Spirit Fall, Chapter 8

A/N: Hello all! I'm back. The Cape was amazing, Boston was awesome (even though we got lost for almost half a day) I feel so naive because I really didn't realize big cities were so...big. :) Hah! Out of my element there. Anyway, posting this chapter on a bit of a whim. I wrote this and had fully intended for it to be the end. I sent it to chocolate rules and said 'this is the end' and she said 'no it is not!' and pointed out where else it could go. So, you can thank her for any of the following chapters. Angst ahoy y'all.

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The third time is the charm, they say. Dean takes his third run of chemo on one of those dazzling, big, blue-sky afternoons. He's ready, the doctors say, despite the cough he's developed over the past few days. John hasn't worried so much over a sneeze in thirteen years, since Sam was a baby. He buys Lysol, bleach, and air disinfectant to clean the apartment top to bottom and insists on Dean wearing a jacket and hat every time he goes outside, despite the overly warm Arizona weather.

The thrift store cowboy hat has become a permanent fixture on his head, but John suspects that he wouldn't wear it so much if Sammy didn't grin like a maniac every time he does. He wears it even now, though, sitting in the doctor's treatment chair with Sam five miles away at the library. It's a curious sight in the middle of the hospital, but Dean looks so right and comfortable, completely oblivious as he smiles at the nurses.

Ignoring the ashen skin, hollow cheeks, and red-rimmed eyes isn't easy, but John can imagine this other life for Dean, one where he might live out in the country, tend animals, have a family, grow. It's all about the wide-open spaces, wild and free, where anybody can find peace, even Winchesters. If Mary hadn't died, if they didn't hunt, if Dean hadn't gotten sick, they could've been happy in a place like that. It was never meant to be though, not for them, John knows that and he can't dwell on maybes and what ifs right now.

They're lucky, so the doctors say; Dean's reaction to the medication follows distinct patterns. As it is, he's asleep before they're out of the parking garage, slumped against the window, breathing even fog against the glass. The library isn't far and John drives slowly through town. He watches Dean from the corner of his eye, knowing the hell that is sure to come later on and wishing they could just keep driving like this. Dean could sleep off this cancer like a cold, safe and warm in the Impala.

Under the bright sun, Sam sits on the curb waiting as they pull up and he climbs into the backseat with a stack of books. He rambles on about stars and comets, black holes, and whatever else he was looking up just because he wanted to know. John wonders when the last time he ever learned something just because he wanted to know and not because his, or his kids' lives, or someone else's life, depended on it. He doesn't remember that curiosity about the world leaving him, but it's gone just the same and he doesn't miss it.

"So, it's like, infinite?" Dean asks, apparently having woken up, always with that extra bit of energy for his brother. "Just goes on, and on, forever?"

"Yea," Sam nods. "Theoretically." Dean smiles at this and leans back into the leather.

"Cool." Sam flips open one of his books to point out a picture, leaning far across the front seat to show Dean. The sound of his voice alone is soothing enough for John, with Dean interrupting randomly to comment. It seems too fast as he makes the turn into the apartment lot, finding a space near their building.

"Hey Sammy," Dean asks. He pushes the car door open and sticks his feet out, staring down at the wavy concrete. "You ever actually tried to fry eggs on the sidewalk?"

"No," Sam laughs at the random question.

"Well," Dean sighs, rising slowly to his feet. "Maybe you should." John comes around the front of the car to help him up, but Dean waves him off, readjusting the hat on his head. Sam laughs as he gathers his things out of the back mumbling a yea, sure to Dean before asking his father if they have any eggs. They move across the parking lot at Dean's pace, Sam and John on his either side.

And then Dean stops, and Sam stops, and the world stops.

Dean pauses suddenly in his steps, halting. He tilts his head back to squint up at the sun. Sam closes his mouth, gazing up at his brother questioningly.

"Dean?" John leans toward his son, studying the sweat shined skin. He reaches out hesitantly to rest his hand on Dean's back, but the moment his palm brushes the jean of his jacket, Dean slumps against him, becoming entirely boneless, leaving brother and father to catch his weight.

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"Anemia?" John repeats.

"That's when you don't have enough red blood cells," Sam supplies anxiously.

"I know what it is," John snaps, looking back to the doctor. "I just don't understand how it could cause this."

"Anemia is very common in patients going through chemotherapy," the doctor explains. "Dean also has a bacterial infection in his lungs and is running a significant fever because of it. That, in combination with the effects of the treatment this morning." The doctor shakes his head. "He needs to rest. His blood pressure was fairly low when you brought him in. Has he been experiencing any chest pains or shortness of breath?"

"No," John shakes his head, alarmed. "No."

The doctor nods.

"Severe anemia can sometimes cause arrhythmias and palpitations, which is something we'll have to watch him for. Fluid building up in the lungs is also a big concern right now. This cancer," the doctor pauses, purses his lips. "It's much more aggressive than we thought. We've got him on a strong antibiotic, as well as something stronger for the nausea, but he has been vomiting. We were considering a sedate, but he's calm now and is resting."

"Comfortably?" Sam interrupts. John reaches out to his distraught son, but Sam moves away. "That's what they always say," he explains nervously. "In movies and stuff. They always say, 'and they're resting comfortably.'"

"Yes," the doctor nods, surprised, looking to John for guidance. "Of course."

"We can see him then?" John asks quickly.

"Of course. I'll take you to him."

