Fade
A/N: First of all, I'd just like to say that I've been overwhelmed by the response to this story. There's been an incredible amount of Story Alerts and even a few Favourite Story and Author's. Thanks so much, guys! I really appreciate it, especially the reviews! Thanks for taking the time to tell me what you thought! They really encouraged me to get this next chapter up as soon as possible.
Oh hey, by the way, does anyone have a working megavideo link to My Bloody Valentine, the latest episode? I couldn't find one and it's killing me!
Anyway, I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. On with the show!
Chapter Two
Sam…
Go 'way, Dean.
Sam.
Lemme 'lone, I'm sleeping.
Sam!
Grudgingly, Sam followed his brother's voice into waking, wondering briefly what it was about Dean that caused him to obey almost automatically.
It was the smell that reminded him of where he was. Without it, he could have just as easily pictured the unfamiliar familiarity of generic motel rooms, yellowed wallpaper and stained carpets, but the heavy smell of bleach and disinfectant spoke of white. White walls, white ceilings, white sheets and white tiles. Hospital.
Still thinking longingly of the cushioning sleep he'd been so rudely dragged away from, Sam opened his eyes, blinking until the sleep fuzz faded and he turned his head to see Dean hovering over him, one hand still resting on his shoulder.
"Hey," he said softly, as if he were speaking to a child, "The doc's back."
"Oh," Sam said hazily, moving automatically as Dean raised the head of his bed so he could sit up. "D'they know what's wrong yet?"
The upright position cleared his head and he watched Dean turn towards the doctor, waiting expectantly.
The man – a serious looking fellow with a thick moustache and gray-speckled hair – glanced down at his clipboard with a frown.
"We're going to need to do a bone marrow biopsy. Your white blood cells are out of control."
"What does that mean?" Dean demanded, his hand tightening on Sam's shoulder. Sam squirmed slightly and he loosened his grip marginally.
"It could mean a lot of things," the doctor stated neutrally, glancing over Dean with a look of mild disapproval before turning back to Sam, "But to start with, it means blood transfusions are in order. You have an astonishing amount of white blood cells, depleted red cells and barely any platelets. How long have you felt unwell?"
Sam shrugged. How long had it been since he felt normal? It was hard to think with sleep threatening to overtake him once more. "A while?"
"And those bruises, have you had them long?"
Sam shrugged again. He always had bruises. What did it matter? Couldn't the guy see that he was tired?
"What's wrong with him?" Dean asked, a slight protective growl mixing in with his words.
The doctor paused and Sam quickly placed his hand on Dean's arm when he went to move forwards, effectively stilling him. Dean punching the doctor wouldn't help… or maybe it would have gotten them kicked out and then he could have gone back to the motel and slept. Oh well, maybe next time…
The doctor cleared his throat. "We'll know more after the biopsy," he said carefully, leaving the room quickly before Dean could ask any more questions.
Sam sighed and leant his head back. With the doctor gone there was no need for him to… bother… staying awake…
~~~~0000~~~~
Sam couldn't remember anyone taking his bone marrow for testing, which he was glad of because he imagined it must have hurt. In fact, despite Dean's assurance that they'd been at the hospital for a number of hours, Sam couldn't remember much of anything at all.
Awareness came to him slowly, bleeding through into the soft nothing that had embraced him.
"Sammy? You awake?"
A hand carded through his hair. Dean. Always Dean. Sam turned his head blindly, automatically towards his brother's voice and touch.
"Hey, open your eyes, Sam."
Sam obeyed and the dark fuzz in front of him gradually cleared to reveal Dean's leather jacket. Sam shifted his gaze upwards until he was looking Dean in the eye.
"Atta boy, Sammy," Dean encouraged affectionately, but Sam heard a hint of something else in his voice. Fear, maybe.
"Wha' happened?"
"Nothing. You just fell asleep. You're okay."
Sam nodded his agreement, if only to reassure Dean, wondering who his brother was trying to convince.
"Is it bad?" Sam tried to gauge Dean's expression but it gave nothing away.
"What bad?"
"What's wrong with me."
Frustration creased Dean's brow, "They wont tell me anything."
It looked for a moment like Dean wanted to kick something, but as Sam watched he seemed to make a conscious effort to pull himself together, his face softening into calm collected big brother mode.
"Do you feel any better now? They gave you all these transfusions." Dean ticked them off on his fingers, "Two red cells, a white cell and a platelet."
Sam pushed himself up, Dean automatically raising the head of the bed, surprised when no dizziness accompanied the motion.
"Yeah. 'M okay."
