So here's the second point of view. I hope you enjoy. Thanks to everyone who was so supportive of this story.

I would suggest going back and reading Dean's point of view again before reading this one, as Sam's point of view brings a different perspective on some of the dialogue.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

I feel so…

Angry. Eyes narrowed and jaw set, I tighten my hold around the warm metal of my gun as thoughts stray to heated arguments with my brother.

I feel so…

Anxious. The light crack of a twig snaps my attention back to the hunt for the deadly Amarok. I remember research, how the beast hunts lone human hunters, and again my mind sees Dean, alone and vulnerable. He'll be pissed later, but I wasn't going to stay by the car.

I feel so...

Terrified. An ear piercing scream splits the night sky and echoes in the wood. I can feel my blood freeze with ice cold, bone-shattering fear. Dean. Forcing down the fiery acid that bubbles in my throat, I take off in the direction of the sound, will my legs to go faster, push harder. God, please, don't let me be too late...I can't be too late!

I feel so...

Determined. I'm running, panting, breathless. Heart racing, adrenaline spiked, I can feel my head swimming, throbbing, as I close the gap between myself and the Amarok. He raises an enormous, red-stained paw and I try to resist the nausea once again. Gun aimed, I cry out, unable to control the mounting emotions within, and pull the trigger hard enough to split the skin on my finger.

I feel so...

Powerless. The creature turns sharply, a feral wail errupting from his lungs and those harsh, intensely red eyes burning through me so fiercely I stagger back. It's growling, stalking, but my attention shifts to Dean's slumped form, glazed eyes trying hard to focus on the animal next to him. My heart pounds, my heart is racing, exploding, and I don't have time. Another shot, but the beast pounces, rips into my arm with sharp, pointed nails. I miss, I drop the gun, I yell.

I feel so...

Helpless. Cold fingers barely brush the handle of my gun, my lifeline, before I'm pinned to the ground by a massive furry weight. My breath is stolen, my lungs robbed of fresh, sweet air, but I keep my focus. I have to keep myself focused. The beast is on top of me, his stale, hot breath moistens my neck as he tries to puncture it with his fangs, snarling, glistening, monstrous. I'm trying to push away, blood oozing down my arm, when something crashes into the side of the Amarok's face. Immediately he turns, a low, gurgling growl vibrating through his body. Dammit Dean!

I feel so...

Shaken. No, no, no! Still slightly dazed, my head swirls, my vision blurred by matted fur. The beast is moving slowly towards the only person in my life who still matters and I'm not moving fast enough! I roll, I crawl, my gun just a few feet away, yet miles away. Grabbing tightly, I forget the pain, ignore the dizziness, and jump up. I Aim, shoot, and the creature finally falls to its death just seconds from its intended kill. My brother. My broken, bloody brother. He's still, framed against the rough bark and, God, he's not moving. I'm beside him in seconds, collapsing to my knees. Gently, trembling, I grasp Dean's bruised face and I curse his ridiculous need to keep me safe.

I feel so...

Flustered. "Why do you always feel like you have to protect me, Dean?" His eyes flutter open with a soft moan and the burning knot in my throat eases slightly. I claw at my blood-stained shirt, ripping it off as quickly as I can and begin wrapping it snugly around the jagged tears in my brother's chest. He inhales sharply and I pause. I hate when my touch hurts him. Pulling up, we begin the short trek back to the car, his groans painful to listen to. "I know it hurts, Dean." Then he jerks back, he pushes, thrashes, and I don't understand. "Dean, stop! Dean!" My voice is sharp, alarmed, and my hold tightens around him as I search for something, anything, in those frantic glassy eyes. The focus isn't there, but he stops resisting after I yell.

I feel so...

Relieved. With a little effort, I manage to lay Dean in the back of the car and check his wounds. Of course he shoves me away. "Stubborn bastard." The gesture is oddly comforting, yet I still shut the door harder than I intended. Once back at the motel, I begin the less-than-pleasant task of patching up my older brother, careful not to upset his wounds as I lay him on the lumpy bed. His chest is shredded and I grimace at the sight as I peel the torn shirt back, soaked through, sticky. Anger, remorse, guilt are mingling with my blood, running through my veins, pumping through my body with every beat my heart makes. "Shhh, Dean. Calm down, it's alright." And still the comfort rests on the outskirts of my thoughts, Dean cursing while I dress his wounds. Something normal. Consistent. Familiar.

I feel so...

Defeated. Light floods the stifling motel room through the torn blinds on the window, illuminating my big brother. His face relaxed, sweat dripping onto dampened sheets. I settle against him, place my hand on his forehead, wet, steaming. Fever. Leaning low, I quietly explain, "I have to leave, but I'll be back in a few minutes. I'll be right back, Dean." I fill a bucket with ice water and run down to the office for some extra towels, quickly retracing my steps back to Dean. When I open the door, I nearly drop the soaking towels. Dean is twisted, body splayed across the bed, blood dripping from his mouth. "God!" I throw the bucket on the table next to the bed and grab him, try to soothe him. "I'm here, Dean. I'm here." The tremors start to ease and his muscles relax as I assure him, calm him. I place a cool towel on his head and he closes his eyes, breath slowing, everything back to normal. Yet how is this normal?

I feel so...

Lost.

Thank you all. I'd love to hear your thoughts and/or critiques.