Spirit Fall, Chapter 4
A/N: This chapter's a bit shorter and not my favorite either. It was sort of hard to write so let me know if it came off okay, or even if it didn't. Thanks, as always, to everyone that reads and reviews and especially chocolate rules for letting me know that I don't suck. :)Read on.
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The tests take all morning and into the afternoon, x-rays, blood work, and who knows what else. John sits in the waiting room with Sam, who isn't much company with his nose in a book, getting up occasionally only to pace. Until, after several hours, Dean appears with Dr. Haubstadt at his side.
While John really isn't fond of the man's character, he can respect him as a doctor. The man stands up for his patients, even to someone as intimidating as John himself.
Dean looks wiped out, cotton balls taped to the inside of each elbow and a larger gauze pad peeking out from the collar of his shirt. He grins lazily though when he sees them, gestures toward the bathrooms and heads in that direction with Sam suddenly on his heels. John approaches Dr. Haubstadt.
"Everything went well?" he asks gruffly.
"As well as can be expected," the doctor nods. "We should have all the results tomorrow and be able to start chemotherapy within the week."
"That soon?"
"The sooner the better. It's lucky, in Dean's case that the disease doesn't seem to be too far progressed. You know, I can't promise anything, but right now, things look good."
John smirks at the doctor's upbeat outlook.
"Kid's got cancer, doc."
Dr. Haubstadt smiles sheepishly.
"You're right, but there's no reason not to be optimistic. It's lucky that we caught it early on."
"Yea," John nods cynically. "Lucky."
Dr. Haubstadt shifts his weight and rubs at his stubbly chin.
"About your other son, Sam?" he starts innocently, but John can already see where he's going. "Dean said that he broke his nose fighting. Is that right?" John sighs and shoves his hands in his pockets.
"Listen, doctor," he begins. "I know what you're getting at here and I appreciate you trying to do your job and all, but I think, I mean, I'm pretty damn sure we already had this conversation. If you want to go over it again, feel free, but don't expect me to listen to your accusations. I love my kids and that's all that you need to know. Maybe you want to test Sam's blood too, see if he's sick too, just don't expect me to stand here and listen to this shit again because that I can not take." Dr. Haubstadt nods quietly, head down, and John is vaguely aware of Sam and Dean coming up to stand behind him. "We done?" he snaps.
"Yes, sir," the doctor answers. "I'm sorry." John turns and starts for the doors.
"Let's go, boys."
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"So, Dad," Dean starts, reclining in the passenger seat on the drive home. "Any particular reason you were about to deck the good doctor?" John spares him a brief glance.
"No."
"Oh, good," Dean grins, turning to see Sam in the back seat. "'Cause for a second there I thought-"
"Dean," John warns. Dean holds his hands up defensively.
"Hey, Sammy here thought you got possessed again."
"I did not," Sam defends weakly.
"Yes, you did."
"No, I didn't."
"Yes, you did."
"No, I didn't."
"Yes, you did.You said that was exactly what he looked like when--"
"Boys! Knock it off." John tightens his grip on the wheel. "We're going back to the motel, you're both going to shut up and eat some dinner, and then you," he says looking pointedly at Dean. "Are going to get some rest. Sammy, I'm going to need your help tonight."
"With what?" Sam asks.
"The Wellington house." Sam freezes up in the back and Dean nearly jumps out of his seat.
"Dad, no way. Let me come too. I can help." Dean glances anxiously back at Sam, but John stands firm.
"No. We can handle this, just the two of us. You're sick. You need to rest."
"I don't feel sick," Dean argues.
"I don't care how you feel," John snaps, not realizing what he's said until the words have done their damage. He knows how to fight dirty, when need be, but over the years, he's lost the sense of when to swing and when to pull back and the people nearest him end up the unintended targets. Dean turns toward the window and crosses his arms over his stomach.
"Fine," he mutters. "But you can't take Sam back there alone."
"There's no other way to do it, okay?" he tries to soften his tone. "We didn't know how he worked before. Now we do. It'll be no problem to go in there and take care of it."
"No."
John glances in the rearview mirror at his younger son.
"Excuse me?"
"No, sir," Sam modifies.
"Am I going to have to do this on my own?" he asks pointedly.
"No," Dean jumps in to save his brother. "Let both of us go."
"That's not going to happen Dean. I'm sorry."
"Dad…" Dean pleads.
John sighs. If this were any other day, he wouldn't take no for an answer. But, if this were any other day, Dean would be able to help them out and there wouldn't be a problem.
"Fine."
"I can go?" Dean asks, surprised.
"No. None of us will go then. We'll hold off on this one for a few days."
"Really?" Sam asks. John makes the turn into the motel lot.
"Yea. Maybe find some more info on this Wellington guy."
"Arthur," Sam supplies.
"Yea, Arthur Wellington and the house. See if we can find anything else on the body. I'd prefer a salt and burn to an exorcism." He turns off the car and climbs out.
"And then we can all go take care of it?" Dean asks hopefully. He stands stiffly and Sam hovers nervously beside him.
"Yea, well." John shrugs. "We'll see."
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He's awake when Sam wakes. His son sits up with a choking gasp like someone emerging from a twenty-foot dive underwater.
"Sam?" he asks quietly, watching his youngest's panicked gaze jerk toward Dean, as John's own had done so often the past few hours. Sam reaches for his brother instinctually, before thinking better of it and dropping his arm back to the bedspread.
"Sam?" John asks again, louder this time, he shifts his books and papers farther onto the table and prepares to stand. The boy sits back up fast, reaching toward the nightstand for a weapon, eyes widening incredibly like his nightmares have come true.
Maybe they have.
"Samuel." John tries one more time and finally gains his son's attention. Sam pauses in his actions and glances about the room curiously. His gaze finally settles on John and he softens, visibly relaxing.
"Sorry," he stutters. "Sorry, Dad." John nods solemnly, settling back into his chair.
"Nightmare?" he asks gruffly. They've all had them at some points, but Sam's were most frequent. It was his mind's way, John supposed, of dealing with things, differently than his father or brother do. Considering the past few days and Sam's skittish behavior, he can assume what this one was about. He was probably the star.
Sam nods stiffly in confirmation. He shifts out of bed slowly and moves toward the bathroom. The hush of the faucet fills the room and then he's back, carrying a glass of water.
"You can't be scared of me, Sammy." Sam looks up, startled at his father's words; he sloshes some water over the edge of the cup onto the shaggy carpeting.
"I'm not," he answers quietly, scuffing the toe of his sock in the spill. John sighs loudly.
"I'm serious, Sam. You need to be able to distinguish between that spirit and me. Reason it out. I can't have you jumping around me all the time." Sam nods again, sinking onto the edge of the mattress. He takes a sip of water.
"I know." His voice is thin in the small room.
"You understand?" John asks skeptically.
"Yes sir."
"Then what's the problem?"
"Nothing," Sam defends weakly. John never did have the patience to pry these sorts of things out of his kids. If they wanted to talk about something, they could, but he isn't going to dig. Clearly, he knows, his possession is still eating away at Sammy. Something he said, or did, while controlled by Arthur Wellington has his son scared and John can't fix it. He feels guilty enough for their physical injuries, let alone any psychological damages.
"Fine," he sighs, turning back to his work. "Go to sleep. Tell me when you want." He can feel Sam's eyes on him for a few minutes longer, that creeping itch between his shoulder blades, but nothing is said. After a moment, the blankets rustle and the mattress creaks as the boy lies back down and drops off into a dreamless rest.
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