A/N: A big thank you to my beta reader Soar, and I would also like to thank Sinead-Conlan and JuliaAurelia for their comments and feedback on the the chapter.

Chapter 20

Disclaimer: Still don't own them.

Demons, you exorcised them. Spirits, you salted and burned. Poltergeists could be gotten rid of by purification rituals. Rawheads could be electrocuted, and wendigostorched. Simple, easy as pie, a piece of cake.

Dean just wished there was something that straight forward for getting through chemotherapy. It had been several days since he had started taking the medication, and he couldn't remember ever getting his butt whipped so thoroughly by anything.

They were giving him the medicine in both pill and IV form, and the young hunter would have suspected that there were drugs in his food. That is, if he could get food to stay down. It seemed that nothing did these days, not even water. His doctor hadn't been kidding when he said that chemo was tough.

In addition to the nausea and vomiting, he had been hit hard by fatigue. During the first week, he had insisted on getting out of bed and using the treadmill in his room, or sitting at the table with whoever was in his room at the time.

Cindy spent a great deal of time with him. Dean had taught her to play poker, and she had taught him how to play Gin. He even managed to finish Sam's book, To Kill a Mockingbird. It was one of Cindy's favourite books and he and Sam had had some good discussions about it. He also really appreciated the Ipod Bobby had gotten him.

Then there were days when he didn't have the energy to get his head off the pillow. Most of those days were spent sleeping. They seemed to far outweigh the number of his good days lately, and now he only got out of bed if someone made him, or he needed to make a mad dash for the bathroom.

Most of the time he was too sick to care where he was. He'd had a few mild bouts of panic with his claustrophobia, but nothing too bad. Cindy had promised him that the door to his isolation room and the door to the anteroom were not actually locked, so he wasn't technically stuck in the room. That and Cindy's imaging technique had helped him a lot. Usually, if he closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself somewhere else, it wasn't long before he fell asleep.

His father, Sammy, and Bobby were a source of comfort to him as well. One of them was constantly with him, so Dean didn't feel quite so isolated. But as much as he wanted his family with him, they were also driving him crazy. He tried to keep his temper in check at their constant nagging to eat or get some rest. He just didn't know how to make them understand that eating was a waste of time when he was just going to puke it back up. Maybe he should just tell them that the reason he hated eating these days was that it was starting to hurt when he swallowed.

One good thing about being stuck in bed was that it gave him lots of time to plot revenge on his brother. If he thought the pink gown had been bad, it was nothing compared to what Sam had in store for him. Almost every day when he woke up, he had some colorful new gown on. There was a green one with yellow dump trucks, a white one with blue and purple stars, a blue one with flowers, and his personal favourite, a yellow one with white airplanes. Today he was back in pink, but even worse, there were red hearts on it.

He just wondered where Sam had managed to find the damn things. Cindy was no help. Whenever he asked for a new one, she'd just smile and agree. Dean had asked for a plain, blue one and she had promised that as soon as she could find one, she'd bring it to him. He'd have to ask her if she had anything with clowns on it. Sam was going to be admitted soon.

Don't think about that, Dean. He instructed himself. Sam was going to go through with this whether he liked it or not, and he didn't like it one bit.

"Hey, Dean," Sam said greeting his brother when he saw the sliver of green. "How are you..."

"Knock it off," Dean snapped as he tried to keep the nausea at bay.

Sam watched helplessly as Dean suddenly sat up straight and grabbed the emesis basin off the table.

He hated seeing Dean like this. He wasn't used to his big brother looking so weak. As much as he hated the circumstances though, he was grateful that for once, he could finally come through for his big brother, just like Dean had done so many times for him.

"I'm good, just give me a minute," Dean said weakly.

"Take all the time you need," Sam said softly. He waited until Dean was done, then he grabbed the basin and put it in the sealed container that was in the room.

"Let me get Cindy," Sam said, reaching for the call button as he watched Dean run his fingers through his hair in frustration. If he had trouble watching it, he couldn't imagine what it must be like for Dean to go through it.

