Wishing on Wrenches
Sam was acting strange, Dean thought, as he watched his brother devour a plate of puffy tacos with mild pride. The bigger Winchester always had an incongruously small appetite, and sometimes Dean didn't know how he managed to grow so tall eating stolen French fries off Dean's plate and skipping meals. But now that something had kick-started Sam's hunger and he was eating like a man his size should, Dean was worried.
Sam took a gulp of water, wiping his fingers with a soiled napkin and snagging the waitress of the festive Mexican restaurant. In decent Spanish, he ordered another plate of food. He crunched on a tortilla chip, catching Dean's eye. "What? Something on my face?"
"I'm just tryin' to decide if you have a tapeworm."
He blinked in confusion. "I'm hungry."
"Really? After half-dozen puffy tacos and half of my quesadillas, I thought you were bored."
Sam shrugged his tremendously broad shoulders. "I like Mexican food."
Dean rolled his eyes, "Is today Understatement Day. No one told me."
He wondered if he should ask him if his eating was some sort of bizarre reaction to his crisis of faith Sam had from the lack of angels from their last case in Rhode Island or the "I might have to kill you" confession back in Oregon, but he decided against it. Cleaning a few plates wasn't the most destructive way to cope by far, even if it was stretching their already paper-thin budget. They sat in silence until Sam's second plate of food—nachos with shredded pork and black beans—came and he starting eating and making some serious happy noises. "Should I get you two a room, some mood music, light some candles?" Dean rolled his eyes.
Sam flicked him off, and never stopped eating.
"Before we started dating, Jess and I used to have pig out nights sometimes when we were stressed out or…burned out from studying," he confessed finally coming up for air. "We'd order a bunch of entrees and share them. California has fantastic Mexican food."
Dean smiled with relief, glad someone was feeding his brother at school. Memories about Jess popped up rarely, randomly, like Sam wanted them for himself. He appreciated it when he shared them. "You guys were friends first? Such a girl, Sammy, seriously."
Sam rolled his eyes and hunched over his food again. Dean was stuffed after eating two full-sized quesadillas and a dozen taquitos, but he ate anyway when Sam pushed his plate to the middle of the table, sharing a bit of the past.
**
The worry that had wilted from Sam's memory of Jess blossomed again a few weeks later when he woke up to the fumbling clatter of a falling lamp. Clutching the hilt of his hunter's knife under his pillow, Dean opened his eyes, scanning the room for suspicious movement. All he discovered, however, was his brother, sitting up in his own bed, braced over the nightstand, breathing raggedly. Dean abandoned the knife, turned on the light, and crouched down next to his brother. "Sammy, hey, you okay?" Sam's eyes were pinched shut, sweat glistened off his forehead, but his skin was oddly cool to the touch. "Nightmare?" Dean ventured.
Sam didn't answer, just continued his heaving breaths, gripping the rim of the nightstands with white fingertips. Dean's face concealed the concern knotting in his belly, "too bad you couldn't have a dream about that real-life ballerina we interviewed, huh? She was really bendy."
Sam's breathing evened a bit and he released the death-grip he had on the nightstand. Dean placed a hand on his back, and fought not to rub. A shiver whipped through him like a trail of tumbling dominoes. Dean sighed, and wished that he could free Sam of the spirits that haunt him. He hooked his chin over his brother's shoulder and breathed with him like they did when they were kids. Suddenly, Sam stood up, shucking off his wet shirt. "I'mma shower," he mumbled, shuffling towards the bathroom.
Dean sat on the bed, staring at the bathroom door, confused, concerned. Sam's nightmares effected him a variety of ways—anywhere from leaving him nauseous and shaky to sullen and mean—but he'd never been stupefied by them like he was now. Ten minutes later, Sam came out of the shower, trailing humidity behind him and crashed in his bed. He pushed Dean off the mattress with his gigantic feet and a pillow-muffled laugh, trying to pretend he was alright. And Dean let him.
The inexplicable bingeing was ramped up the next morning. Sam washed down his Denver scramble with a tall stack of chocolate chip pancakes and a fruit cup. And it was days and thousands of calories later before Dean given Sammy enough space to work through his issues before intervening. That morning he got up early, preparing for the ambush in the shower. He wasn't sure of how strong Sam's…faith was, but he didn't think one murdered priest turned vengeful spirit could shake his brother's hard-fought beliefs, but he'd seen people stumble and falter from a lot less. And it wasn't like Sam wasn't struggling with a lot more like their father's death or immunity to weirdo demon viruses.