Dean sat back in his seat, absentmindedly smoothing out the sheets while chewing on his lower lip.
"What?" Sam asked.
Dean paused a moment, debating internally. Sam waited until Dean blew out a breath, wearily running a hand through his hair as he leant forward again and fingered the sheets. He glanced up to catch Sam's eye before his gaze darted back down to the bed.
"I dunno. Just… the doctor, he seems to think you're pretty sick."
"What'd he say?" Sam sat up straighter.
"Nothing," Dean sighed, "That's the problem. He's been ordering tests and consulting other doctors and he wont tell me what the hell's going on."
Maybe that should have worried Sam, brought about a little concern for his health, but at that moment reassuring Dean seemed more important.
"I feel better now," he offered.
Dean seemed to steady himself. "Yeah. That's good. You'll be fine, Sam."
Sam nodded, picking at the gauze on the back of his hand, both of them lapsing into silence as they continued the tense wait. After a moment, Dean reached over and gently pushed Sam's fingers away, pressing the corner of the gauze back down flat.
"It's still bleeding," he said, as if Sam hadn't noticed.
"Why?" Sam asked, frowning down at his hand and prodding the bandage. Dean deftly moved his fingers away again.
"I don't know."
"Does the doctor know?"
"I don't know."
Sam sunk back on the bed. "This sucks."
Dean nodded distractedly, looking at the bandage, his forehead creased.
Sam sighed, tilting his head to the side to look at his brother. "Dean, stop stressing. You're going to give yourself gray hairs."
Dean raised his eyebrows.
"Or wrinkles," Sam continued with a hint of a grin.
And it worked. Dean gave him an exaggerated incredulous look, "I'm not that old, Sammy. I know I must seem ancient to someone as young as you-"
Sam scoffed, "I'm only four years younger."
"Then maybe you should start worrying about your own wrinkles, little brother."
Sam opened his mouth to begin a comeback but was interrupted by knocking. Both brothers turned to the door, Sam looking up and Dean swiveling in his seat before standing. The doctor stood in the doorway, his face unreadable as he gazed over his clipboard at them.
"I've got the biopsy results."
The lighthearted atmosphere evaporated, seemingly taking half the air in the room with it. Suddenly, Sam didn't want to know. He felt a childish urge to put his hands over his ears. He wanted Dean to take him to the Impala so that they could drive far, far away from this hospital and the doctor with his biopsy results. But Sam's used to not getting what he wants.
"And…?" Dean prompted the doctor.
The doctor's face shifted slightly, throwing out a glimpse of regret.
"It's not good. Those bruises, the infection you told us about, that cut that wont stop bleeding – it doesn't paint a pretty picture."
Sam didn't want to know.
"And what picture does it paint?" Dean asked carefully.
The doctor lowered his clipboard, turning his softened gaze to Sam and looking him in the eye.
"It's leukemia."
The rest of the air disappeared. Sam's lungs froze, unable to take a breath, like a punch to the solar plexus.
"It's what?" he heard Dean ask. Why did Dean have to ask? Wasn't he the one who always asked questions? God, he didn't want to know.
"Acute Promyelocytic Leukemia, to be exact." Why did he have to be exact? "Cancer. In the blood and bone marrow."
Sam heard Dean thump back down into his chair, heavily, as if his legs had suddenly given out. The doctor carried on.
"You're grossly hypercellular. The cancerous cells in your bone marrow can't mature into healthy blood cells. They're spilling into your bloodstream by the millions, and they can't fight infection, clot your blood or transport oxygen. There's no room for your regular blood cells."
Dean's hand wound its way into Sam's and he realized he'd been aimlessly grasping at the bed sheets, searching for something that wasn't there. He found what he needed in Dean's firm hold. It grounded him, gave him something solid to cling to when, yet again, his world was ripped out from under him.
"It's a good thing you came in now. You're well on your way to blast crisis."
"What's that?"
Damn it, Dean, shut up! Don't want to know!
"It's a term we use for patients whose blood has been completely replaced by cancer cells. No red, no white, just blasts. That's why you needed the transfusions."
There was a long loaded silence. Sam didn't want to think. Stop thinking. What were they supposed to do now?
Sam may be the token family psychic but Dean can be a pretty good mind reader at times.
"What are we supposed to do now?" he asked.
The doctor gave a sympathetic smile, stroking his moustache thoughtfully. "Chemotherapy. I think you've avoided in-house chemo so we'll do outpatient. Three days a week. You can go home until Monday, sort out any work commitments, or school. Put everything on hold. You need to be in the Oncology Ward at 6am for blood work."
