Chapter 1
They were slowly starting to settle into some kind of routine. Dean got up every morning at seven-thirty, took a shower, watched the news while having breakfast, made a few calls, did some research and then went to Sam´s room at around 10, with a tray full of food. This morning was no different. It was exactly one month to the day after Sam had abandoned the Trials. One month after the angels had fallen and Sam had been slumped against the Impala writhing in agony. One month after Dean had gathered him onto the backseat and raced into the night, praying to whomever was still up there that he would stumble upon a hospital. One month after finding said hospital only to be be told that there was no apparent cause for his brother's pain.

Dean banished these distressing thoughts from his mind (for now at least, he knew they'd be back) and opened the door to Sam's room. He no longer knocked, the idea of privacy having become ridiculous to both brothers over the years of sharing motel rooms, and even more so recently. Sam was still asleep. It was a fitful sleep, as had become the new normal since Sam'd stopped the third Trial. He barely got any real rest anymore.

"Sammy?", Dean asked softly, setting the tray down on his brother's nightstand. He gently touched Sam's shoulder. Sam opened bleary eyes, blinking a few times before looking up at his brother.
"Hey", came his somewhat raspy reply.

The coughing up blood had stopped, Sam's sore throat being the only remnant of that
particular infliction. It had been replaced however, by something worse. Pain, constant pain.
The agony Sam had felt that one night had subsided only slightly, leaving him with a constant, terrible reminder of the fact that he haddened finished what he'd started. They'd established it averaged at about an eight on the painscale. And it never went away.

"How're you feeling, Sam?" Dean inquired, already dreading the answer he knew he was bound to get.
"Not so good."

Sam's condition, as Dean mentally called it, for lack of a better term, had brought about something new between the two brothers: total honesty about the extent of their pain. There was no more "I'm fine" or "it's not that bad" or "I'm just tired". Sam was telling Dean everything. Dean had insisted on it from the beginning, and Sam hadn't put up much of a resistance. That fact alone had proven to Dean how necessary this new rule was.
Dean took a breath, steeling himself, and gently pressed on.

"On a scale of hot sex to a kick in the junk?"

That earned Dean a smile. It was a tiny, wan smile, but boy, did it look amazing to Dean. Sam didn't smile much these days. It seemed like the pain and exertion that had come with quitting the Trials was eroding his sense of mirth. He could no longer stomach being made fun of, even by his brother, even in the loving way Dean had poked fun at him his whole life. Dean recalled an incident two weeks after that fateful night where he had told Sam to get some sleep because he looked like crap. He'd said it with a smile on his face, but he might as well have kicked Sam in the stomach, he looked so deflated.
"I know, Dean", Sam had mumbled, his eyes filling. "I feel like crap too." And then Sam had cried, only stopping after Dean had apologized profusely and explained that he'd meant no harm. So no, Dean didn't say that kind of stuff anymore. His method of dealing with Sam when he was unwell had always consisted of two main components: gruffness and gentleness. The gruffness had been eliminated now. Dean was only ever gentle with his little brother these days. Sam required it. It was as if the Trials had left him open like a wound, sensitive to the touch and oozing emotion rather than blood. Dean had to be a soft bandage to this wound, because anything else would feel like sandpaper to the painfully exposed fragility that now consumed Sam.

"Kick in the junk. A hard one." Dean had expected this answer, but it still wasn't any fun to hear.
"Crap, I'm sorry Sam. You want a painkiller?"
"No thanks, already took one. Should wait atleast another hour."
"Okay... How 'bout some breakfast?" Dean gestured towards the tray, which today was filled with a bowl of oatmeal, a fruit salad and a glass of orange juice. Dean tried to make Sam something different and healthy everyday.
"Looks good Dean. Can I have the oatmeal first please?"
"Sure Sammy."

Dean grabbed Sam's second pillow and stuffed it behind Sam's back as his brother leaned forward. As he gently pushed Sam back into the pillows he tried not to notice how thin his biceps had become, not to mention how Sam was shivering. That was part of their new normal: Sam's frame was constantly racked with shivers. Sometimes he was cold or scared, sometimes he was trembling because he was in such intense pain his body couldn't contain it.
Today seemed like one of those latter times. Sam was now leaning back against two pillows, closing his eyes for a second, put out just by the simple motion of sitting up. He was seeing stars.

"Hey, you okay there buddy?"
"Just a bit dizzy. My head hurts. Fine, though."
"Okay... How do you want to do this?" Dean had picked up the bowl of oatmeal and the spoon, holding both with an air of uncertainty.
The implied meaning of his question was: are you going to eat this yourself? Or do you need me to feed you?

The day after Dean had taken Sam home from the hospital, he had woken up at around noon. His stomach had been growling in his sleep, which Dean had taken as a great sign. His hope had soon been dashed, however, when Sam woke up.
Dean had been keeping vigil by his bed, waiting for this moment for over six hours.
When Sam finally opened his eyes, they were wide and filled with tears. His breaths came hard and ragged.
Dean's heart clenched at the sight of his little brother, ghostly pale (that still hadn't changed a month later) and obviously in pain. He went to sit on the edge of the bed, laid a hand on Sam's shoulder, feeling it tremble, mistaking it for fear.
"Sammy, are you alright? I'm here Sam, it's okay. You're safe."
"Dean."
"Yeah Sammy, it's me, you're good. We're back in the bunker, remember? You, uh, you seemed hungry. I made you some breakfast."
Sam took some time to take this information in, his breath slowing somewhat.
"Yeah, yeah I guess I am pretty hungry... What did you make?"
"Scrambled eggs and bacon on toast. Breakfast of champions. And then after we fill that stomach of yours, we'll get you some of that Vicodin the nice doctor gave you. "
"Sounds great Dean, thanks."
Dean had helped Sam sit up, doing the now-familiar trick with the pillows.
Then Dean had picked up the plate, and the knife and fork from his little tray and set them onto Sam's lap, ready to be eaten. He'd only realized his mistake when Sam went to pick up the fork and dropped it immedeatly. His little brother had tried to pick it up again -and a third time- but his hands were shaking too violently.
"I'm sorry Dean. It's just... It hurts."
He had looked up at Dean and Dean had known. Sam had used his puppy eyes on Dean on purpose before, trying to manipulate him. It sometimes angered Dean, but that day he had wished this was another put-on. But it wasn't. This was real, open despair and pain in his baby brother's eyes. He was near tears and trembling with pain and he was unable to hold his own fork.
Sam had let Dean feed him that day, for the first time in twenty-odd years.

"I think I'm alright."
"Okay Sam, here you go."
Sam took the bowl and spoon and slowly started eating.
Dean was feeling a relief that he was pretty sure few people had ever felt at the sight of their adult brother eating breakfast on his own.
He reached over and -ever so gently- ruffled Sam's hair.

"Eat up, little brother."