Author's note: I'm completely overwhelmed by the support this fic has already received. It's my very first attempt at writing fic and I couldn't be more pleased by all of your reactions. Thank you for reading and an extra big thank you to anyone who started following this story or favorited it and to anyone who took the time to review. This chapter is for you!

Chapter 2
Most days now, Sam didn't get out of bed unless it was to go to the toilet. Every other day Dean would help him into the shower or the bath and that was pretty much it.
Some days, however, Sam's pain and exhaustion let up enough to allow him to go into the living room and sit and watch TV with Dean. Those were good days, that filled both brothers with gratitude.

Today was one of the good days. It was sometime around noon and Sam was snuggled up on the couch watching TV as Dean was cooking up lunch: tomato soup with meatballs and those little pasta letters Sam used to love as a kid. They would be having a rare guest over that day: Garth. The odd little hunter had been checking in over the phone every couple of days and today, about nine weeks after the angels had fallen, Sam had decided it was a good idea to have him come over for lunch. He was feeling reasonably good, which meant that his pain was not the fierce burning, stabbing, throbbing, roaring beast it usually was, but rather a persistent, dull ache, pacing up and down his body like a zoo tiger. The Vicodin was doing a good job.
That was the main reason that Garth had been invited over: the Vicodin. It had been Garth who had called in a favor from a doctor he knew (his "special ladydoctor friend", he had called her, whatever that was supposed to mean) to get Sam a seemingly unlimited prescription for Vicodin and a host of other painkillers. Nothing seemed to do the trick completely, nothing could quite do away with every bit of Sam's pain, but it could certainly take the edge off.
And for that, Sam figured, they owed Garth at least a thank you and a homemade lunch.

"Are you sure about this, Sammy?" Dean asked for for felt like the hundredth time that morning, "'Cause I can still call the whole thing off. I'm sure Garth would understand."
"Yeah, Dean, I'm sure. I'm actually feeling pretty okay today."
Dean nodded, stirring his soup.
"You look a bit better, too."

This was not entirely true. Sam looked just as he had for quite a while: too thin, too pale, too tired. But maybe, just maybe, some color was starting to return to his cheeks. Or wasn't it? Dean wasn't sure Sam was making any progress at all.
For six weeks now, they had been going through the motions. Sam was sleeping over twelve hours a night, not doing much of anything. Dean was taking care of him, nursing him. But he had no clue whether he was nursing him back to health.
In his downtime, when he wasn't cooking or cleaning or getting groceries or changing Sam's sheets, Dean was doing research. He was reading anything the Men of Letters had gathered about breaking supernatural contracts or curing supernatural diseases. So far, no miracle fix had presented itself. All he could find was what he already knew: that going back on a deal with a higher power was a bad idea. No, duh.
Dean knew he should probably be doing research on the angels, running point with other hunters and trying to contact Cas. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. Not with Sam this ill. Screw the angels, screw everything else. He needed to take care of his brother.

The sound of the doorbell snapped Dean out of his reverie. He turned the pit of the stove down low, put a lid on his pan of soup and started making his way to the front door. He looked at the security images on the kitchen monitor, saw Garth waving at him and grinned quietly to himself. He was actually pretty glad to see that skinny weirdo again. He'd really done them a solid. And Sam was having a good day. All in all, this was going pretty well.

"Hiya Dean!" Garth threw his arms around Dean, hugging him.
"Hey Garth, good to see ya." Dean patted Garth's back somewhat awkwardly, smiling to himself.
"So, how's Sam doing?", Garth asked somewhat solemnly.
"Pretty much the same. Bit better today though, the Vicodin's really helping."
"Good, glad to hear it." Garth smiled and followed Dean into the living room.

"Sammy, look who's here", Dean made a grand arm gesture towards their visitor, as if presenting him to Sam like a bunny from a hat.
"Hey Garth, how are you?"

The past few weeks had been pretty bad all around, not just for the Winchesters, but for Garth too. He'd been doing what Dean was unwilling and Sam was unable to do: trying to make sense of the whole angel shebang. So far, he'd made an estimate of how many angels had fallen: around 3000 according to his latest data. He'd also found out, through some of his hunter contacts, that at least a percentage of these angels had retained some of their powers. They were out burning down fields and causing small-scale mayhem all over the country, and probably the globe. So Garth had been putting out fires, both literally and figuratively. So far, no miracle fix had presented itself. All he'd found out what he already knew: that having thousand of fallen angels around was bad business. No, duh.
And then there was Sam. After Dean had updated him on the Trials situation, Garth had supplied him with medicine, but that seemed painfully insufficient. He wanted to help, to really make him better, so he stayed up late doing additional research about healing spells and herbs and what not. So far, no dice.
"Pretty good Sam, how're you? No please- don't get up!" Garth rushed to add that last bit as Sam was starting to push himself up from the couch on shaky arms.

"It's fine Garth." Sam said, walking somewhat unsteadily towards Garth. He pulled the skinny man in for a hug, which Garth answered carefully.
"Thanks man, for the pills. Don't know what we would've done without you."
"Yeah, my plan was to knock over a couple of pharmacies, but I doubt that would've worked on the long term." Dean joined in.
"It's no biggie, dudes."

They sat down at the table Dean had set earlier, and Dean started ladling out the soup. It smelled great and tasted even better.

Later that night (Garth had long since gone home and Sam had gone to bed) Dean went to his little brother's bedroom to check on him. The door was open, as it usually was these days.

As soon as Dean stepped across the threshold into the darkened room, he sensed something was wrong.
He heard a whimper coming from Sam's bed. It was followed by a sob.
Dean was at Sam's side in a heartbeat, squatting down next to to his brother's prone form.
He laid a hand on his back.
"Sammy, what's wrong? You in pain?"
Sam turned over, his face a mess of sweat and tears.
"Dean..."
Everything was in that one word, whispered more than spoken.
"Pill?"
"I'm- I'm maxed... I'm maxed out." Sam's voice shook. Dean's heart sunk.
"Aw, Sam..."
"Dean, can you... Can you..."
"What is it Sammy, what do you need?" Dean couldn't keep the desperation he felt from his tone, no matter how hard he was trying. The answer came in a soft, broken voice.
"Can you hold me, please? Please."

If Dean's heart had sunk earlier, it was plummeting now. Here was an adult, a tall, strapping young man who was supposed to be in his prime. Here was his brave little brother, who had saved the world, who had hunted so many evil bastards they'd both lost count, who had beaten out Lucifer himself and who, through it all, had somehow retained his kindness. And he was in so much pain that he was begging his big brother to hold him.
And damn it all to hell, this was supposed to be a good day.
Dean walked to the right of Sam's bed and got into it, slipping beneath the covers. He layed down on his back. Immediately Sam turned onto his side, facing Dean, laying his head on Dean's chest and clutching at his shirt. Dean put his right arm around Sam's shivering shoulders and used his left hand to slowly stroke his hair. Sam kept his eyes screwed shut (Dean was somehow grateful for this, afraid as he was of the agony he would otherwise see in his baby brother's eyes) but tears were still pushing their way out through closed lids.

Dean's mind was racing. What was he supposed to do? Sam was maxed out on painkillers. What was he supposed to do? No hospital could help Sam. What was he supposed to do? Prayer would be useless to Sam, considering the state Heaven was currently in. What was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to do? WHAT THE HELL WAS HE SUPPOSED TO DO?
Dean did the only thing he could do. He held his little brother tight and began telling him a story.

"You know Sammy, when you were three years old..."