"She'll be in soon. I'm fine," Dean insisted.

If there was just one thing Sam was wishing, it was that Dean would drop the tough guy routine. He wasn't fooling anyone. "I want..." Sam started and then stopped abruptly.

"What?" Dean asked in an annoyed tone.

"Um," Sam stammered. He wasn't sure what to say. He just pointed to Dean's hand.

Dean looked down and saw a big clump of hair in between his fingers. Then he spotted several more chunks on his pillow.

"I'll get Cindy," Sam offered again, reaching for the call button.

"Don't!" Dean said forcibly. "We knew it was going to happen. There's nothing she can do." Dean looked at his brother. His eyes drawn to the cap on Sam's head and what was, or actually wasn't underneath it. "Hey, Sammy, um, I want to say... that is... uh, thanks," he mumbled.

Sam knew that Dean was talking about him shaving his own head. "You're welcome," he said simply. "Besides, I was waiting for it to fall out so I could give you these."

"What?" Dean asked curiously.

"Dad actually picked them out. I hope you like them," Sam said. He went to the dresser and removed several squares of black fabric. "I was going to wrap them, but I wasn't allowed. They needed to be sterilized before they could be brought in."

Dean accepted the gift from Sam and found himself staring at seven black bandanas. Each one had a different band logo on it. There was Metallica, Guns-n-Roses, Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, Motorhead, Black Sabbath and Nazareth.

"Awesome," Dean said. He picked up the Led Zeppelin one and tied it around his head.

"Much better than these paper ones," Sam pointed out. "Although maybe I should have gotten them in..."

"Don't even say it, Sammy," Dean cut him off. "Don't forget your time is coming."

"You might have a hard time with that one. I have Cindy wrapped around my little finger," Sam boasted.

"I won't be in here forever," Dean promised.

"Bring it on," Sam challenged,

--

TWO WEEKS LATER

Sam was laying in his hospital bed staring at the IV needle in the back of his hand. It had been a long and tough road, but a sample of Dean's bone marrow had been taken and tested, and it was determined that his bone marrow had been suppressed enough for the transplant to proceed. Tomorrow Sam would be taken into the operating room for the doctor to harvest his bone marrow for his brother.

"Hey, Sammy," John greeted his youngest son as he stepped into the room.

Sam tore his gaze away from the fascinating site of the fluids dripping into him and he turned toward his father. "Hey, dad. Aren't you supposed to be with Dean?"

"Bobby's sitting with him."

"Dad," Sam said with a slight touch of exasperation in his tone. "Please tell me you didn't listen to him about staying with me. As much as he's protesting, you know he wants you there."

Dean had spent the last few days insisting that John stay with Sam while he was in the operating room. Sam didn't buy that for a second. His brother would never admit it, but Sam, Bobby, and even John knew exactly where Dean wanted his father to be on the day of his transplant.

"Relax, Sammy. I know that. Me and Bobby decided that I would stay with you tonight, sort of as a way to placate your brother. Tomorrow, when they do the actual transplant, I'm going to go back and stay with Dean. They're planning on sedating him tonight, anyway."

"Does he know that?" Sam asked.

"Dr. Scott told him while you were being admitted."

"I'm guessing that went well," Sam said sarcastically.

"Understatement. I had to admit though, it was good to see a bit of the old fiery Dean, even if he doesn't know what's good for him sometimes." John had the same concerns as Sam about seeing Dean so vulnerable.

"Why do they have to sedate him?" Sam asked worriedly. "He's okay, isn't he?"

"He's doing as well as he can be. It's just that Dr. Scott doesn't want him awake all night thinking of things that could go wrong."

"With my part of the transplant, not his," Sam guessed.

"Exactly," John agreed. "He's worried about you. Dr. Scott figured it would be better if he slept through your part of it."

"How long did you have that argument with him?" Sam asked.

"He came round to our way of thinking," John answered.

Sam saw through that response in about a second. "You ordered him, didn't you?" Sam asked in an accusing tone.

John didn't even try to deny it, there would be no point. "Damn it, Sam. I didn't want to, but I didn't know what else to do. He wouldn't agree to it."

