A/N: I must be mental – I have an exam tomorrow, but I'm doing this. Anyway, here's the next chapter, typed again, on a borrowed laptop, lol. A little early because I was late with the last one. Hope you guys like it! Thanks for all the amazing reviews and support on that last chapter! It was so hard, and you guys, just – you're so amazing. :)

This chapter was supposed to have a lot more – a cliffhanger, even, but I reckon that will have to come in the next one, as this already got too long lol. This one, though, starts with a bit of OOCness on Sam's part, which, unfortunately, has a medical explanation later on.

Thank you, BohemianMoose, for being an awesome beta!

PS: Everyone take a good look at the chapter title before reading, ok? ;)

STAND STILL AND BREATHE

13. No More Pain

Sam shivered against the cold bathroom floor as he left Dean's embrace and shepherded his emotions, trying to avert his worried gaze. He knew that his brother was waiting for him to say something, but at that moment, he was just concentrating on keeping his breathing even. His chest, throat, eyes and head were all aching from everything that had just happened and his breaths were still hitching, single tears falling down here and there as he leaned back against the wall, his chin quivering involuntarily.

When it all finally seemed to be under control, Sam felt tired – drowsy, even and Dean pressed a box of tissues into his hands, presumably brought over there by Castiel. Sam then wiped down his face as the embarrassment finally started to creep in. He handed the box back to Dean, who fixed his green-eyed gaze upon his brother. Sam nodded, conveying to Dean that he was all right.

His face looked swollen and blotchy in the mirror. His eyes were terribly bloodshot and puffed-up. The bald patches on his scalp were still there, and one or two were bleeding slightly. Dean got up, and was standing behind Sam as the latter reached over to finger his sore scalp. Before he could do that, though, Dean had caught his wrist again.

"Don't."

"'M fine," Sam muttered at this, slurring from tiredness (or the tumours, whatever) and sounding as though he had a bad cold. He sniffed. His nose was stuffed up. "N't doing 'nything."

"Yeah, I know," Dean replied calmly, bringing Sam's hand down. "Just don't touch it for now. I'll see what we can put on that."

"N'thing," Sam sighed. "N'thing's g'nna help."

"Hey..."

Sam jerked away Dean's comforting hand on his shoulder. "Wanna sl'p," he said.

"Yeah, yeah, of course," Dean replied. "You want me to get you some soup?"

"No," Sam replied as he turned on the faucet to let the water stream so he could wash his face.

"Okay," said Dean, "let me know if you feel up to it." He moved away as Sam washed, wiped his face, and headed back to his room, shutting and locking the door behind him before finally dropping onto his bed and burying his face in his pillow. He tried to fall asleep by pulling the comforter around him and taking in the smell of the Impala from the pillows (no matter how many times the sheets and pillow covers were changed, Dean's room always seemed to smell like the car). Sleep, however, did not come easily.

After a while, there was a knock on his door. "Sam?" It was Dean.

Sam shifted over. His nose was still blocked and his throat felt sore from the mouth breathing. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. "What?" he called out tiredly to Dean.

"Open up." The elder Winchester provided no other explanation.

Sam sat up on the bed for a moment, letting some of the initial dizziness pass as he went on to unlock the door for Dean. He came back and sat on the bed immediately, as he felt unsteady on his feet, but was surprised to see the sleeping bag in Dean's arms as the other man entered.

"Just in case you need anything during the night," said Dean, squatting as he spread the sleeping bag on the floor. Sam would say something, but he really wanted his brother to be there and there was no use acting all manly about it, because that had already been thrown out of the window thirty minutes ago.

"You sleep at all?" Dean asked him again.

Sam ran a hand through his hair and stopped midway, realising what he was doing. His throat constricted as he took his hand down, throwing away the lock of hair that came off into the dustbin beside his bed. "No," he said, answering Dean's question and feeling his chest tighten. He wondered if he had any tears remaining to be shed at all.

"Hey." Dean came over and sat beside Sam on the bed once he had adjusted the sleeping bag. "We'll take care of it later on, okay?" he said, watching Sam finger the single hair that hadn't fallen into the bin. "It's going to be fine. It will grow back. You know it will."

