Fade
A/N: Thanks again to everyone who has reviewed so far (and a special mention to Madebyme who always leaves such fantastic feedback!)
Um, guess I should warn for drug use in this chapter, but it's very light. Nothing to be terribly concerned about.
Chapter Six
On Wednesday, Sam threw up all over Dean in the back seat of the Impala while Bobby drove them back from the hospital.
"Ew, Sammy." Dean crinkled his nose distastefully but didn't loosen his hold on his younger brother. The chemo sessions got worse every time, Sam's body reacting almost instantly to the new chemicals poured on top of the old ones accumulating in his blood.
It was torture. For him and Sam. Watching Sam sweat and retch his way through two hours of poison, clinging to Dean in a way he hadn't since childhood; God, it was killing him.
"Sorry," Sam mumbled, face buried in Dean's shoulder.
"When you get better, you so owe me," Dean said, but he couldn't put any of the usual force into the threat. He just wanted Sam to get better, full stop.
"'kay," Sam said vaguely, and Dean got the feeling that he wasn't really listening, that he couldn't listen when he felt as sick as he did.
They got to the motel without any further episodes, and Dean carefully and slowly moved Sam from the back seat to the bathroom, waving off Bobby's attempts to help.
"I've got him," he said, and Bobby had the sense to back off, instead gathering together supplies to clean the Impala. Dean didn't think he'd ever stop being grateful for Bobby's help.
"Aren't they giving you something at the hospital to stop you from barfing?" he asked as he eased Sam onto the bathroom floor.
"Not working," Sam said, and, as if to prove it, as if simply talking was too much, he leant over the toilet bowl and threw up again.
"How're you even finding anything to throw up anyway?" Dean asked, on his knees next to Sam. He placed a reassuring hand on the back of his younger brother's neck, the other rubbing up and down his back, trying to still the tremors.
Sam spat a few times and then wearily rested his head on an arm, eyes closed, "Maybe if you didn't keep forcing food on me I'd be able to stop."
"Gotta eat, Sammy."
Sam apparently still had the strength to raise his middle finger.
~~~~0000~~~~
Dean tried dry toast and crackers, ginger ale, plain sandwiches and cereal.
When none of that worked, he moved on to soup and salads, protein shakes, Gatorade. Nothing stayed down. Sam was still loosing weight and Dean was spending a fortune (of Bobby's money) on food just to have it flushed down the toilet.
Another week passed. Another round of chemo. Days went by without food. None of the books Dean and Bobby searched through vigorously held any hint of a way to cure Sam, no one they called had any answers.
The vision's came and went. Sam refused to talk about them. In fact, Sam didn't talk much at all now. He thanked Bobby when he moved them into a slightly better motel, the older hunter insisting that he had more than enough money from the salvage yard to front them for a while, refused food, barely kept down water, and replied to anything asked to him with mostly monosyllabic answers.
As the days passed, Dean watched the shadows darken under Sam's eyes. He slept most of the time now, too exhausted for anything else, while Dean and Bobby worked into the wee hours of the morning, running on black coffee and desperation.
Sam was losing it; maybe even giving up (a thought that terrified), and Dean didn't know what to do. What he did know, was that he had to do something fast.
~~~~0000~~~~
Sam woke on Friday – or was it Saturday? Whatever, it was a day that he didn't have to go get poison fed down the stupid tube in his chest so that was good enough – and immediately knew that something was going on because Dean was grinning the way he did when he was up to something.
Sam almost decided to go back to sleep because he didn't want to know what Dean was happy about unless it was a cure, which Sam highly doubted. In fact, Sam highly doubted that Dean would find a cure at all. The visions spoke volumes and they said that there wasn't anything for them to find. If there were, he wouldn't be being tortured by images of a beaten, broken Dean crying at his deathbed.
But curiosity won and he managed a vaguely interested, mainly irritable, "What?"
Dean grinned wider, looking terribly pleased with himself, and proclaimed, "Found the answer, Sammy. Gonna get you eating again."
Sam groaned, reconsidering his interest. Maybe he could just pretend to sleep until Dean gave up…
Dean caught his attention by holding up something that looked like a cigarette but…. in a dodgy kind of way. For one, it was too big to be a normal cigarette and had no filter, just rolled up cardboard.
"Is that a joint?" Sam asked incredulously, sitting up a bit, his plan of ignoring Dean forgotten.
"Medicinal marijuana, Sammy," Dean said smugly.
"It's Sam," Sam corrected automatically.
Dean ignored him, "It's an anti-nauseant and it'll give you the munchies. Win-win."
"Where did you even get it?" Sam shook his head. Maybe he shouldn't be that surprised. This was Dean, after all.
Dean tapped the side of his nose, "It's all about who you know." He held the joint out to Sam, "Go on then."
Sam frowned, unsure, "I dunno."
"Oh, come on, Sam! You never got stoned before?"
Sam hesitated and Dean looked honestly stunned, "Wait, really?"