Sam sensed Dean nodding dazedly beside him. Don't look at Dean. Don't see the look on his face. Don't think.
The doctor headed for the door. Diagnosis given, case closed, for him anyway. He paused at the last minute, again searching for Sam's eyes.
"I'm sorry," he added, and then he was gone, leaving Sam alone with Dean and Cancer and a hospital room that seemed to be closing in on him.
~~~~0000~~~~
Dean gripped the Impala's steering wheel so tight his knuckles were white, focusing as hard as he could on the road. Right turn, straighten up, drive. A glance in the rear view mirror showed the hospital decreasing in size as they drove away. He never wanted to see it again, certainly never wanted to step foot in it.
Cancer. What the hell?! Ghosts and demons and curses, yeah, they were manageable… but cancer? He couldn't shoot that full of rock salt, douse it in holy water, read an incantation and make it go away. He suppressed a shudder at the thought of dark poisonous cells accumulating in his brother's blood, growing thicker and blacker.
Even the familiar rumblings of the Impala – home – offered no comfort to him.
He knew that he should say something. Tell Sammy that everything was going to be fine. He could fix this and damn straight he was going to. But his mind was stuck on a loop of I wish Dad was here. He had learnt, of course, that John Winchester was fallible and not the superhero he had thought him in childhood, and even through his teen years, if he was honest with himself, but he always felt comforted in the man's presence, able to relax a little, release the reigns to someone else.
But John wasn't there. John was in Hell, because of him, and Sammy had cancer, and Dean had to fix it.
~~~~0000~~~~
"You okay?" Dean's voice traveled across the bench seat, and Sam almost laughed because, seriously, he'd just been told he had cancer and that was about as far from okay as you could get.
He would have laughed, except that it wasn't actually that funny at all.
"Sammy?" Concern, loud and clear, with no effort to hide it. "Come on, man, talk to me."
Sam shook his head, staring unseeingly out of the window, "I'm okay, just… I need…"
What? To think? No, thinking was definitely bad. Time? Wouldn't help at all. Some new blood would be good, some that wasn't poisoned. Or maybe just a whole new life, where his last name wasn't Winchester because Winchesters are cursed.
Sam left his sentence unfinished and watched the scenery whiz past in a blur of colours.
Dean cleared his throat awkwardly. "I should've taken you in when that cut got infected," he said gruffly, "Maybe…"
Sam recognized the tone and spun in his seat in surprise.
"This isn't your fault," he said incredulously.
Dean gave a half-shrug, eyes firmly on the road.
"What, you think if you'd brought me in then, I wouldn't have cancer now?" Sam flinched at the C-word in time with his brother. "Come on, Dean, a few weeks wouldn't' have made much difference."
Dean bit his lip, offering nothing. The Impala growled throatily.
Sam ran a hand through his hair. God, his hair. Chemo – Stop thinking, Sam! He changed track quickly.
"What are we going to do? Hunting-"
"We'll hunt when you're better, Sam,"" Dean cut him off firmly.
"That could be months away."
"The monsters will still be there in a few months."
"That's the point, Dean. We can't just leave people to-"
"Sam, no! We'll hunt when you're better. You're more important."
Sam felt a rush of affection for his tough, no-chick-flick-moments big brother, even if he was ignoring the issue.
"What are we gonna do about money?"
Dean chewed pensively on the inside of his cheek, "I'll figure it out. I'll sort everything. You just do the chemo and focus on getting better, okay?"
Sam sunk back in his seat, dread washing over him. "Do you know what chemo is, Dean?" he asked quietly.
Dean glanced at him uncertainly and Sam got the feeling he'd rather not know but he couldn't help himself.
"It's poison," he said flatly, "They put poison into your body to kill the cancer but it poisons you too."
"Sam-"
"It makes you sick, your organs sick, it poisons everything that's healthy inside you-"
"Sam…"
" - and sometimes it doesn't even work anyway - "
"Sam, stop!"
Sam suddenly jerked forward in his seat as Dean slammed on the breaks. He stopped mid-sentence, turning to see Dean bent over the steering wheel, clenching it so hard he was in danger of breaking it, or his fingers, breathing heavily. A car horn honked behind them.
"Just stop, okay, Sam?" Dean said quietly, "You're going to be fine.
"Dean-" Sam started.
"Sam," Dean warned in a voice that left no room for arguments. Sam shut up, suddenly deciding that he didn't feel like talking anyway.
The car behind them blared its horn again, and Sam sent out a silent prayer that the driver wouldn't get out and try to pick a fight. Dean would probably rip the guys head off if he did. But apparently there was a God, albeit one that let Sam get cancer, because Dean took a deep breath and started driving again, muttering something about where a horn could be shoved.
