"We're looking at about six weeks here, folks. At the most. I'm truly sorry," Dr. Panabaker revealed. At that, everything seemed to go hazy. The walls began to blend into the windows, the sunlight that was fading in suddenly corrupted by the cement bricks that seemed to be crashing together before her.
But then it all stopped. The bricks were back in place, the unbroken window continuing to allow sunlight into a room that deserved no illumination.
Ryan's grip on Dean's hand had become so tight that her knuckles were losing color.
But there were no tears. It hadn't sunk deep enough for there to be tears yet.
"There's got to be something you can do, some kind of treatment, an operation," she pleaded.
"I'm terribly sorry, Miss Singer. This tumor is malignant, and it's been resting above Dean's eye for much longer than it should have been. Even if we were to operate, or try chemotherapy, there would be no use. It's just too late," the sorrow in his voice was apparent. He wanted there to be another option. He wanted to save Dean. But there was nothing anyone could do.
He was going to die. In six weeks. At the most.
Ryan tore her gaze away from the doctor's saddened eyes to look at Dean. The look in his eyes shook her. It was a look that never suited Dean Winchester very well. Defeat. Complete, and utter, defeat.
"Again, I'm very sorry," Panabaker repeated, making a graceful exit.
But her eyes never left his. He continued to stare at the ground, searching for an impossible solution to this problem.
"How are we gonna beat this?" the barely audible question hung in the air, her eyes shutting tightly after she'd spoken. It was like saying it out loud had made it all real. And now they had to face it for what it was. It wasn't a vampire or a shapeshifter that they could find a weapon to use against. All of the weapons were useless.
"We're not," he replied assertively, and the first tear fell down her cheek.
