Disclaimer: I claim no ownership to Supernatural or it's characters. This is purely for fun, and I am making no money from this story.
Hey guys, just a one-shot that I couldn't resist. Please let me know what you think.
Enjoy!
This was truly it. At just fourteen years of age, Sam Winchester had learnt that he wouldn't live to see his fifteenth birthday. And now it was left up to him to break the news to his older brother, Dean. But that's the short version.
The story began on a Friday afternoon in late January, nineteen nighty-eight. The twenty-third to be exact.
Young hunter Sam was out helping his father and brother on a job after school, but this wasn't like your run of the mill after school job. No, you see Sam and his family had been travelling all around the country fighting the supernatural for as long as Sam could remember.
On this stormy late afternoon they were hunting a spirit, all that was left was to salt and burn the ghost's bones, nothing too dramatic for the supernatural hunters, that was until Sam's older brother Dean got sent flying headfirst into a gravestone by the spirit. Then everything went to hell.
"DEAN!" The boys' father, John yelled in panic at the sight of his eldest bleeding from the head, before he came to his senses, "Sam, get it lit up, I'll cover you."
In theory John had been covering Dean too, but that's neither here nor there.
Ignoring that, Sam proceeded to drop a brightly glowing ball that used to be a pack of matches into the open grave, effectively destroying the ghost, but not before he too was thrown.
A sharp wave of pain crashed over Sam as he hit the ground, his arm had been broken.
Sighing in relief, knowing that the job was done, John spent a moment watching flames lick up out of the ground, before he made a move to where his sons had fallen.
John reached Sam first.
Sam was on the ground, clutching his visibly broken arm to his body. He had a few scrapes, but nothing too bad, John surmised.
At that moment John was far more worried about his eldest. Dean had after all taken a worse fall.
"You hear me, kiddo?" John asked worriedly as he knelt beside Dean, Sam all but forgotten in the background.
Dean was sitting up, his back resting against the gravestone that he'd hit. "'m fine, Dad. Sammy?"
"He's fine. Come on, let's get you back to the motel. I've got to take Sam to an emergency room to get his arm looked at. You okay to sleep this one off?"
Dean's protective streak towards his brother instantly went into overdrive. What did his father mean? "Thought you said Sammy was fine?"
"It's just his arm, Dean. Come on, time to go back to the motel."
"Wanna go with you and Sammy," Dean replied obstinately.
"You need to rest. There'll be too many questions if I take both of you in."
"You'll look after him?"
"Yes, Dean."
By the time they reached the nearest emergency room - located in a large hospital in the inner Boston area - it was late in the evening, and things were slowing down for the night.
Playing the attentive and caring father, which John knew he wasn't, he put his arm around Sam, and led him inside. John wound an elaborate lie - which of course they bought - about how Sam had been injured to the triage nurse, who soon led them through to the paediatrics area to wait for a doctor to see Sam.
"It's just your arm, Sam, quit rubbing at your head."
"But it's still hurting, Dad. It has been hurting for weeks," Sam bit back just as a pretty young female in scrubs and a white coat entered the cubicle.
"Sam Smith?"
"That's me."
"Pleasure to meet you, Sam. I'm Dr Kingsford, you can call me Alana. What seems to be the problem tonight?"
"I think I broke my arm, and I have a headache," Sam replied, shooting daggers at his father.
"Okay, and it says here that you fell earlier. Did you hit your head when you fell?"
"No, I didn't. It was already hurting," Sam replied. "Why?"
"Just a hunch. I know that you came in to get your arm sorted, but would you mind if I check a couple of things just to see if we can find out why you've got a headache?"
"No, ma'am."
"Alana, please. How long have you been getting headaches for, Sam?"
"I don't know. I guess they started just before Christmas break."
"And tell me, Sam, are these headaches always the same or have they been getting worse?"
"I think they're getting worse actually."
Alana frown almost imperceptibly. "Do these headaches get better or worse through the day?"