Dean stepped out of the bathroom to find Sam's bed infuriatingly empty, and a note fluttering to the floor in Sam's loopy writing: "Be back."
"That's IT, Sammy." Dean said with a growl, booting his duffel across the room.
He hadn't pushed. He'd given Sam his patience, understanding and all that other squishy, self-help yoga bullcrap that Oprah and Dr. Phil loved to yammer about, and he was done. As much as Sam liked and needed to talk, he could conceal things just as well as Dean, and that added to his mounting anger. With a glance out the window to see that—thankfully for Sam's kneecaps—he hadn't taken the Impala, Dean stopped treating Sam like the man he probably was, and more like the little brother he'd always been. A few unspoken rules of privacy broken and Dean had logged onto Sam's ID of their computer, laughing as he checked the history in Sam's computer. He'd been looking for Google searches on "faith" or "angel" or even directions to a local church, emails to the few friends he still talked to. What he found were sites linking him to , , , and sadly, no porn. But something wasn't right, so Dean continued to snoop.
By the time Sam came home, it was well after dark. Dean was stretched across the bed, soaking up the free HBO, idling between anger and fear after search came up fruitless. Sam slinked through the door carrying a pizza and a case of beer. Peace-offerings. Dean's glancing at him appraisingly, trying to see if he was okay. "Lucy, you got some 'splainin' to do," he squawked in his best Ricky Ricardo. "Where were you all day?"
"Sorry for taking off…that took longer than I thought it would. I got dinner though. Your favorite."
Dean didn't miss that Sam didn't answer his question. "Meatlovers?" Dean perked up, smelled the hot cheese and the salt of sausage.
"International Meatlovers," Sam amended proudly, lifting the lid, "Italian sausage, Canadian and American bacon."
"You sure do spoil me, Sammy," Dean purred. Dean hadn't eaten all day. Sam set the pie on the table. Dean abandoned his trepidation and dug in.
Now that he was less than a foot away, he could see that Sam's eyes were subtly squinted, like he had a headache, and his upper lip shimmered with sweat. "What's wrong, Sam?" Dean asked, his voice deep and serious. "And don't say you're fine, you know this is a long time comin'."
When Sam's face nearly crumpled, the rock in Dean's stomach became a boulder. "I can't tell you yet." Sam said petulantly, but there was a strength behind those words that Dean had to admire.
"Why not?"
"…because…just give me another day…then I'll tell you." Sam sensed Dean's dissatisfaction, and he tried to smile reassuringly. "Eat the pizza, Dean."
Dean had had enough of the charade. He set his slice down and grabbed Sam's arm as he tried to retreat. Before he could say a word, however, Sam winced, pain marring his face. "What the..." Dean slapped Sam's hands away, flashing him a no non-sense scowl, and yanked down the zipper to his hoodie, gingerly eased it off. Sam dropped his head in defeat. Dean's stomach plummeted with fear.
Both of Sam's arms were bandaged at the elbows like he'd had a ton of blood work done, and there was a larger pad of gauze just under his arm, taped to the meat his muscle that disappeared under his wifebeater. There was a plastic bracelet on his wrist. Dean looked at Sam with wide eyes and a dry mouth. "Please tell me you've started shooting up."
Sam said nothing, closed his eyes slowly, running his fingers through his hair. He ignored Dean, putting the hoodie back up and zipping it carefully.
"Answers. Now." Dean gritted out, heart hammering in his chest.
"I felt a l-lump...and it hurt, so I went to the ER this morning...and they ran some tests." He spat the words out like they were poisonous. He didn't want to carry it alone, Dean realized, but he'd tried.
Dean forced a breath, instinctually not liking the path this was taking.
"They think I have cancer, Dean." Sam said matter-of-factly.
Out of all of the things Sam could have said, that was the very last thing he'd expected. His heart seized within him, lurching pitifully as his lungs fought for breath. He gripped the edge of the chair, willing his knees not to buckle, so that he wouldn't swoon like those ladies in the soap operas. "Tell me everything the doctor said. Word for word," Dean ordered. "They actually said the word 'cancer' to you?"
They stumbled to the foot of their beds, and Sam nodded grimly. "They biopsied the lymph node. He said that biopsy was precautionary, but with other symptoms…he's thinking some kind of lymphoma or leukemia."
Dean hated the way Sam said those ugly words so comfortably like he was already resigned to chemo and radiation and suffering. "Wait…what other symptoms?"