"Maybe we should let him make his own decisions. He's not a kid anymore."

"He's my kid," John insisted. "He needs to rest tonight. You both have a big day tomorrow. Can we please not fight about this? We're going to have a bigger battle on our hands soon enough."

"What's going on, dad?" Sam asked in a worried tone. He had a sudden urge to rip out his IV and go to his brother's side.

"The stubborn idiot," John said with no real anger in his tone. "He didn't tell anyone that he was having trouble eating because he developed sores in his mouth. Dr. Scott discovered them during his check up today. There's no telling how long he's been hiding them. They're apparently a side effect of the chemo. Between that and the nausea, he's not eating much and he's losing a lot of weight, way more than they would like, and Dr. Scott mentioned putting in a PEG tube."

"A what?"

"PEG tube. It stands for precurse...no, precute...oh hell, I don't remember what the doctor said. It's just a small tube that's inserted into Dean's abdomen so they can feed him through it."

"He'll never go for it," Sam said stating the obvious.

"We haven't told Dean about it yet," John admitted. "Dr. Scott asked me for the best way to bring up the subject with him."

"Let me guess, it's your plan to wait until Dean's out of it and let Bobby use Dean's power of attorney. Dad, that's not a good idea," Sam warned.

"You said it yourself, Sammy, he won't agree with it. I don't know what else to do. Your brother can't be reasoned with sometimes," John said trying to find a reason to justify his actions.

"You're underestimating him. He didn't put up too much fuss over the catheter," Sam pointed out. "What did Dr. Scott say?"

"He said it can wait a couple of days, but if Dean can't keep food down, they have to do it," John said with a sigh. "Right now, you have to admit that he's not up to discussing anything. Let's just get through the next few days and see what happens."

"Dad, remember that hunt Dean was on when we were younger. You didn't give him all the information then, and he ended up getting hurt. This is his treatment. As long as he's capable, he should have a say in it."

Suddenly, the memory flashed into John's brain. He had almost forgotten all about it.

--

1992

John Winchester sat at his desk with several newspapers in his hand. He was going through the obituaries trying to find a hunt, but evil seemed to be taking a holiday because there was nothing.

RING RING

Grateful for the break, John pushed his papers aside and rose to go answer the phone.

"Hello," John greeted the caller.

"Hey Johnny, old man, how's it going," the caller returned the greeting enthusiastically.

"Jefferson, what's up?"

"I got a hunt for you," he answered.

"What is it?" John asked, perking up at the prospect of a hunt.

"Children's rec center has all the signs of a spirit. Kids getting hurt, strange accidents, stuff like that."

"I'm hearing a but in there," John said.

"I need Dean. I can't hang around there without a kid. I'd probably get arrested," Jefferson explained.

"I don't know," John said hesitantly. Dean had accompanied John on a couple of salt and burns, but he'd never been bait before.

"I won't let Dean get hurt, John, I promise. I don't think the spirit would go after him anyway."

"Why is that?" John inquired. There was something else Jefferson wasn't telling him.

"Well, research indicates that the spirit is that of Martin MacIssac. He was a 15 year old boy who was taking lessons at the rec center. There was a contest and he and his partner were favored to win. The day before the production, he falls on stairs. Injures his knee so badly he can't do it anymore. He claimed that he was pushed but there's no proof. He was bitter and became depressed that the sport he was planning a career in was over. He killed himself a year later. Hung himself in the gym where he took his lessons. A new rec centre was built three years ago and whenever the school puts a production on, the male that's favoured to win always seems to meet with an accident. I just need someone on the inside, so he can report any strange goings on."

"Jefferson," John said growing nervous. "Just what kind of lessons are you talking about?"

"It won't be for very long, Johhny. Just a few lessons and we should be able to see if this boy is our ghost," he said hedging.

"Jefferson!" John growled in a warning tone.

"Ballroom dancing," Jefferson said with a sigh and held the phone away from his ear waiting for the explosion. John didn't disappoint.

"ARE YOU INSANE!"