Sam nodded, more tears springing in his eyes, and then looked away, but not before Dean had noticed. In a moment, Dean's hand was pushing Sam's shoulder, coaxing him to lie down. "Go to sleep now, brother."

Sam didn't resist. He lay down and turned to his side, hiding his face from Dean so he wouldn't see the tears that had started again. For a moment, Dean patted Sam's arm. "Calm down. Try to sleep."

Sam nodded as he shut his eyes and palmed them, letting a few salty droplets slip through to wet his hand, and Dean's weight on the bed was still there, until Sam was able to stop shaking. Then the elder man patted Sam's back once and got down to his place on the floor. Sam could hear his brother's breaths even out in a while. He couldn't sleep, however, from the phenytoin and the headache and stuffed nose, and he continued to stare into the darkness until a third, embarrassing round of tears started. His breath hitched once, and he heard Dean stir.

"Sammy?"

"'M o-okay," Sam whispered.

Dean respected this and didn't come back to sit on the bed as Sam cuffed at his tears. There was silence for a while, except for Sam's small sniffles, and Dean spoke again. "You need anything?"

"No."

"Just get some rest then. You have chemo and radiation tomorrow."

"Dn't wanna go," Sam replied in a thick voice.

Dean was quiet for a couple of minutes. "All right," he said after that. "We'll see about that in the morning."

"No. Dn't want chemo. Dn't want raditat'n."

Dean took in a sharp breath. "Okay."

"No... pr'mise m-me."

"What?"

"Let it go." Sam felt another single tear slip as he said it. He really didn't feel well, and he wasn't even sure what the tears were about anymore. It seemed to be everything at once – Dean's agony over watching Sam this way, and yet the comfort that he was always ready to provide, Castiel stressing over Sam the way he was, Sam's sudden need for dependence, the pain, the hair, the neurological shit, the puking, the fainting, the cramps... and dying despite everything. Sam couldn't even list it all anymore.

"You pr'mise?" he spoke again.

"Don't—"

"Please. Cn't take it 'nymore, D'n."

There was silence again.

"Okay, then," Dean finally replied. "I promise. But you should still sleep."

'C-Can't," said Sam, taking a shuddering breath and burying his face in his pillow again. He heard Dean sigh and move, and the weight on his bed was back.

"Hey,' said Dean, sounding scared and concerned, "what is it?"

"'M fine."

"You hurting somewhere?" Dean asked, ignoring that.

Sam sighed, and then nodded into the pillow.

"Where?" Dean sounded like he was talking to a twelve-year-old. "Sam?" he said again, when his brother hadn't replied.

"W'nna sleep," Sam repeated.

Almost immediately, the weight on his bed was gone, and he heard Dean exit the room, only to re-enter a while later. He turned over and looked at his brother, who was holding the bottle of alprazolam pills. He shook his head. "N'seous."

"Just dry swallow one," Dean suggested.

Sam shook his head again. "Make me gag."

Dean pursed his lips, and then sat back down on Sam's bed, handing him the pill bottle. "Hold this."

Sam did as he was told while his brother exited the room again and came back with a bowl and a spoon. He took the pill bottle from Sam, shook one of them out into the bowl and crushed it with the back of the spoon. He then scooped up the powder and poured some water onto it carefully from the bottle.

"Open up," he said, bringing the spoonful of mixture to Sam's mouth. "You can't puke this out. It's just like swallowing down saliva."

Sam put his own hand to the spoon, not wanting Dean to have to feed him, and accepted the medicine. He coughed once as the bitter mixture made its way down his throat and then Dean had him take another spoonful of water to wash it all down. They sat up for a few minutes until they were sure that the medicine was content to stay in Sam's system.

Sam lay back down after that, feeling considerably rested, the last words he heard from Dean before losing it to sleep being, "It will be all right in the morning, Sam. It will be okay. You just see."

~o~

Dean watched his brother shut his eyes as the nurse attached Sam to his IV. It had been an eventful morning, with Sam waking up all embarrassed about his breakdown, and not remembering how Dean had come to sleep on the floor of the room, and consequently, what he had made Dean promise, or that he'd said he wanted to stop treatment. Turned out he didn't remember anything that had happened after the breakdown. He did, however, mumble a 'sorry' to Castiel as well, and the former angel told him not to worry about it.