"Night sweats."
Dean tasted bile, "the other night?"
Sam nodded and continued with a grimace, "Fevers—I've had a few. Fatigue—we're always tired, ya know? Weight loss…I've lost about…twelve pounds. I just thought I just wasn't eating enough…"
"The eating…" It was all coming together—a horrifying, malignant puzzle. Dean felt guilty and baffled at how he'd missed it.
"I didn't know either, Dean. It's just thought it was stress until I found the 'node," Sam said, reading his mind.
Dean tried to regroup and forcibly stamped down his own panic. Sam was fine. He was the epitome of health with his stupid salads and the vitamins he was pressing on the Dean. With the 9,000 crunches and chin-ups he did every morning. With the freakishly huge body that was all muscle and not an ounce of fat. "It'll be okay, Sam."
"Fifty words of Latin won't get me out of this, Dean," Sam said, voice tight with terror.
Dean shook his head. Sam was falling apart and he didn't know how to keep him together. Sam was in a place Dean had never been. There was no big brother wisdom for this one. Dean forced a smile anyway. "You won't need it, Sammy. The doc's just covering his bases. I might have to crack his head a little for scaring you, but he was just being…thorough." He licked his lips. "Why didn't you tell me? I would have come with you. Ya know, school Dr. McScary on his bedside manner."
Sam reached out to clutch Dean's arm like an anchor with fever-warm hand. "I didn't want you to worry."
Dean laughed with irony. "Bang up job you didn't with that, kiddo."
He looked up, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Sorry. I didn't think it would turn in them cutting things out of me."
Dean sobered, pushing that image from his mind. "When will we know?"
Sam wiped his leaking eyes and sniffled. "They wanted me to stay overnight, but I just couldn't be there…they said twenty-four hours, give or take."
Dean nodded and forced a smile. "Well, we'll have to do something cool to distract you, okay?"
"Yeah, find something for tomorrow," Sam said. "No strip clubs," he amended at the start of Dean's leering grin.
Sam was shaken, exhausted and feverish, and Dean coaxed him into his favorite pajamas—a Stanford tee-shirt and sweatpants—and into bed. Sam curled up on his side, sighing with apparent fatigue that Dean only realized had been constant for the last few months, but his eyes stayed open, focused on Dean. "You didn't eat the pizza," he whispered, sounding all of six, when he liked to make Dean breakfast.
"Will it make you feel better?"
"Yes."
Dean promptly starting chowing down on the almost cold pie, anything to oblige his brother. They didn't speak again that night, silenced by what strange new future awaited them tomorrow. The Winchesters had fought they supernatural for so long, they'd forgotten about the world's natural evils—the unrealized dreams or the cancerous monster lurking beneath in the skin, in the blood.
Sam was soon fast asleep, languid limbs sprawled, the same chuffing snore he had when she was a baby. Dean's life was segmented into two very distinct chapters: Before the Fire and Before Stanford. Before the fire, Dean's memories were hazy and colored with exaggerated emotions of a child. Dean had never prayed, but Before the Fire, he used to wish. On everything. He wished on his daddy's wrench before he tightened a bolt on the Impala; folded potato chips—usually for a puppy; all the stars in the sky, the letter magnets on the fridge. When his mother was pregnant, he'd wish on her swollen belly. They'd wanted a girl, called the belly Claire, but Dean wanted a brother. So he'd climb up on his mother's lap, finger sweeping the wobbly, alive belly and wished for it—for Sam--harder than he'd ever wished for anything in his little life.
Dean's hands hovered lightly over his decidedly larger brother before settling on his chest. And because Dean Winchester, After the Fire and After Stanford, didn't pray, didn't believe in God or even Heaven, he wished for the health of his brother. Wished that even if he did have cancer, it could be magically transferred to Dean's body. He wished until the nauseating panic he could push it away, and was lulled to sleep by the hiss of his little brother's breathing.
They spent the day like the birthdays Dean never had growing up; like he'd always made sure he arranged for Sam. They went to breakfast at a local dinner, went to the movies, capped off by a night at the batting cages. They laughed and joked, never mentioned the cancer.
When Dean looked at Sam swinging the bat like he was Babe Friggin' Ruth all he saw were the muscles that rippled and twitched and the powerful, graceful and dangerous way he moved. All signs of strength and vigor. Another glance—the high pink in his cheeks, the generous mop of brown hair that grew so fast, Sam just stopped cutting it. The ball Sam clobbered bounced off the far plexi-glass wall with a thunderous clap that drew stares. He glanced at Dean with a toothy grin, waving him over. "Cracked the bat," Sam boasted with a disbelieving laugh.
