a trunkful of gear from an unsupervised ambulance. Even as he loaded everything from vials of morphine to suture kits to the portable defibrillator into the car, he knew it wasn't enough. The power of the trials was tearing Sam apart at the molecular level, according to Cas, and a few fancy band-aids wouldn't remedy that. Unsettled and anxious, Dean lapped the hospital.

A dark idea dawned as he stopped at the crosswalk to let a group of nurses dart across in the rain.

He drove slowly as the idea moved from crazy and reckless to crucial and doable, especially when a lone nurse ventured down a different path towards the bar. She was petite, wearing a magenta hoodie over her navy blue scrubs. She flipped the hood over her long, wavy hair before ducking into an alley and into a bar.

Dean parked, gripping the wheel for a beat before climbing out into the rain. "Forgive me," he said as he stepped into the rain.

It was a twisted comfort knowing his prayer would go unheard.

TBC