Sam rolled his eyes, "I did go to college, remember?"
Dean looked relieved, "Good. Geez, Sammy, you almost had me thinking I raised you wrong."
"Stop calling me Sammy."
Dean just grinned and flourished a lighter.
Fifteen minutes later, Sam was feeling… weird. Kind of tingly and warm. A bit float-y. He wouldn't have minded if Dean wanted to call him Sammy just then, because Dean was right, he didn't feel anywhere near as sick as before.
It was kind of hard to concentrate on what Dean was saying, but that was okay because he had the feeling that Dean was also finding it kind of hard to concentrate on what he was saying. Sam laughed, at nothing really, but Dean's face sort of lit up at the sound so that was okay, too.
"What in blue blazes are you boys doing?"
Both brothers turned towards the, now open, door. Bobby sniffed experimentally, his face warring between stunned exasperation and amusement.
"It's medicinal!" Dean proclaimed with a grin, waving the half-smoked joint in the air.
Bobby's face settled on amused, "You're not sick."
Dean just shrugged, more at ease than Sam had seen him in a long time, and waved Bobby off, stating, in complete disagreement with his demeanor, "I'm stressed."
Bobby shook his head in mock exasperation and Sam grinned. He was struck by a sudden wondering of what his dad would have done had he walked in on him and Dean smoking pot and barely managed to stop himself from bursting into hysterics. The loss of his father didn't feel so sharp at this moment.
"You, kid, must be stoned," Bobby grinned at him, "That's the first time I've seen you smile since I got here."
"We'll have to get more, ay, Sammy?" Dean winked.
Sounded like a good idea, if only to see Dean without that mask of carefully controlled panic.
"Hey, Dean?" Sam said.
"Yeah?"
"I'm hungry."
Dean looked like all his Christmases had come at once, which made Sam want to laugh again.
"Well, that definitely calls for celebration," Bobby announced, before he leant forward and plucked the joint from Dean's hand, taking a long drag.
Sam and Dean stared at him in stunned amazement.
Bobby exhaled, blowing out a long stream of the pungent smoke. "What?" he asked innocently, his amusement growing
Sam couldn't help it. He cracked up, and Dean quickly followed.
~~~~0000~~~~
Dean couldn't believe it. He finds something to help Sam feel better and the hospital immediately finds something to make him feel worse.
"Cerubidine," Catherine said, "Just a little kick."
Apparently, 'a little kick' in cancer-speak meant another hour at the hospital and another bag of poison.
"Why?" Sam asked, chewing on his thumb nail (another habit from childhood, Dean noted) as he watched Catherine hooking the IV bag up.
"The cancer's a bit more aggressive than we thought, that's all," Catherine said gently, but she shot Dean a look that said otherwise – one that Sam would have noticed a few months ago, but things can change terribly in even a short amount of time and Sam didn't pay much attention to anything these days – and said casually, "Doctor Harper wants to talk to you, by the way, Dean."
After Bobby had assured him that he was perfectly capable of sitting with Sam for a few minutes, and yes, he would come fetch Dean immediately if needed, Dean allowed Catherine to lead him to Doctor Harper's office.
"Have a seat, Dean."
Doctor Harper's office was cozier than most that Dean had seen, and judging by the photograph on her wall showing two smiling children she was indeed someone's mother, as Dean had previously surmised. The older woman scribbled a few notes on a piece of paper before looking up at her visitor.
"What is it?" Dean asked as soon as she turned her attention to him.
Dr. Harper lost her welcoming smile, her face switching to serious and professional in an instant.
"I'm told that you don't like to beat around the bush, Dean, so I'll give it to you straight. It's not working."
Dean stared at her. "What do you mean, it's not working?"
Dr. Harper sighed, "Sam's platelets are at 52 thousand. They should be climbing up to 100."
"What does that mean?"
"It means it's not working. Normal on the low side is 200."
Dean ground his palms into his eyes before speaking, "You mean, I've been bringing him here every week so you can poison him, and it's not even working?"
"Sometimes it doesn't," Dr. Harper said frankly, "He needs more chemo."
Dean set his jaw, "No. No more chemo. God, he's sick enough as it is."
"Sick's better than dead, Dean," Dr. Harper said, firmly but not harshly.
Dean felt the fight flow out of him, leaving him with surprisingly little. Poison Sam to save him. Save Sam or kill him – his father's last words took on a whole new meaning. This was so messed up.
"Dean," Dr. Harper caught his attention. "We need to start thinking about a bone marrow transplant."
"He can have mine," Dean said immediately. No need to think about it.
"It's not as simple as that. There are tests that need to be done, to make sure you're a match."
"I'm his brother."
"Which means there's a good chance you'll be a perfect donor, but we need to make sure."
"Well, do it then."
Dr. Harper nodded solemnly, "I'll start making arrangements."
Dean stood to leave, eager to get out of the office that didn't seem so cozy anymore.
"Dean."