"A bit better, but when I run around they get worse."
"And you were running this afternoon?"
"Yeah."
"Have you been feeling sick or vomiting recently? Blurred vision, any numbness or weakness in your arms or legs? Anything out of the ordinary?"
"I've been feeling a bit sick the past few mornings, but it's not that bad."
"Okay. Now, Sam I'd like you to squeeze my fingers as tightly as you can, left and right. I know your arm hurts, but try for me, okay?"
Sam did as he was told.
Dr Kingsford frowned again ever so slightly at the results of her test. She moved to the end of the bed, and put her hands against the soles of Sam's bare feet. "Okay. Now I want you to press against my hands like you're stepping on the gas pedal. Do you drive yet, Sam?"
"Not yet," Sam replied, watching as the pretty doctor frowned again. "It's just a normal headache, right?"
"Probably. However when we send you to get an x-ray of your arm I'd like you to have a scan of your head too, just to be sure. Is that okay, Dad?"
John nodded his approval, he too had seen the doctor's worried expression, though he didn't comment.
"I'll go get that booked then. And a nurse will come in to put a splint on that arm, Sam. Would you like any pain relief?"
"No. I'm okay."
As she walked away, Dr Alana Kingsford sighed heavily. Seeing one of the emergency room nurses, Alana gave her instructions, "...splint on the right arm. And stay with him when he goes to radiology, I have a bad feeling about this one."
"You think you've found something?"
"I think it would be nothing short of a miracle if that boy walks away with nothing worse than a broken arm. His left side is weakened, and he has worrying headache symptoms. I didn't ask the father yet about anything else, no need to worry them unnecessarily."
Hours passed, and Sam was still in the emergency room. They'd put a cast on his arm, but they were apparently still waiting for the head CT scan results. John was anxious to leave, but so far they'd been able to talk him into staying - quietly, and unbeknown to Sam, they had threatened to call child protective services if he left before they had the scan results.
Sam was sleeping soundly by the time Dr Kingsford finally came back to see him. In her hand she carried a large paper envelope.
John made a move to wake Sam, but was quickly stopped. "Mr Smith it would be better if we discussed this privately first, if you would come with me."
John agreed, and followed the doctor into a quiet room, it was a room designed for those waiting for news on critically sick or hurt loved ones or for this purpose - to break bad news to families.
Alana pulled a set of films from the envelope, holding them to the light as she explained, "This is Sam's CT scan. The grey area here is normal brain tissue, however this white area here is not consistent with what we would expect to see in a healthy person."
"What does that mean? What is it?"
"I cannot know for certain yet, but it is a solid mass. We need to establish whether it is benign or malignant."
"Please speak English doc."
"Okay. There are two possibilities of what this mass might be, one is a slow growing non cancerous tumour, the other is a highly aggressive cancerous tumour. We need your consent to admit Sam to perform a biopsy to determine which one it is."
"...You're saying that that might be cancer?"
"Given Sam's rapid progression of symptoms I think it is more likely to be a cancerous tumour honestly. But without a biopsy there is no way to know."
"And if it is? If it is cancer?"
"Let's cross that bridge when and if we get to it. Now, what would you like to tell Sam?"
"Sam, time to wake up, kiddo," John coaxed his youngest gently, much more so than he would do under any other circumstances. As Sam began to stir, John wiped away the last of the tears from his eyes. He couldn't cry now, not in front of his son.
Upon opening his eyes the first thing that Sam saw was his tough as nails father wiping tears from his own eyes. 'This is not good,' Sam thought to himself. He had never seen his father cry, not ever.
"Dad?"
"I'm here, kiddo. The doctor wants to talk to you, okay?"
John nodded to Dr Kingsford, giving his permission for her to take over.
"Hi Sam, do you remember me?"
"Yes, your name's Alana, right?"
"Right. Sam, I had a look at your scan results. We found something abnormal in your brain, and you're going to need another test called a biopsy."
