Sam Winchester hadn't asked God for anything in seven years. When he was young, and even well into his teenage years, he thought God was the one looking after his family after his mom had passed. He liked to say that his dad was invincible (which in toddler babble, translated to inbincle). John came home with scratches galore, but never once complained about the pain. He always avoided going to the doctor's, said it wasn't anything that he couldn't take care of with a few instruments lying around the house. And he was right. Every day he would come home tattered and bruised, but over time his wounds healed, along with the notion that he'd ever had them in the first place.

Dean was always the same way… or tried to be. After Dad's stroke of luck had come to a bitter end, Dean unseated his role as Mr. Invincible. And for a while, he was the new Superman, acted like his own abrasions were nothing.

Until once in a blue moon, kryptonite would plague his heart. Eventually a wound was dug deep enough that he was bleeding out and it was up to Sam to mend it.

That same night he said a prayer: Please, look after my brother, he's scared. He spoke to God, although he must have unwittingly made a deal with a crossroads demon because something happened to Dean.

"I've been doing some thinking, and... well, the thing is... I don't wanna die. I don't wanna go to hell."

And then he died in his arms, along with his faith in the man upstairs. That is until he realized that he was putting it into the wrong man.

When he met Castiel, it was after he had raised his brother from Perdition, and while he may not have restored Dean's faith—which he didn't blame him for; it was kind of an unceremonious way to meet a guy—he certainly did a number on Sam. He saved his brother and he made him believe again.

Just like now. Dean's eyes flickered open. And they weren't black.

"Dean?" he breathed, striking his feeble body against his, "Dean, oh my—you're alive…" He held him even tighter with each pained word. Dean's eyes knitted together, confused at the callous gesture. Thankfully, he hadn't remembered a thing.

"Um… hi?" he replied flatly. Sam's shoulder butted Dean's face. The older Winchester recoiled in pain. He released him apologetically, allowing Dean the time to comprehend that half of his face was smoldered in a new degree of burns. Sam must not have paid much attention when he heaved him into his arms.

"Fuck," he cursed bitterly, touching his tender face."What the hell did I do, dump a pitcher of boiling water on my face?!"

Sam had to laugh. Still his brother was unfazed by physical pain.

"W—what happened? Where's Cas?"

His laughing terminated when Dean shifted on his side and witnessed the angel's body. It took Dean a good moment to process the fact that Castiel was unmoving. When he had, his eyes widened in dismay—green, never in his life would Sam praise a pigment so vigorously. His mouth ran unattended, scrambling for words. But none would come; his best friend was strung out next to him, bleeding profusely from his hand.

He underwent his first degree of separation: doubt. "Cas," he laughed, nudging his shoulder playfully.

The second trial hit him harder. He dropped to his knees beside him, yelling his name. The third followed fast in pursuit. He reached for his bloody hand and placed it within his nimble one, holding it close enough that his face became soiled in it. He got on top of him and dragged his shaking ciphers up and down his chest, as if searching for another logical explanation as to why he was lying on the cold, hard floor. His eyes began perspiring as if his sockets were set ablaze (again).

"Come, on, Cas, you're an angel of the Lord," Dean cried, "you're supposed to be invincible!" The word struck Sam right in the hamstrings. Dean pounded on his chest multiple times, each time his tears becoming heavier on his face. When Cas hadn't shown a sign of response and he was too weak to beat on him anymore, he buried his face in his neck. The smell of Cas—wonted trenchcoat and aftershave—tickled his nose and that pain was even more unbearable than the scorches on his face. He wept even harder, one hand cradling his coat collar, the other supporting his still neck.

"He's gone, Sam."

His voice came out in the same broken fragment of a statement that it had been when that bitch April plunged her knife through his chest.

Dean pulled himself nimbly from his collarbone to plant a kiss on the inside of his neck, then his forehead, and finally, the most incapably, his lips. He held onto that embrace for as long as he could, something he had savored the thought of doing for so long; he wasn't about to lose it because he didn't have some damn self-discipline.

Though the Winchesters couldn't hear, a voice rang inside the angel's head. And though it came from somewhere in the faraway distance, Cas couldn't hear it clearer if it were bellowed in his ears: a single phrase from a chorale of brethren: "Dean Winchester is saved!"

END