Spirit Fall
A/N: This is now officially AU. I know only slightly more than the average bear about medicine and stuff, but I improvise well, so don't look into that too much. Thanks to everyone that's reading and reviewing! It makes me happy. :)Also, thank you to my faithful and trusty beta, chocolate rules, because sometimes I sense make don't, yea?
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He doesn't look sick. Somehow John had thought that just seeing Dean, he'd be able to glimpse what the doctor was talking about, the elusive disease that flows through his blood. Either that, or he'd be able to see that Dean is fine, not ill at all, alive and loud and laughing. But it isn't either. Dean is lying there asleep, or very close to it, casted arm strapped to his side. He doesn't look sick.
But he doesn't look particularly well either.
As the door swings shut behind them, Sam pulls away from his father and darts toward the bed.
"Dean?" His voice is loud and urgent in the quiet room and John struggles to grab him before he wakes his brother.
"Sam," he hisses. "Don't." But Sam is already standing next to the bed and Dean is shifting into a sitting position, not having been asleep after all.
"Hey," he greets warmly and John panics for a moment, thinking that he doesn't know.
"Dean, the doctor said that you--"
"Sam!" John curses. And wouldn't that be just the way for him to find out. He effectively quiets his youngest and turns to Dean with tired eyes.
"Son…"
Dean waves him off.
"Yea, I know. Cancer, leukemia, blah, blah, blah. It ain't like I'm dying." John stares at his son. "Speaking of which," Dean turns to Sam with a smirk. "Dude, I think your nose is dead." Sam reaches up to his face as if he'd forgotten and Dean stretches his good arm out to poke at the swollen skin.
"Ow!" Sam yelps and slaps his hand away.
"Guess not," Dean laughs.
"Jerk," Sam curses, though it sounds more like 'jurg' which only fuels Dean's laughter more. After a moment, Sam smiles too. John stares at his kids, appalled.
"Boys," he gapes. "This is serious. Quit fooling around." Sam quiets immediately, casting a sorrowful glance at his brother, but Dean only smiles. He leans toward Sam and stage whispers:
"Is he still possessed?"
"Dean!" John snaps. His eldest quiets, nods solemnly.
"Sorry, sir," he says, but turns back to Sam conspiratorially and asks: "Seriously, is he?"
"Dean, knock it off!" John snaps. Why can't he be serious for two minutes? Sam quiets again, soft laughter replaced with the nervous expression he'd adopted since the doctor had said 'abnormality.' He shifts from foot to foot, fumbles with his hands like he's verging on panic.
"Dad…" Dean starts softly. He shifts his eyes toward Sam significantly and then John realizes the kid is on the verge of panic. And Dean, in all his stupid glory, is trying to keep his brother calm. John digs in his pocket for a few dollars and hands the crumpled bills to Sam.
"You didn't get any breakfast, Sammy. Why don't you go down to the cafeteria and see what they've got?" Sam looks surprised, but he takes the money without question and slips out of the room with one last reluctant glance toward Dean. As soon as the door is shut behind him, John turns back to the bed with a scowl.
"Dean, you can't protect him from this."
"Yes, I can."
"He isn't stupid, Dean. He already knows what's going on."
"And he's already freaking out."
"Dean," John tries again. "This isn't the flu. You can't hide this from him."
"Well, I can damn well try," Dean retorts with his usual attitude, but none of his usual energy. John doesn't know much about medicine and diseases beyond first aid, but he knows cancer doesn't crop up over night. Dean hashidden illness and injury from them before. Some things can't be walked off though. He sighs and shifts onto the edge of the bed.
"How long?" he asks, wanting to know for just how long his son has felt ill. Dean shrugs, probably only answering out of habit and because it's what's expected.
"A month or two…maybe more."
"Why the hell didn't you say anything?"
"I couldn't," Dean explains simply.
"You should've." John takes Dean's silence as fuel to his ever-burning fire and continues in his rant. "If you're sick Dean, then you tell me," he snaps and Dean nods mutely. "This isn't going to be easy. The last thing you need to be worrying about is keeping Sam happy. You worry about getting better, got it? That's it. Don't even think about anything else." He rambles off orders like they're preparing for a hunt because it's the only way he can control this. Dean nods and mumbles 'yes sir' just like always, even though this is far from always. This is brand new and scary as hell, but John knows Dean will do what he tells him and if he tells his son to get better, Dean had better do it.
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When the oncologist comes by, John bristles as Dean insists that Sam leave the room, but maybe it's for the best anyway. He wishes he could leave too. He doesn't want to hear about the options he has in treating his kid's cancer or the greater tortures the treatments will produce. From the look on Dean's face it's pretty clear he doesn't want to hear it either, but they listen anyway to the drone of medical terms and charts and numbers. When the doctor starts rambling off survival rates, John jumps to his feet, without even realizing he's doing it, about to take off because he can not listen to this anymore, but Dean looks up at him questioningly, so open and honest and how could he ever leave him to listen to this alone. He plays it off as a stretch, and sinks back into the chair.