"Good thing I have two ears," Jefferson mumbled.

"Dean will never agree," John stated firmly.

"Kids are getting hurt," Jefferson said going to for jugular. He knew John couldn't say no.

"Dean won't get hurt?" John asked.

"The spirit won't even target him unless he's favoured to win. No offense to your boy, but I just don't see him as a professional ballroom dancer," Jefferson confirmed.

"He has been begging me to let him actively participate in a hunt. This one sounds like it shouldn't be too dangerous for him. Okay, sign him up under the name Webster and we'll be there in a couple of days."

--

Dean could hardly contain his excitement as he sat next to his father in the Impala. When his father had come to him and told him they needed him to go undercover on a hunt, he'd been ecstatic. He'd been asking for a while.

He was under strict instructions to keep his eyes and ears open, and report anything strange to his father. Dean was determined not to screw this up. He wanted to prove to his father that he could be as good a hunter as his dad was.

He just wished he knew more details, but he was used to his father's need to know operating system, so he didn't even question his father when John dropped him off in front of the rec center, handed him a duffle that he said contained everything Dean needed, and told him to report to room nine.

Dean walked into the building and quickly located where he was supposed to be. Upon entering, he took a look around, turned around and walked right back out again. He had to be in the wrong place.

A cold feeling washed over him when he saw the number nine clearly marked on the door above. What the hell was going on? Maybe he was hallucinating. He rubbed his eyes, pinched himself to make sure he was awake, and walked back into the gym.

"Hello. Can I help you?" one of the adults asked, coming over to him.

"I'm supposed to be in room nine," Dean said, praying to himself that he was dyslexic and had somehow misread the number on the door.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Dean Webster," he said giving the alias his father had told him to use.

"Hello," she said in a friendly tone. "I'm Madame Arnaude. I teach beginner ballroom dancing. Welcome to class, dear. We'll make a dancer out of you yet. "

"Not in this life time," Dean mumbled to himself. He looked at the door again and considered bolting.

This is a big responsibility, son. Dean suddenly heard his father's voice in his head. "If you're going to be a hunter, you have to do things you may not like. I have to know that I can count on you to get the job done, no matter what.

You can count on me, sir.

Dean knew he couldn't let his father down. He was his father's soldier after all. "Where do I get changed?" he asked.

--

Dean headed toward the locker room feeling really self conscious. Everyone around him had been wearing dress pants and pressed, button down shirts, and shiny, black shoes. He really stood out in his ripped jeans, faded t-shirt, and scuffed sneakers.

He felt a little better when he opened his duffle bag and found a similar outfit, but you could clearly tell the clothes were second hand. The pants had seen better days and the shirt was wrinkled.

He stalled for as long as he could, but he eventually had to leave the safety of the locker room. He sucked it up and joined the other beginners.

Madame Arnaude started the lesson with a basic explanation of what they would be learning and Dean tried hard to pay attention. Then, as if the day couldn't get any worse, he heard his name being called to join the teacher at the front of the class.

Dean wanted to refuse, but he couldn't, so he did as he was told. The next thing he knew, he found himself being the teacher's guinea pig, as she made him demonstrate the basic positions for the fox trot, the dance they would be learning first.

Dean did his best to keep his eye out and pay attention to what the teacher was telling him. He at least thought he might get to dance with one of the girls, but there was an uneven number and his humiliation was complete when he ended up with the teacher as his partner.

He was suddenly changing his mind about being a hunter. Nothing could be worth this.

After what felt like an eternity, the class finally ended. Dean was about to make a bolt for the locker room when he heard a voice that stopped him dead.

"Looking good there, champ," his father said.

Dean just turned and glared at his dad. If looks could kill, John would have dropped dead on the spot.

"Go get changed," John instructed. Dean stormed off, blushing as red as his shirt. He was so done with this.

"Mr. Webster," the teacher said eyeing John and coming up to him. "I'm Francine Arnaude. I just wanted to say that I think Dean's a natural."

"Thank you," John said proudly. He was guessing she said that to all the parents to sucker them in.