~~~~0000~~~~
"What are you doing?"
Sam sounded confused, maybe even a little bit pissed, but Dean didn't pause. He shook out each item of Sam's clothing carefully, checking pockets, before discarding them into the growing pile on the bed.
"Looking for hex bags. Sit down," he said gruffly, turning Sam's duffle inside out, running his hand along the seams and lining, turning out the pockets. It had to be here somewhere.
Sam sat, frowning at his crumpled clothes. "You think I've been cursed?
Dean didn't answer, dumping Sam's duffle bag on the floor and starting to shake out some books.
"Hey, be careful," Sam protested as a couple of loose pages fluttered to the floor.
Dean ignored him, his frustration growing. Where the hell was it?
"Get up," he ordered, and, thankfully, Sam obeyed without a word. Stepping away from the bed, he stood leaning against the doorway of the bathroom, his arms wrapped around himself. Dean wondered briefly whether he was cold or if he just needed the comfort. He shook it off. He needed to concentrate, find the damn hex bag and fix this.
Sam watched silently as he stripped the bed, feverishly searching through the tangle of sheets, checking the mattress. When that turned up nothing, he set about systematically demolishing the room.
Finally, he stood in the middle of the destruction, panting hard. Both duffels had been emptied, clothing strewn everywhere. Books littered the floor. The beds were both stripped naked, down to the mattress, and Dean had only just managed to restrain himself from slicing them up. Toiletries were tossed thoughtlessly onto the floor of the bathroom.
"Dean - " Sam started.
"Must be in the car," Dean said decisively, cutting him off as he brushed past to the door. He flung it open and strode over to the Impala.
Living in a car meant that rubbish tended to accumulate in the foot wells. Old McDonalds bags, candy wrappers, old newspapers, all tossed on the ground as Dean feverishly checked every nook and cranny. The contents of the glove compartment dumped on the seat.
When the interior was cleared, he moved on to the exterior, checking the bumpers, the wheel guards, the bonnet. He emptied out the boot, tipped out their first aid kit, even did a quick surreptitious sweep of the hidden compartment their weapons were stashed in, before, once more, he simply stood among the mess, at a complete loss, arms dropped limply at his sides, his back to Sam, who had watched silently from the doorway.
Dean felt sort of hollow. He had let himself believe that the solution lay within his reach. Damn it, he'd been hoping that Sam had been cursed, because that would have been easier, a quick fix and then revenge. Hex bags were often simple to deal with, once you found them. It could have been over before midnight.
"Damn it!" he cursed aloud.
The hollow space inside him quickly bubbled up with rage, unexplainable, irrepressible anger, and he only just had enough sense left to move away from his beloved Impala before it was unleashed.
The vending machine made a formidable target and satisfying clunks and bangs as he pounded his fists into it. He didn't even feel the pain in his hands so he carried on swearing and throwing punches, unaware of how long he'd been at it until Sam suddenly spoke from right behind him. He hadn't even heard him come up.
"Come on, Dean, that's not very fair. The vending machine can't defend itself."
He ceased his attack, breathing heavily, and turned to his brother, surprised to see that the light had begun to fade.
"Huh?" he said eloquently, struggling to regain his composure.
"I meant, if you're finished beating up the defenseless vending machine, we should probably go inside. You're attracting attention."
Dean followed Sam's gesture in time to see a curtain fall back into place in one of the nearby motel room windows.
Acquiescing, he fell into step with Sam and they made their way back to their room. He paused in the doorway, remembering the state of the Impala, but when he looked he saw that Sam must have put everything back into place during his fight with the vending machine because the doors were shut and the ground around it was clear.
The same couldn't be said about their motel room however. Sighing heavily, Dean set about tidying the place, shooing Sam away when he tried to help.
Sam pulled the sheets back onto his bed and sat, uncharacteristically obedient. Dean cleaned in silence for a while.
"So no hex back," Sam stated.
Dean continued shoving clothes into his duffel. "No hex bag," he confirmed heavily, "You're not cursed."
Sam huffed a humourless laugh, "If you say so."
Dean's stomach clenched. He dropped the bag and crossed the room to Sam in three strides, kneeling down in front of him.
"You listen to me, Sam," he said thickly. He waited for Sam to meet his eye, then spoke, low and serious, "You are not cursed. I'm going to fix this."
Sam chewed his lower lip, looking almost exactly the way he had when he was young and scared. "What if you can't?"
Dean set his mouth in a determined line, remembering Sam's words after he'd been electrocuted.
"Watch me."
To Be Continued…