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It's the wrong room. John turns to tell the doctor that this is the wrong room and this isn't his son, but the man has already disappeared out into the hall. He glances back at the gaunt, pale figure in the bed, jutting bones and sunken features, horrified to see Sam already at the side of the bed, picking up one of the boy's hands. John jumps toward him to tell him not to touch this person, they don't even know him, but then he gets a closer look at the features. Strong jaw and defined nose and he realizes.

This is Dean. He's sick and maybe even dying.

Damn, he's glad Mary went fast. The thought flies mercilessly through John's mind as he realizes the small kindness that may have been granted his wife in dying and his family in mourning her. She didn't suffer and wither.

Sam shifts onto the edge of the bed, grasping Dean's hand lightly. His brave boys, always fighting, struggling for something: revenge, normalcy, approval, each other, love, and now, life, always together. He moves closer to the bed himself, sickened by his earlier thoughts and trying hard to see something of his defiantly strong eldest in the body on the bed. He's in there, somewhere.

One thing hunting all these years has taught John is the complete insignificance of the body. Ghosts live on and on, haunting for decades and centuries after their physical selves are long gone. It's the spirit that lives on, passion, anger, or love causing them to hang tight to this world. Dean has passion for life, for surviving, living, breathing. He has anger for the demon that tore their family apart; the fuel that keeps them on this never-ending quest for revenge. And he for damn sure has love, sometimes a weakness, playing out in the way he holds the strings of their family together still, tying them in ever tighter knots. They can't lose anyone now and John knows Dean will survive somehow. He has to.

He drops into the chair beside the bed, resting his head on his fist and they wait. Visiting hours don't really mean anything anyway and it's after midnight when Sammy lies down, curling into the space next to his brother on the thin mattress and falling asleep. John watches them in a sort of trance, their chests rising and falling in parallel patterns. He doesn't even immediately realize when Dean's eyes creep open.

"Hey," he jumps, rising toward the bed. "How're you doing?" Dean's gaze shifts about the room, finally settling on his father. His mouth twitches as he notices Sam, clinging to his side.

"Think I got a tumor," he rasps. John smiles slowly.

"Looks more like a brother."

"Same thing," Dean sighs and shifts in the bed, blinking heavily.

"Yea," John agrees, suddenly nervous, crazy energy to do something coursing through him. "I guess you're right about that." He pulls the chair closer to the bed and sits, resting his elbows on the blanket and forcing himself to be still. "You scared us there, kiddo."

"Sorry," Dean breathes, licking his lips. John shakes his head.

"Don't you ever be sorry, Dean. Not now."

"That bad?"

"No," John frowns. "No. Not bad at all. Doc says you just need to rest up. Eat your spinach."

"I hate spinach," Dean drawls thoughtfully. "It's green."

"How about some crackers then?" John asks. "Some soda water?" He knows Dean hates both, especially when it's all he can stomach, but the suggestion doesn't get the rise he expected. Dean just shakes his head vaguely and sinks deeper into the pillow.

"M' tired," he mumbles, closing his eyes. "You'll watch Sammy now, Dad?" John opens and closes his mouth, studying his son in concern and confusion.

"Yea. I'll watch him, Dean. Don't worry." He reaches out to rest his palm on Dean's warm, dry forehead.

"You should've seen his face," Dean rambles, eyes suddenly open again and roaming to focus vaguely on his father. He blinks slowly and John feels eyelashes brush his fingers. "That night, Dad. At that house." John nods to let Dean know he understands he's talking about the night he was possessed at the Wellington house. Dean goes on, eyes squinted in confusion or fatigue. "You had him, or, that guy, the spirit had him up against the wall and I couldn't, I couldn't get there. You," he pauses, swallows harshly and John nods for him to continue. "That spirit, he told Sam that I was sick. He knew that, before you even did, before any of us did. And Sam tried to argue with him that he was wrong. That's when you, he, it broke his nose. God, there was a lot of blood," Dean whispers, rolling his head to see Sam, still sleeping quietly beside him. John leans closer when his son's voice begins to shake. "And then," Dean finishes dryly. "He told Sammy that I was going to die."

"Dean, no…"

"You should've seen his face," Dean repeats, not hearing or not seeing his father. "Dad, Sam, he believed it." He exhales and bites hard on his lip. "We thought Wellington was confused, talking about his own kids, but I could already tell something was wrong and then we knew and if he was right about me being sick, Dad, he'd be right about that too." It's as much a question as anything and John shakes his head mutely, rubs his thumb along Dean's brow.

"You know they say anything," he ventures. "To cut at you. He knew what to say to get Sammy upset. That's all. There's no way he could know what's going to happen." The argument sounds weak, even to him, but he tries not to show how shaken he is. The spirit's words rush back to him and everything that had happened after. How scared he'd been, how ready to believe, but for Sam, and Dean, it had to have been worse. They already had proof of Arthur Wellington's predictions. He attempts a crooked smile. "You said it yourself, son. You ai'nt dying." Dean blinks and looks away, gaze settling slowly on Sam, sleeping peacefully, oblivious, beside him.

"It's harder than I thought," he breathes, seemingly exhausted from his long explanation. John takes a carefully deep breath, studying the rise and fall of Dean's chest along with his own. But where his chest moves smoothly, Dean's hitches hollowly.

"You just have to be strong," John speaks shakily. He offers the only comforts he knows how to give with his son lying before him now, slipping away like the trickiest of spirits, fading into dusty air. "You just have to keep going. It's like any hunt," he whispers, trying to simplify it, to hang tight to hope. He leans in closer to his son. "We know the enemy and we know how to beat it. We kill this thing. We win. That's it."

"Yea," Dean agrees tiredly, reaching up to brush his fingers through Sammy's hair, even as his eyes close. "That's it."

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tbc