Spirit Fall
A/N: Thanks to everyone that has read! I may have taken a right when I should have hung a left as far as the plot goes in this but, we'll see. Let me know what you think. :)
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The flickering blue light of the television illuminates the motel room window as John approaches with a heavy heart and even heavier boots. Before his key is even in the lock though, Sam throws the door open, nervous eyes darting past his father.
"Where's Dean?" he chokes out, before John can reprimand him for opening the door like that. He carefully takes Sam's hands from the doorframe and moves into the room, closing the door after them.
"He had to stay the night."
"What? Why?" Sam jerks his wrists roughly out of his father's grip and John tries not to notice the ill hidden flinch. The boy still hadn't put a shirt on and the bruises stand out garishly on his pale torso, making him seem smaller and younger than he is.
"Because, Sam." John explains tiredly, looking away."I'm going to get him in the morning."
"Why?" Sam asks again. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong!" John barks, frustrated with the stress of the day and the never-ending questions. Not to mention exhausted from, oh yea, being possessed. He instantly regrets his anger though when Sam jumps at his voice and his posture stiffens. He sinks onto the nearest bed and scrubs at his face, tries again. "The doctors just wanted him to get a good nights rest. Okay, Sammy? That's all. Nothing's wrong." Sam nods tightly and sits mechanically on the other bed.
"Have you been icing that?" John asks, taking in the swelling nose and reddening bruises smeared under his son's eyes. Without waiting for an answer he stands and grabs a washcloth from the bathroom, wrapping a few ice cubes from the bucket in it and moving to press it against Sam's nose. Sam intercepts it though, taking the cloth from John's hand and completing the action himself with closed lips. John sits down next to him on the bed and Sam inches away.
"Look, Sammy," John sighs. "You have to understand what happened back there."
"You were possessed," Sam mumbles behind the washcloth. John nods.
"It wasn't—It wasn't me. I didn't know what was going on. It was stupid of me to let it happen, but I didn't want to hurt you. I couldn't control the damn thing." He looks up, desperate for Sam to understand and to forgive. Sam lowers the ice pack, chewing on his lip carefully.
"It's okay," he says after a moment. "I get it. You didn't mean what you said." John pauses in confusion.
"What I said? No, I--" He swallows thickly, almost afraid to ask. "What'd I say?" Sam shrugs quickly.
"Nothing really."
"What'd I say, Sam?"
"Nothing, Dad. Really." He stands and steps out of his shoes, crawls onto the bed behind his father. John watches him with growing concern.
"Sammy, whatever I said or did, it wasn't me. It was the spirit controlling my body. You understand?"
"Sure, Dad," Sam sighs, pressing his face into the pillow. "Goodnight."
"Sammy, I--"
"I already did the salt," Sam mumbles.
"Okay." John sighs slowly. "Okay." He stands and carefully folds the comforter over his already sleeping son. It's two a.m. now when he steps into the bathroom. Turning on the water as hot as it will get and scrubbing at his hands until they bleed again.
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The next morning they're woken way too early, after going to sleep way too late by the ringing of the cell phone. John sits up slowly, grabbing the phone off the table as Sam rolls out of bed too.
"Yea?"
"Mr. Winchester?" John yawns in a way that the woman must take for a yes as she rambles on.
"I'm calling on behalf of Dr. Haubstadt. He wanted you to come down as soon as possible this morning to discuss your son's case."
"I can be there in twenty minutes."
"Perfect. I'll let him know." John hangs up then, not bothering with a goodbye. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes.
"We."
"What?" John squints over at his son.
"We can be there in twenty minutes." John looks up then, finally seeing Sam as the light is flicked on. His nose is swollen grossly and the bruising around his eyes has darkened to deep purple smudges. No doubt now, the nose is broken. Dr. Haubstadt would love to see that. Swallowing his guilt, John shakes his head.
"No, Sam. You're staying here."
"I want to go with you."
"I said no, Sam. That's it."
"I can wait in the car," Sam supplies hopefully.
"No!" John barks. Sam flinches again. "Would you quit doing that already?" he yells.
"Sorry," Sam mumbles, turning away. John deflates, watching his son dig through his bag for a clean, cleaner shirt. Sam doesn't deserve his anger right now, but sometimes the kid honestly doesn't know when to quit. Standing, John makes his way to the bathroom, splashing water on his face and shoving a toothbrush in his mouth. Sam joins him a moment later, leaning into the mirror and poking at the soft skin under his eyes.