The doctor had warned the Winchesters about memory issues with Sam, but Dean wasn't sure she meant whole half hours' worth of memories. Yes, Sam tended to forget small things, like whether he had brushed his teeth, or whether he'd taken his meds, but it never had been so bad. So after the initial panicking in the morning, Dean had decided not to worry Sam, and to just ask Dr. Greene about this one.

Either way, after everything, Sam had been, in Dean's opinion, a little off when he'd gone to his brother's room. Sure, Dean teased Sam for being the softer, more emotional person out of the two of them, but Sam wasn't actually all that overtly sensitive either. He got angry or bitchy more easily – never so upset. His waterworks remained limited to the purely emotionally shitty experiences in their lives. Never... this way. Okay, Dean had been expecting Sam to snap at some point, and the breakdown had scared him, but not surprised him. But what happened after that...

Dean stared for a while at Sam's pale, bald head, remembering their session with the clippers that morning. The younger Winchester had approached his brother with the clippers and asked him to get rid of the unruly, wayward locks of hair that remained. Dean had obliged, heart hammering, remembering with a pang what he'd said to Sam not so long ago.

"Give me five minutes with some clippers..."

Not like this, Sammy, never like this.

Dean had said they'd pick up a beanie or a ball cap like Bobby's later on, and Sam had waved him off, saying he'd be fine. He didn't need to hide it. He'd be okay. So Dean didn't push him after that.

Meanwhile at the hospital, Dean stayed on in the ward till Sam went off to sleep and then rose to meet Dr. Greene. She was at her desk, writing something, when he knocked. She looked up at him and gave him a small smile.

"Come in, Dean."

He let himself in and took a seat. She leaned forward, hands interlocked, eyes questioning.

Dean cleared his throat. "Um... so... I just want to know about Sam's progress."

"He has to come for his clinics to determine that," she said, "I'll let you know after this round, on Saturday. Is that okay?"

"Yeah, cool," Dean replied. He hesitated. "I... uh..."

"Yes?"

He licked his lip. "You said there'd be memory lapses, right? For Sam?"

"Small things, yes," the doctor replied. "It's just the chemo and the radiation. They mess up with concentration and memory."

"Yeah, but... is it normal to have bigger memory lapses?" Dean asked her.

"Like?"

"Last night," said Dean, waving his hand, trying to explain, "he seemed really off. He wasn't himself. He just... he got real upset and I'm not sure why... and he never gets that upset so quickly. In the morning, he couldn't remember it."

"Getting upset?"

"Getting upset... talking to me, any of it. He wasn't feeling well, so I slept on his floor to be there to help if he needed it. In the morning, he wondered how I got there."

Dr. Greene nodded once and then pursed her lips. After a while, she spoke. "Look, Dean, your brother has multiple brain tumours."

"Yeah, I know," Dean replied, trying not to snap. Why was she stating the obvious?

"And..." she trailed away, "sometimes, behavioural changes can occur in such conditions. Personality changes."

"So, that was because of the tumours?"

"Most likely," she replied. "The fact that Sam doesn't remember it seems to confirm it, although it's pretty rare to be happening episodically. Usually, the behavioural changes are permanent and persistent. Again, depends on what area the tumour is pressing upon, and how much oedema is there. But... there's a chance this might not remain temporary for Sam after a while."

Dean swallowed. "So... you're saying it's possible this could be persistent after some time?"

"Not necessarily, but it's a possibility, yes."

Dean took a deep breath. "So... Sam might not be Sam anymore."

She sighed. "No."

There was silence. Dean looked down, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Dean," the doctor said suddenly, and he looked up at her. "Have you considered the option that he might have been genuinely upset?"

Dean shook his head. No. That wasn't it. Sam had taken on worse – much worse, and, well, yes, there was that thing with the wall, but he had never depended on anyone or been so helpless with anything. Dean knew that the doctor was saying this to make him look at it from another perspective – she was trying to imply that maybe Sam wasn't as bad as they thought he was – maybe there was a way, but Dean knew that this wasn't it. This was definitely the medical shit, and Sam was getting worse. But he appreciated the doctor for being so positive.