"What's that?"
"A biopsy is where one of our specialist doctors take a tiny sample of the unusual tissue. It doesn't hurt when they do it, you'll be given medicine to make you sleep. You might have a headache for a few days afterwards though. So we're going to admit you until you have had this test, then you get to go home until we get the results, okay?"
"Is my arm broken?"
As it was there was an opening on the operating schedule first thing the next morning, and as soon as she saw it, Alana booked Sam in for the biopsy procedure and contacted one of the hospital's neurosurgeons. Technically Sam's care had been handed to the paediatrics doctors, but due to a bed shortage on the children's ward he was still in the emergency room, and thus her responsibility.
"Sam... Sammy, it's time to go for that test we talked about last night," John said wearily, fatigued both physically and mentally.
"Already?" Sam asked, sleepily rubbing sleep from his eyes.
"'fraid so, kiddo. It's okay though, like I said it'll just be like when you had to have your appendix out. They'll put you to sleep, do what they've got to do, and then I'll be here when you wake up. And if it hurts at all they'll give you medicine. Are you sure you don't want me to let Dean know?"
"It's no big deal, right Dad? Dean needs to rest up."
"Okay gentlemen, it's time to go now."
"Scalpel," Hospital neurosurgeon, Dr Jones requested, putting his hand out. He then used the sharp instrument to place a small incision an inch behind Sam's ear.
"Drill."
With sounds that would sicken most everyone other than theatre staff, the surgical drill ripped a small, precise hole through Sam's skull.
"Biopsy needle."
The surgeon drew a sample of the mass into a syringe, before closing Sam's head with two small sutures. Once Sam's hair fell over it the surgical site wasn't even visible.
When Sam awoke all he knew was pain. His head was so sore, it was beyond description. "Dad?" Sam mumbled, not game to open his eyes.
Taking Sam's uninjured right hand, John softly spoke, "It's okay, Sammy. I'm here. The nurse just went to get you some pain medicine."
"Hurts. Where's Dee?"
"Dean's back at the motel, remember kiddo?"
"Oh, yeah. He hit his head."
"He did. Why? Do you want me to get him?" John was frankly out of his depth dealing with Sam, but at the same time he wanted to give his eldest a chance to recuperate, and he really didn't think that he could tell Dean this.
"No, no... Let him rest, he needs to rest more. It hurts, Dad."
The next time that Sam saw Dr Kingsford, she was accompanied by a much older, but kindly looking man, another doctor. By this point Sam was drugged to the hilt, and was barely aware of his surroundings.
"Sam, John, this is Dr Hill. Dr Hill will be the one who you see to get the biopsy results next week."
John shook the older man's hand firmly in greeting, hiding effectively that he was shaking ever so slightly, while Sam just waved his casted arm in the general direction of the doctors.
"The biopsy results won't be back until Wednesday at the earliest, so as Sam's pain is under control I'm happy for you to take him home to rest, and my receptionist will call you to make a time for you both to come in to discuss the results."
"Can I take him home now?"
Dr Hill hesitated, looking at the now sleeping teen, before relenting, "Okay, I'll write a prescription for pain relief that you can get at the hospital pharmacy, and you're free to leave. Just remember, no physical exertion, no school, and preferably Sam should rest in bed for at least the weekend."
As John pulled up in the Impala outside their motel room, he saw Dean striding towards the car purposefully. He never was too good at being separated from his younger brother.
"Sammy, wake up. We're here," John called to the back seat, where Sam was lying down, and just in time too, as Dean swung open the car door.
"Sammy? Dad, what's wrong with him?"
"He's fine, Dean," John lied easily, there was no need to worry Dean. "They gave him painkillers, you know that your brother is a lightweight. Come on let's take him inside."
"How's your head, Dean?" John asked, looking to the thin gash on Dean's forehead, nursing a beer as he did so.
"Hard as a rock. Why'd you and Sammy take so long at the hospital?"