All too soon, Sam they were back at the hospital and the bright cheer on Sam's face had dissolved into dark misery and wan complexion. Dean was the epitome of calm on the surface, placing warm hand on Sam's rocking knees, telling him dirty jokes to take his mind off the mind-numbing waiting. Beneath the surface, the layers of his coat, Dean was sweating, heart racing, sick to his stomach. In the recesses of his mind, he was screaming every curse and spell he could think of, railing against something he couldn't kill. The fear was escalating and snowballing and by the time the nurse called them back, Dean felt like he was going to explode behind the relaxed face and loose stride. The doctor sat behind the desk, face locked on the paperwork as if he was just now seeing it. Dean suddenly realized if Sam was sick, he'd have no money or insurance to take care of him. He clamped his teeth together, choking down bile. He'd already thrown up twice. Sam was fine. Sam was fine. Poltergeists and vampires and some freak demon virus couldn't take down his sasquatch of a little brother, a few mutated cells didn't stand a chance.
"I'm sorry to keep you waiting so long, Mr. Calloway, but I have your test results here," the doctor said. "We ran a full battery of tests…as you know, and thankfully, the biopsy was benign. Your white counts were a little..."
"So…I'm okay?" Sam asked breathlessly.
"Well…not exactly. You do have mono, but…"
Sam laughed, like he had at the batting cages, tickled. "Seriously? I didn't even get that in college."
He smiled, and nodded. "This was the only diagnosis I was actually happy to give out today, Samuel. Of course, you'll need lots of…"
The voices trailed off into an indiscernible hum in the back of Dean's mind. The knot of worry that had been snowballing and filling him up for the past twenty-four hours suddenly broke, cracked like glass. The ridiculous relief splintered his masterful poker face, and Dean heard a sob echo against the narrow walls of the physician's office. He stood up, mortified and stumbled for the door, the metal castors of the chair dragging loudly against the tile. Dean huffed for breath, pushing aside strange hands. He just needed to open the door or a window. Dean tore at his collar, stripping off his coat before careening into the hallway that was a gleaming white and windowless. He paced the length of it, heart racing and mind strobing with images of Sam bald and colorless in a hospital bed, Sam coughing, slipping away, Sam being pumped with poison. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes that were buzzing and wet, trying to laugh it off, but it came out mournful and maniacal.
Dean broke completely, bowing from the overwhelming fear, the obstacle dodged. He could feel it now that the cancer had been averted. How close this one was. His knees buckled, and he realized that strong, healthy arms were around him, holding him. A soft voice was crooning, "I'm okay, Dean. Let it go. You can let it go now." Sam dropped with him in the hallway of a hospital, where doctors, nurses and patients watched as he cried with the same recklessness and freedom that he'd hunted with. Sam was there, holding him through it. "I'm fine, big brother, I'm fine." His voice changed, deepened. "No, ma'am, I got him, he's okay. Take a breath, Dean, before they start sticking tubes in dark places." Sam whispered, big hands rubbing his chest.
He coughed, choking on a laugh before he inhaled.
Ten minutes and too many tears later, Dean was blotting his leaking eyes in the bathroom he'd been so desperate to find earlier, staring in the mirror at his face that was horribly splotched with crimson. He still hiccupped sporadically. Sam watched him quietly as he continued to scrub his cheeks with cold water, hoping to make the puffiness recede. "You look like the girl in the chick-flick after her boyfriend dumps her," Sam said softly.
"Rub it in, asshat." He whispered. He was tired, but felt lighter, unburdened, and it almost cooled the bright burn of crying in front of an entire hospital. But Sam was leaning casually against the sink next to him, completely cancer-free, and he couldn't feel a lick of shame. "Can we go now?"
"Waiting on you, Julia." Sam placed a hand on Dean's shoulder and left it there.
"If you hug me, I'll break your arm," Dean seethed, pointing a threatening finger at him.
"Wouldn't dream of it, Meg Ryan," Sam smiled.
A sharp elbow to the ribs shut his brother up. Dean ignored the glances as he walked through the carpeted office floor of the hospital, and smiled softly at the nurse who'd tried to help Sam with him earlier. They headed out the hospital, away from the maddening nightmare. Dean felt just as happy and special as the three-year-old who wished for—and got—a little brother.