"Can you breath alright?" John asks around the toothbrush. It's an attempt at normal concern, but there's nothing normal about their situation.
"Yea." Sam shrugs. "It's just sore."
No kidding. The skin beneath his eyes is dark as a night sky, smudges of black paint.
"Looks like you're about to go off to war," John comments. Sam smiles thoughtfully, meeting his father's eyes through the mirror.
"Maybe I am."
And then, just to prove his age it seems, the kid launches himself through the room and onto the bed, letting loose with a whooping cry of war. John jumps so forcefully he just about chokes on his toothbrush. He drops the thing into the sink and swipes his mouth clean with his sleeve.
"Sam!" he shouts, careful to keep the angry edge out of his voice this time. Sam continues around the bed in bouncing laps, hands held high. "Sam! Sam! What the hell are you doing?" Sam completes one more lap around the bed before dropping to a seat in the middle of the comforter and staring up at his father.
"I'm preparing for war," he explains innocently.
"What?" Sometimes, John isn't sure where Sam came from. He's quietly hyper, stubborn, and difficult in a way that Dean never was. And here he'd thought parenting was supposed to get easier. Sam edges off the bed.
"I'm going with you to get Dean."
John sighs.
"I know."
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The hospital is humming busily when they arrive. They worm their way toward the room Dean is supposed to be in, dodging people and gurneys and snapping doctors. John shoulders his way up to the nurses' station, intent on asking about Dean's discharge forms. But as he leans in toward the nurse in order to be heard, a doctor steps into view behind her.
"Mr. Winchester?" John straightens up to look Dr. Haubstadt in the eye and his stomach drops. The doctor looks more than a little worse for wear, fatigue and remorse and something else evident in the crease of his forehead and squint of his eyes. And then John recognizes it. Pity.
Something's wrong.
It feels an awful lot like a burning ulcer in the top of his stomach and he turns to Sam, wrapping an arm around the kid's shoulders as Dr. Haubstadt comes around the desk to speak to them.
"What happened?" he asks, ignoring the doctor's halting surprise as he gets an eye full of Sam's bruised face.
"Well," he begins; casting heavy gazes in Sam's direction. John expects for the man to accuse him of child abuse again, but the accusations don't come. "Uh, well, first of all, Mr. Winchester, I need to apologize for the way I spoke to you yesterday. It was disrespectful and I was out of line. I'm sorry." The doctor finally looks John in the eye. He really hadn't expected an apology, especially not with Sam standing next to him now, looking like he does. And while not undeserved, John can't accept it after what he knows he did.
"Where's my son?" he grinds out instead, gripping Sam's shoulders tighter as the boy tenses up beside him.
"May I speak in front of him?" the doctor asks, gesturing toward Sam, still eyeing the bruised nose with something like shock.
"Of course," John replies tightly. "Now, what's going on?"
Dr. Haubstadt looks away again, flips through the chart he's holding in a nervous fashion.
"Mr. Winchester, we ran that blood work that I mentioned yesterday."
"And?"
"There were some abnormalities in Dean's blood count." John inhales sharply. No beating around the bush now.
"Say what you mean, doc," he commands. Dr. Haubstadt drops the chart to his side, meets John's eyes unflinchingly.
"Mr. Winchester," he speaks slowly, carefully. "Your son has leukemia."
And there it is. It doesn't hurt as much as he thought it would. He can shut this off, the tingling in his eyes, the trembling in his knees. That's nothing. This is nothing. This is wrong. Sammy shudders under his arm.
"Leukemia?" his son asks quietly, almost inaudible in the noise of the hallway. "That's like—like cancer?" Dr. Haubstadt nods wordlessly. Sam turns in John's grip, cranes his neck to look up into his father's face.
"Dean has cancer?" He trembles after the question, eyes quickly becoming heavily glossed. John has to look away. He has to handle this.
"Doctor…" he starts and the man somehow takes the word as acceptance.
"I've contacted our resident oncologist. He'll be down later this morning to discuss treatment options with you. Until then--" John silences him with a wave of his hand.
"Doctor," he says again. "I just need to see my kid."