"I hope to see Dean next week. I'm looking forward to working with him."

"He'll be here," John confirmed.

--

"Dad."

John looked up from the information Jefferson had given him. He wanted to confirm for himself that Dean was not in the direct line of fire. "What is it, Dean?" John asked, although he had a feeling that he knew what this was about.

Dean dropped into the chair next to his father. "I don't want to hunt," he stated firmly. The dancing sucked and when Sammy had found out what he was up to, his little brother had teased him non-stop.

"Dean," John said.

Just by the way his father said his name, Dean could tell his that dad was gearing up for a lecture.

"Hunting is not easy. I told you that."

"You could have told me about the dancing. I hate it," Dean complained.

"You wouldn't have done it," John pointed out truthfully.

"It should have been my choice," Dean pouted.

"Son, when it comes to saving lives, we don't always get to pick. We go where the hunt takes us. You told me I could count on you to do what it takes. Were you lying?" John accused, knowing that this was going to end the conversation.

"NN...No, Sir," Dean stammered. He would never let his father down.

"Good. Now on Wednesday, you have your next class. You'll be there and you will give it your all. That's an order."

"Yes sir."

--

Then John got news of an upcoming competition. He was informed that Dean's beginner class was taking part, and John made plans to attend. He wanted to be on hand if the spirit tried anything, and he was also curious to see his son. Dean had refused to show his father what he had learned in class.

John had never told Dean the full details of the hunt, that the male dancer of the couple favoured to win was the target of the spirit. He didn't feel that Dean needed to know that because he never dreamed that Dean would ever have the potential to win.

What John had forgotten was that when he gave Dean an order, it was followed to the very best of his son's ability. So Dean had thrown himself into the lessons with everything he had. Not doing his best was not an option. Lives depended on him and more importantly, his father was counting on him.

Unbeknownst to John, Dean had made significant progress, and his teacher felt that Dean was very capable of winning the competition. So John was very surprised when he received a call from Dean's teacher on the day of the dress rehearsal, saying that Dean had fallen down the stairs and was at the hospital.

Cursing himself, John raced to the hospital and found his son waiting for him. He was relieved to find out that Dean wasn't hurt seriously. He'd sprained his ankle badly, and he would need crutches for a couple of weeks, but he'd be as good as new, the doctor assured him.

"I'm sorry, dad," Dean apologized when he saw his father enter his cubicle.

"For what?" John asked in a confused tone.

"I let you down. I'm so sorry."

"Dean, what happened?" John asked gently.

"I was practicing with Amanda and after we finished, I was walking down the stage steps, I thought I felt someone push me. I must have tripped though. My ankles all busted up and now I can't compete tomorrow and I messed up the hu... hunt," Dean said trying to keep his voice from wavering. Don't cry, you wuss. Dean berated himself. The first time his father gave him a significant roll in the hunt and he had screwed it up. Typical, he thought in disgust. Don't know why I'm surprised.

"You didn't screw up, Dean. I did," John admitted.

Dean looked at his father in disbelief.

"I didn't give you all the facts. You were pushed, Dean by the spirit. Your teacher told me that she felt you were going to win and the spirit always goes after the favourite. I should have told you that, Dean, then this might have been avoided. You did good, son, and I'm proud of you. I know how much you hated this. But it looks like Jefferson's theory is correct."

"Thanks, dad," Dean said sincerely.

"Come on, let's go home. Do you want to continue your lessons? I hear you're pretty good," he teased lightly.

"Hell no," Dean said as he limped after his father. "Although I heard Sammy say he might like ballet."

John laughed and put his arm around Dean's shoulders and hugged him tight.

--

Present

Early the next morning, John and Bobby traded placed and John took his place at Dean's side in his son's isolation room.

Thinking back over that hunt, John realized that Sam was right. This was Dean's treatment and he should have all the facts.

John gathered all the information Dr. Scott had given him on the PEG tube and turned toward his son.

"Hey Dean?"

Dean turned his eyes away from the TV and stared at his father.

"There's something we need to talk about."

TBC.