"Let me know if it gets bad," she said, "and I could write him anti-depressants or refer him to a psychiatrist."

Dean nodded, as the doctor spoke again. "Has Sam got a living will?"

He raised his eyebrows. 'Why should he have one?" It was obvious. He knew what she was saying. Sam was getting worse. It was time to make arrangements about how he should die. But no. She didn't know what Dean knew. She didn't know that there was still a chance that Sam could come out, one hundred per cent cured. No chemo, no remission, nothing. He could be completely fine.

The doctor hesitated. "It's... just advisable."

"Meaning he's not getting better?"

"I never said that," she replied, "but it's just so there's something... if things were to go in the way that we don't want them to."

"He'll be fine," said Dean shortly, standing up from his seat. He paused. "Anything else?"

"No," said Dr. Greene, sounding a little intimidated, "unless you have something else you want to ask."

"No, thanks."

He walked out of the office and ran a hand over the back of his neck, letting out a deep breath and praying they wouldn't need any of the shit she was talking about.

~o~

Ants. Bugs. Insects. Sam could feel them running up his fingers and wrists and his toes and feet and ankles too. His limbs felt weird and ticklish, and numb sometimes. On other occasions it was like little pinpricks, like his limbs had gone off to sleep. He ignored it; ignored it all, because most of it was just from the chemo or radiation or whatever-the-fuck. And then there was the pain.

It began one night – it had a burning, numbing quality to it and he didn't sleep – couldn't sleep and had a bad day after radiation, thanks to the aggravated headache. And it escalated. Soon, the pain came too easily. He didn't even have to hurt himself much for it. For instance, he got a paper cut off researching about Metatron's spell and it hurt like a mother. He just managed not to gasp, and Dean was already amused at the intolerance. And everywhere he bumped, everything he ran into by mistake sent an exploding, blinding pain up whatever part of his body was in contact.

Sometimes, when he stood up suddenly from sitting for a while he felt incredible, terrible dizziness pass through him and he would have to grit his teeth to keep from passing out. Sometimes, he felt so warm at night; he'd want to sleep on ice. Sometimes he'd sweat so much, from odd places; it was like someone was wringing all the water out of him.

Sam hadn't told Dean anything about his new symptoms, mostly because he didn't want his brother to lose more sleep over him. Already, his memory lapses were getting worse, and the doctor attributed them to the brain lesions. After the hair on his head fell off, the hair all over his body proceeded to fall as well and soon, Sam had no eyebrows, eyelashes, or facial hair. His arms and legs were mercilessly clean too.

Anyway, Sam didn't think these new symptoms were a big deal. It was uncomfortable, yes, but so was everything else, and he'd just have to deal with it all. So he dealt. He didn't make a sound at the pain. Dean, of course, noticed the sweating and everything and kept Sam dosed up on electrolytes just in case. But it only got worse, going overboard on one fine day.

Sam was in the bathroom one evening on a Saturday. He'd just come back from finishing the clinic, and the next day was a rest day, which meant he already felt much better. The tests so far showed no improvement and Dean was getting more and more worry lines on his forehead. Currently, however, Sam was going through his second nadir and they'd stopped his anti-viral and replaced it with corticosteroids, which did help a bit with the headaches. But that also meant that Sam would have to be extra-careful this time because he was more likely to catch an infection.

Presently, in the bathroom, Sam undid his zipper and fumbled with his boxers, one hand palming the cool tiles behind the toilet as he tried to relieve himself. He waited a while, the impulse strong, but then he realised that something was wrong when it didn't happen. Wondering what was amiss, Sam took a deep breath, relaxed, and tried again, but he wasn't able to do it. He stood there for five minutes and tried again and again, but his efforts were in vain so he zipped himself up, washed his hands and left, unnecessarily flushing the toilet after him. His inability to piss didn't help any with the fact that his bladder was full, though, and he hoped this wasn't anything serious.

Dean called him for dinner after that and they ate in silence, Castiel antsy from all his coffee, and then Sam returned to the library with others. He was sweating again after that and he felt warm, so he asked Dean to turn down the thermostat a little.

"It's quite cold, what's wrong with you?" Dean asked him as he obeyed Sam, but then he palmed Sam's forehead against the latter's wishes. "You're not burning up."