Dean forced himself to turn back and look at her. She was standing now, too.
"This is to help him, not hurt him," she said gently, "We're doing everything we can. Next week, bring him in on Thursday as well. We'll see how he does."
Dean ran a hand through his hair, huffing out an exhale. Dr. Harper reached out and squeezed his shoulder and he found himself frantically blinking back the burning sensation in his eyes.
He had to wait a good five minutes before he felt together enough to go back to Sam.
~~~~0000~~~~
Bobby watched the Winchester boys from his place in their motel room doorway.
Dean sat in the Impala's rear foot well, half in, half out of the car, talking softly to Sam who was sprawled on the back seat, eyes closed.
Sam had lost too much weight – Bobby was willing to bet that he could touch his thumb and middle finger together around his wrists – and Dean had dropped several pounds himself.
There were only a few books left to search and Bobby couldn't help the sense of failure creeping over him. Those boys were almost like sons to him. Darn it, they were like sons to him. Losing Sam wasn't an option. They were going to find something, even if he had to exhaust his whole damn library of books, which, at this point, may actually be his only option. Trawl through everything.
"You ready to get up?" Dean's soft voice carried across to him.
"Yeah."
Bobby barely heard the whispered reply but he knew well enough not to offer his services. Dean needed to do this, look after Sam now, because it was fast becoming the only thing he could do.
Maybe there just wasn't a supernatural cure. Maybe they were just wasting their time, and Sam's.
~~~~0000~~~~
Sam half-sleeps, half-aware that Dean's tracing protective sigils on his open palm. He's been hurting for so long that he almost can't remember what it was like before.
How was it possible to feel this sick? He couldn't ever think of a time he'd felt this sick. He wasn't supposed to be this sick. He was supposed to get over it. Winchester's always got over it, but then, Sam supposed, he'd never really been that good at being a Winchester from the start. He'd never been interested in hunting, didn't get along with John, left when he should have stayed, maybe stayed when he should have left, tried to be something else, someone else. He'd killed his mother and then Jess.
Maybe this was just karma.
"Hey, Sammy?"
Sam opens his eyes to look up at Dean. "Mm?"
"Stop thinking so loud and get some rest."
"'kay."
Sam closes his eyes and drifts again.
~~~~0000~~~~
"Eat, Sam."
"I'm not hungry."
"Doesn't matter. You need the strength."
"Not hungry."
"Don't care. Eat."
Sam scowled. Dean had stopped finding Sam's belligerence amusing a long time ago and had resigned himself to the daily battle of near force-feeding.
"It's just soup, Sam."
"No, Dean."
"You have to eat something."
"What's the point?"
Dean set his face, hoping he looked determined, rather than desperate, "The point, Sam, is for you to actually have some fuel to keep you going. You're running on empty."
He got the feeling that desperation was beating determination in the war over his facial features, but apparently desperate worked. Sam, huddled on the bed wearing Dean's hoodie – and how the hell did it manage to look so big on him?! – studied Dean for a moment, before finally accepting the mug of soup. He sniffed it suspiciously and wrinkled his nose.
"Dean-"
"Eat!"
Sam scowled again but raised the cup to his lips and took a small sip. Immediately, he gagged and spun for the rubbish bin but Dean blocked him.
"Don't throw it up," he ordered in his best John Winchester imitation.
Sam's eyes widened in a mix of hurt and disbelief as he swallowed hard, trying to regain control.
"Keep eating."
"Dean," Sam pleaded.
"I said, keep eating!"
Sam looked close to tears, which wrenched something inside of Dean, but he couldn't just stand back and let his brother fade away. He had to fight, for Sam, because Sam was too ravaged by cancer and chemo to do it himself.
Sam choked down another sip. Dean didn't move, didn't back down.
"More."
"Dean." It was Bobby's voice this time. Dean spun to find the older man at his shoulder. "Stop."
"He has to eat!" Dean cried. He could tell he was going too far but Sam was dying and he couldn't do anything to stop it. He could make him eat though.
"You're going to make him sick."
"He's already sick!" Dean insisted, hearing the break in his voice and ignoring it. He snatched the mug from Sam and pressed it to his brother's lips, sloshing soup onto the bedspread. He tilted it, trying to force the broth into his mouth. Sam choked and sputtered, spitting the offending food out.
"Damn it, Sam, eat!"
"I can't!" Sam cried.
"Dean, stop! Now!" Bobby roared.
With an unintelligible grunt, Dean threw the mug at the wall. It shattered in a sudden tinkling spray of broken porcelain and soup.
Dean stalked to the door but didn't make it outside before he heard Sam begin to retch, throwing up what little soup managed to make it down his throat. He did, however, make it before Sam or Bobby could see the wetness on his cheeks.
TBC
A/N: Things get pretty intense from here on. There will be a total of 10 chapters, so get ready for the final ride! I should probably issue a tissue warning too, seeing as I've already upset a few of you (sorry!! I don't know what's wrong with me!)