"There were a lot of people there, and it's not like a busted arm is a priority, Dean."
Dean was surprised when Sam was allowed to take three days straight off school because of a broken arm, but he said nothing. There was something amiss, but he couldn't figure it out, and didn't want to get on his father's bad side.
On the Wednesday afternoon John got a call to bring Sam up to the hospital to get the test results - Dean was out earning his keep aka hustling pool, so John just left a vague note, before loading a still tired and sore Sam into the car, and driving towards the hospital.
They would be Dr Hill's last patients in the outpatient clinic that afternoon, not that that mattered. Thankfully the doctor was running on time, and they only waited for a few minutes before being called in.
"Sam, how are you feeling?"
"I don't know, the same I guess. My head's still pretty sore."
"That's to be expected, I'm afraid. Does the pain medicine help?"
"Yeah."
"That's good," Dr Hill commented lightly, looking down at an envelope on his desk, he continued, "I have your test results, Sam. And I frankly wish that I had better news for you. Do you know what cancer is, Sam?"
Sam gulped silently, nodding. He'd heard of cancer, and he didn't like where this conversation was heading.
"I'm afraid that you do have a form of cancer within your brain, Sam. It's called glioblastoma multiforme, GBM for short. GBMs are highly aggressive, cancerous, and usually untreatable. Due to the size, location, and nature of the cancer I'm sorry to say that surgery is out of the question, we could try radiation therapy to temporarily slow the progression of the cancer, but given your symptoms I suspect that would only increase your suffering at this stage. I would..."
Sam couldn't hear what the doctor spoke about after that, it sounded like this doctor had just told him that there was nothing that they could do to help him. Maybe that wasn't so bad though, after all it was only headaches, he could live with headaches. But when Sam finally voiced his thoughts they were rapidly dashed.
"I wish you that was the case, Sam, but your headaches aren't like normal headaches, they are caused by the structures of your brain being compressed further as this cancer grows, and it is going to get worse."
"But you'll give him painkillers, right doc? It won't hurt, will it?" John seemed to have heard more of what the doctor had been saying.
"We will. With the pain medicine, and other medicines we should be able to keep you relatively comfortable, Sam. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"I'm not getting better, you can't make it better, I'm going to get sicker, but it's not going to hurt. Is that right, sir?"
"Sort of. What I need you to understand, Sam, is that your condition is what we class as terminal. By my estimate you might have four months left."
"Left? ...I'm going to die?"
Driving back to the motel, Sam finally broke the silence, "I want to be the one to tell Dean. I need to."
Silently John's heart broke a little further. Now that the initial shock had worn off, it seemed to John as though Sam was coping. Of course Sam wanted to be the one to tell his brother; given their unique bond how was it ever going to be different?
Sam waited close to three weeks before he approached his brother, and only then it was because as Sam's symptoms became more noticeable and Dean was asking questions John had told Sam that it had to be now.
"Dee, can you put that down?" Sam asked tentatively, all too aware of the ramifications of what he was about to say. His palms had gone sweaty, and his ever present headache was reaching the stage that made Sam just want to curl in a ball and die.
A perplexed expression on his face, Dean slowly lowered his beer onto the rickety old side table that had come with the apartment they were now renting, along with everything else.
Dean was about to speak when he caught sight of a glistening of tears welling in his younger brother's eyes. His heart skipped a beat. "...Sammy? Everything okay?"
Silently Sam sat beside his brother, before finally looking at him. "Dean. Crap, this is hard." Sam ran his gangly hand through his shaggy long hair, before stopping to rub his throbbing temples. "Okay, I'm going to see you something, but I need you to let me finish before you react. Okay?"
His heart now racing, Dean nodded, not trusting his voice.
"I have c-cancer. Dean, I'm dying."
Suddenly Dean's expression turned to one of white hot anger. "Damn it, Sammy! Don't fucking joke about shit like-" The words died on Dean's lips as he took in his brother's utterly somber expression, and noticed in the corner of his eye that their father was hovering in the doorway. Something was definitely very wrong, maybe Sam was telling the truth. "Sammy?" Dean spoke, his voice breaking, thick with emotion.