"No," Sam replied. There was an uneasy pain in his abdomen from the full bladder. "I'm just hot."

"Don't flatter yourself," Dean replied, sliding a Gatorade across the table.

"No, thanks," Sam replied, trying not to wince at his bladder.

"It wasn't a request."

Sam huffed and cracked the bottle open, drinking up the lemon green liquid after that. "Happy?" he asked, when he was done.

"No, but it will do."

He sighed. After a while, he retired to bed, but made another attempt to pee before that, failing again this time. The urge was so bad, but he couldn't understand why he was unable to relieve himself. He didn't tell Dean about any of it, though.

By next morning, he was in agony. The nightly limb-burning-whatever-shit, and then his aching bladder with the need, but inability to pee were getting him crazy, but he kept it in control. He realised that for some goddamned reason, he was unable to void his bladder and he didn't know why. All he knew was that this could get serious if it continued, as it could mean kidney disease, apart from the fact that all that chemo was excreted via urine over days. It couldn't stay in, unless he wanted to poison himself to death.

He promised himself that he'd tell Dean if it didn't go away in the next twenty-four hours. He wished he'd had the chance to speak out, though, as a few hours later, after lunch when he got up from the table, the abdominal pain, dizziness, heat and sweating got to him all at once along with a terrible ache in his chest, and all he remembered after that was rapidly meeting the floor, Dean calling out to him as he did so.

When he came to, gentle, firm fingers were prodding him – his abdomen, to be precise, poking around his navel. He still wanted to pee and the urge increased, and for a moment, he couldn't understand why someone was poking his belly. And then it all came to him.

He groaned, and felt a hand squeeze his arm. "It's okay, Sam," said a calm, female voice. Cecelia. He realised then that his shirt was crowded around his chest and his jeans were missing. The waistband of his boxers was pulled down too. He smelled the familiarity of the hospital. An IV ran up his vein, giving more pain than he'd ever realised.

"Relax," Cecelia said when Sam tried to move, to snatch away the IV. Why the fuck was it hurting so much? He opened his eyes to find himself in a cubicle of the ER, as Dr. Greene continued to palpate his abdomen. She looked up at him, stripped off her gloves and sighed.

"How are you feeling?"

"Terrible," Sam told her. "What happened?"

"It's called peripheral neuropathy," she explained, pulling up a stool next to him and sitting down, and gesturing something to Cecelia. "It's from the cisplatin – a late side effect. You passed out when you stood up from a sitting position, didn't you?"

"Yes," he replied, "and... there's been other weird things."

"Tingling? Numbness? A strange, burning pain? Sweating?"

He frowned. "Yeah. How did you know?"

"It's the neuropathy. And your bladder's quite distended too. You have urinary retention."

"Can you correct it?" he asked her.

"I'll have to catheterise," she replied, gesturing to Cecelia to get the equipment. "But the neuropathy, no. I'm sorry. We can give symptomatic relief and decrease your chemo dosage, if you want that. But that would mean..."

"... I'll die sooner," Sam said blandly.

"Don't—"

He shrugged. "You agree."

She licked her lips. "Anyway, I'll catheterise you now, but there could be similar episodes, and if it happens—"

"—I come straight to you," Sam finished for her.

"No, actually," she said, pulling down Sam's boxers all the way as she snapped on a new pair of gloves. Latex, Sam noticed. He hated the stink of latex gloves. They smelled like condoms. At the same time, though, he was painfully aware of being exposed to two people like that, and he couldn't help the redness creep up his cheeks.

"Relax," Dr. Greene said, noticing his embarrassment. "I won't be more than five minutes, okay?"

He nodded and watched as Cecelia stripped open the sterile packaging of the Foley and the doctor carefully pulled out the catheter. She started to spread a jelly on its tip and Sam looked away as she bent over, held him and began to insert the catheter.

"Easy, easy," the doctor was saying and Sam grit his teeth against the uneasiness and pain, and then he felt Cecelia move before his bladder started to empty suddenly.

"All done, Sam," Dr. Greene said, and he opened his eyes, ears still warm, as Cecelia adjusted the collection bag and threw a blanket to protect his dignity. He could see his jeans and boxers folded up on a chair beside him and he turned to the doctor.