Decisions are made and the doctor leaves them with about a million pamphlets and a calendar of treatment dates. Tomorrow, they have to come back for a battery of tests, but for today they're free to go and the release papers are signed with fervor.
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Going home means back to the grubby motel, but it's so much better than the hospital because at least it feels normal. If only everything would quit reminding John that this is anything but normal. Dean lays the jokes on thick, putting twice the energy he usually does into procuring that light atmosphere when it's clear he only has half his normal energy. Sam twitches every time John gets too close to him, as if he didn't feel guilty enough. And somehow, they all need to deal with this.
"Hey, Sammy," Dean asks suddenly, traipsing toward the door. "How about some basketball? There's a hoop down the other end of the parking lot." Sam looks shocked, almost frightened by the suggestion.
"Dean," he finally squeaks out. "You have a broken arm."
"You could use the advantage, kid," Dean smiles wryly. Maybe this is when John tunes in, realizing his kids are heading for the door. He sets his pen down and closes his journal.
"What are you doing?"
Dean pauses, jerking his thumb toward the door.
"Basketball," he says, like it's what they always do. Truth be told, Winchesters do not play basketball. Especially not in motel parking lots near dusk. Especially not with broken arms and noses and cancer in their blood. Maybe this is why it takes John a moment to process what his son has said.
"Basketball?" he barks. "Was that supposed to be a joke?"
"No, sir," Dean replies. Sam shifts nervously beside his brother, perhaps desperate for this tiny bit of normal, but John can only shake his head. There are so many things wrong with the idea he can't even begin to list them.
"No," he finally says. Just, no.
"Please?" the tiny word is hushed and pleading, coming from Sammy's mouth and matching the heavy sadness in his eyes. John prepares to repeat himself, sterner, louder, however to make them listen, but the way they're standing there, broken in more ways than one, Sam unnaturally sad and Dean just a bit paler than he should ever be makes him hesitate. It's partly guilt and partly the big glaring monkey wrench that was thrown into their lives that morning, but John relents. This could be, he realizes, one of the last times they ever have a chance to do something like this. This could be the last time.
"Fine," he sighs, still trying to sound as authoritative as possible. "I'm coming out with you. It's getting dark." Sam breaks into this maniacal grin, forgetting everything else for the moment, but Dean only smirks, like yea, he knew Dad would give in. John doesn't take any weapons with him, save the serrated blade that's always strapped to his calf, they're close enough to the room and the car if anything should happen.
They traipse across the lot, shadows elongated by the setting sun, to the hoop. The backboard is warped wood, paint flaking off with each hit and there isn't even a net, the ball is flat, needing extra force with each dribble just to bounce back up, but for all that, Sam and Dean act as if they've just made a pit stop in Disneyland.
Sam takes a few hesitant shots at first, trying to get a feel for it with Dean's encouragement, but the kid somehow manages to sink every shot and after the tenth swoosh of the net, Dean rebounds the ball and goes for the basket himself, leaving Sam to chase after him. John stands off to the side, trying not to think of everything else they could, should, be doing and keeping an eye on the shadows, growing ever deeper as the sun sinks lower and lower. The ball gets away from the boys after awhile though, lopsidedly rolling to a stop by their father's feet. He glances at it apprehensively.
"Dad," Dean gasps. "Come help me out." He gestures with his cast. "Apparently, Sammy doesn't need any advantage." After a moment, John picks the ball up carefully, testing its weight, trying to remember when the last time he played was. It's certainly been years, at least. Sam watches with startlingly wide eyes and Dean smiles big as John hunches over, dribbling the ball a few times experimentally. He straightens, bringing the ball up, tucking his elbows in, bending his knees just enough, before letting loose with a perfect free throw. Just like riding a bike.
Sam watches awestruck, following the ball's movement through the air. The man he thought was his drill sergeant father grins as he moves to retrieve his own rebound.
"Oh man," Dean laughs. "Sammy, you're going down little brother." What follows isn't so much a game as a three way shooting spree. John hogs the ball for a while, until Sam and Dean double-team him, stealing it away. Their tactics begin to decline sometime after that, pining arms, tickling stomachs, poking bruised noses ("Foul." John calls on that one. "Apologize to your brother, Dean."). It's something like normal. Sammy doesn't twitch away from his father once and John relaxes.
And then Dean disappears from the game, moving a few feet away and sitting down on the cold pavement, leaning back against the nearest car.
"Dean?"
"It's okay." He waves them off. "Keep playing." But the spell is broken. Night has settled deep around them and John feels suddenly, incredibly, vulnerable in the artificial glow of the street lamps.
"Inside," he commands. "Now." He turns abruptly and stalks back toward the room without checking to ensure they follow. Dean stands slowly and Sam moves toward him, dropping the ball that falls to an unnatural, flat, halt at his feet.
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