"Please, Dean," Sam said, imploring his brother to let him speak. "Remember a couple of weeks ago when I broke my arm on that job, and Dad took me to the hospital? You didn't come coz you were beat to hell too."
Dean nodded numbly.
"The doctor did a scan of my head, and they found it. It's called glioblastoma multiforme. Aggressive, cancerous, and untreatable; that's what the doctor told Dad and me. They did another couple of tests, just to confirm it, you know. They found it's starting to grow in other parts of my brain, and-"
"Shut up, Sammy! I can't listen to this shit any more!" Dean said, suddenly seeming to come out of his stunned stupor. Ignoring the cries and shouts of his brother and father respectively, Dean stormed out the front door.
John had watched the train wreck of a situation unfold before his eyes. This whole situation was so completely fucked up. His boys should have been out playing sport and hanging out with their friends, there was no way in hell that his fourteen year old should have to tell his older brother that he was dying.
Then Dean stormed out, and John had to step in.
"Dean! Dad, please bring Dean back," Sam asked heartbroken.
"I'm on it. You stay here, Sam. If I'm not back by eight take your pills." Without wasting another second, John rushed out the door, just in time to see the Impala take off down the road.
Dean had taken their only car, but that didn't stop John, who simply broke into a beat up old Ford, and hotwired it. Soon John was away, and on Dean's tail.
Unsurprisingly Dean pulled into the first bar they reached, heading inside. Parking his own car rather more carefully, not that that was saying much, John followed his eldest son.
Wordlessly John sat down beside Dean at the bar as the bartender handed Dean a glass of whiskey, he motioned for another glass, and for the bartender to leave the bottle.
"It's all wrong, kiddo. I know that," John said sympathetically as he poured his own drink, quickly downing it. John needed all the liquid courage he could get.
"This can't be happening, Dad. This can't be happening."
"I know. I was in your shoes just a couple of weeks ago. We all wish that this wasn't happening to Sam, but it is.
"How long? How long does Sam have?"
"The doctor said maybe four months, could be more or less though."
"What'll happen to him, Dad?"
"As the tumour grows and the pressure in his skull builds up, he will get more headaches, throw up more, he'll start having seizures, he might lose his memory, he might not be able to walk or speak, he might even behave differently. Dean, the doctor warned me that this could get bad."
"No shit, Dad! Sammy's dy..." The words refused to even come out. "Sam's sick. What are they doing to help him?"
"They've given him tablets to prevent seizures and treat swelling in his brain and to control the pain."
"No. What are they doing to treat him?"
"Dean, there's nothing they can do. I don't like it any more than you, but Sam is dying. We need to-"
"Dad, don't," Dean growled angrily. "I don't need to do anything!" Dean poured himself another drink.
"Now you listen here, Dean Jonathan Winchester. Sam needs you to get yourself together, because both you and I know that right now he's sitting at the apartment hurting and scared. Sam needs us to be alright."
"How am I ever supposed to be alright?"
"I don't know, kiddo. I don't know. But he's a kid, and we need to step up, and take care of him. I won't lie to you though, Dean, it'll be rough on us. The doctor recommended that when the time comes we admit Sam to the hospital."
"Like hell. I'm not letting anyone take Sammy away." Dean sighed deeply, "If what you're saying is right, and we only have a few months left, I'm damn well going to spend that with my brother."
"Then what are you doing here?"
That night as he sat alone in the apartment was the first time since his diagnosis that he had cried. Sam cried for what felt like days, before he finally heard his bedroom door creak open.
"Sammy?" Dean's hoarse voice called across the room, as Dean closed the short distance between them. Drawing Sam into his arms, Dean said, "I'm sorry I left, it won't ever happen again."
The End
As always I look forward to hearing your thoughts and opinions.