"What should I do if this happens again?"

"You could come here, like you said," she shrugged, "or you could do this at home. Dean—"

"No, Dean isn't doing anything," Sam murmured, "I'll come here. Or can I do it by myself?"

"You can," she said, "but it will be painful."

"That's fine."

Dean was his brother, and they'd been through everything together and Sam knew that his brother had even changed his diapers and everything, but this wouldn't happen. There was a limit to what he'd allow Dean to do for him, and he was pretty sure that Dean wouldn't be thrilled to do this either, and would only agree if it was necessary. And it wasn't necessary, so Sam was ready to handle it by himself.

"Okay, then," said the doctor, cutting through his thoughts. "Let's get your bladder empty for now, and then Cecelia can tell you how it's done. Listen carefully, all right?"

"I will." He'd draw diagrams and take notes if he had to, but Dean would have no part in this.

The doctor smiled as she left, and Cecelia spoke. "Would you like Dean and your other friend to come in now? They're waiting outside."

"Sure," Sam replied, tugging his blankets around him so he could be sure that he wasn't exposed, and waving for her to let Dean and Castiel inside.

As she left, he settled back down and prepared himself to explain to his brother about why he had been hiding the new side effects from him. However, he was in for a surprise as only Castiel entered the cubicle, unaccompanied by Dean.

~o~

Dean didn't go in with Castiel when Cecelia beckoned to them. Instead, he waited, spoke to the doctor and learned about Sam's peripheral neuropathy, which was apparently the cause for his brother's new symptoms. And then he washed a hand down his face as he heard of it all. He was tired of this. So tired of Sam being sicker and sicker.

"Have you asked him what he wants to do?" Dean asked Dr. Greene when she mentioned that the only way to bring the neuropathy under control was to reduce the chemo dosage. And as such, even with all that maximum dosage, Sam wasn't responding very well to treatment, so Dean wondered where this would take them.

"He has until the next round to give me an answer," she shrugged, "so you can discuss it together and see what you agree upon."

"Yeah, yeah," he ran his fingers through his hair. "Thanks, doc."

"No problem," she replied, and turned to walk away, but Dean spoke again.

"Uh, but I think I know what he'd want," he said, causing her to look at him again, questioningly. "He'll never tell me," continued Dean, chuckling sadly, "and he'll never tell you. But I think Sam would want to have the dosage reduced. It's just... I'm pushing him so hard to fight..."

"And he wants to," she replied. "The one thing I've learned about him from the last couple of months of being his doctor is that Sam really, really wants to fight."

"But he's in enough pain already, and that's really eating him up," Dean said with a sigh. "So... even if he doesn't say it, just reduce the dose, okay?"

Her eyes widened. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "Yeah. Well, I can't afford to lose my brother – I really can't – but I don't want him in pain either. Just make sure he isn't in any more pain?"

The doctor stared at him for a moment, nodding slowly and losing the resolve in her intelligent eyes for a moment – before turning away and making her way to her office.

A/N: Reviews? :D

And my hands smelled like condoms for a whole year, when I had to wear gloves during my first year for the daily dissection period lol. The 'smelling like a condom' expression isn't mine, though. It's a friend's, and I'm borrowing it for Sam, ha!

Review responses:

Guest: Yeah, I do torture all three of them a fair bit, don't I? :p Thank you! It means a lot to me that you like the research and the medical stuff. :) And yes, that's my intention - making it more and more angsty as I go lol. But the next chapter should be a little lighter, at least in some parts, and for the Destiel shippers. :) Thank you so much for reviewing! :D

Ruffles: Oh, ha, I do that sometimes lol. It was mostly just a small exam and I was thinking of waking up early and revising so... hope your interview went well, though! :) I am flattered that you like the characterisation, plot and medical stuff. And I couldn't possibly produce twenty more chapters, but maybe this would have had more of them, had I not been adamant on fixing the word count to 4000-5000 per chapter. Yet, I feel that that I need a certain number of things to happen per chapter, so it's like this lol. You're right in worrying about all three of them. You really should. ;) Thank you! Hope you had a good sleep! :)