Spirit Fall, chapter eleven

A/N: Firstly, I apologize for the wait. This chapter gave me so much trouble it isn't even funny. Well, yea, okay, some of it was actually funny, but that's not the point. It's done now and most of the next chapter is done and that will be the end. Also, I may have said it before, but I'll just repeat myself in that the technical medical stuff is mostly improvised. There's a reason I changed my major. :) So I'm just going off what I can remember. Hopefully this chapter will wrap up most issues. Please let me know what you think.

P.S. Changed the summary too, cause the old one was making less sense all the time. :)

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One pair of shining green eyes traced with red and made all the more electric for the contrast are probably the best thing he's ever seen, John decides.

"Hey," Dean blinks up at them casually as they lean in over his bed. "What's up?"

The doctors explained that the infection has cleared out of his lungs and his temperature is down nearer ninety-nine degrees, a great improvement. In fact, such a vast improvement, that they must pause to remind themselves of still greater demons to be wrestled.

You have to enjoy the good as it comes along though, because the bad will always be there, waiting outside the back door, and they know that all too well.

"Hey," Sam smiles back in awe, reaching for the hand Dean offers him. He's alert and talking, but held up only by the support of a few pillows and not making any effort to move.

"How're you doing?" John asks.

"Oh, you know." Dean attempts to gesture with the hand not stabbed with IV's, but finds it death locked in Sammy's grip. "Same old…"

"Dean," John interrupts. "Honesty please."

Dean blinks, perhaps not used to his father actually listening to the words he says.

"Pretty damn shitty."

"That's more like it," John nods amiably and pulls up a chair. "Doc says you're going to be in here for a while now."

"We've stayed in worse," Dean smirks and John is reminded again of the treacherous lifestyle he's imposed on his children and the improvements he has yet to make. Sam sinks onto the edge of the bed.

"I'll bring you some books," he offers. Dean grins.

"Thanks man, but I don't think I'll be doing much reading." He shifts, trying to sit up further against the pillows, and winces. John frowns.

"You okay?" he asks, ready to lean over and help.

"Yea," Dean nods. "Just tired. Tired of being tired. I'm sick of all this," he gestures around the room vaguely. "All this…stuff."

John catches his son's eye and sees a fleeting moment of panic there. With these words, Dean thinks he's admitted too much. And to his credit, John hadn't even stopped to think that Dean would be anything less than pleased with all of this. He always expects him to just shut up and take it and typically that's exactly what Dean would do. But, John can see, he's at the end of his ropes, both physically and emotionally. He wouldn't be admitting so much, so honestly otherwise.

"It's okay," John nods in reassurance. His words are gruff and actions stiff, but he hopes it's at least a little comforting. Something else he'll have to work on.

"Maybe they'll let you go outside later," Sam suggests. "It's really warm, so you won't get sick or anything." It's pure optimism that Dean could possibly be up and about so soon. It's amazing, John considers, how despite everything they've been through Sam has held onto that quality so much. Almost to the point that he's become delusionally optimistic.

"Yea," Dean nods. "Maybe later. I'm just tired now." It's not clear whether he's repeating himself to make a point or because his mind is more than a bit scattered, but considering everything, it's probably the latter. Sam nods dejectedly; reminding John of Dean so many years ago when he'd had to explain that baby Sammy would not be able to play cars with him for quite awhile. It would take time. This would take time.

"Need us to bring you anything?" John asks quietly.

"Some music," Dean smirks under half-lidded eyes. "A good cup of coffee, the rifle, and maybe a nice ghostie to play target practice with."

"Yea, okay," John interrupts before he can list anymore. "I'll see what we can do."

"There's plenty of ghosts floating around a place like this," Sam comments dryly.

"I'll bet," John nods, glancing about the room as if he might be able to see them. Hospitals, for the most part, were a bit like old battlefields, lost souls all over the place. Just another reason why they hate the places.

"Bring 'em on," Dean nods.

"It's going to be awhile before you're hunting anything," John reminds him.

"Nah," Dean replies. "I'm always up for a good fight."

"Well, I think you've got one."

With this, John realizes, they will beat this thing. He'd said it before, but those were just words coming out of his mouth. Now, with Dean awake and ready to fight, he can really believe it.

This cancer thing is so going down.

Dean's a master at dealing with what's he's handed and managing as well as can be done. They haven't come out of anything 'okay' by anyone's definition. They're scarred in more ways than one and outcasts and alone, but they have continued to fight and moved forward. Not given up. That's what matters.

And the reason Dean is okay with all of this, with their life, is because he believes in the cause behind it. He believes in the man behind it. The realization makes John a bit nervous, but backing off now is not an option. It's not like Dean has ever held them up to anyone else's expectations or beliefs or predictions anyway.

Dean had never believed a word of that doomsday death fortune.

"So, what have you guys been up to?" he asks, eyes back open and searching their faces. John ducks his head before anything can be revealed there and Sam shifts awkwardly on the bed.

"Same old stuff," Sam says after a moment. "Sitting around waiting for your lazy head to wake up."

Dean laughs breathlessly.

"Sounds exciting."

"You'd be surprised," Sam nods. John dares glance up then and is surprised to find Sam's eyes on him, staring hard. But, not out of anger, for once, soft and shining, they say 'this is our secret to keep.' John nods, knowing, the kindness isn't meant for him anyway. They couldn't control what had happened or what would happen, but this last transgression of John's could be kept from Dean.

The IV machine next to the bed whirs and clicks. Two bags hang from it and John realizes he hasn't a clue what they might contain, what medicine is being pumped into his son now and with what effects.

Dean works his jaw and blinks heavily.

"Man," he sighs. "I could really use that coffee."

"Doctor said no caffeine," Sam interjects.

"Yea…whatever," Dean breathes. With each blink, his eyes stay shut a moment longer and John reaches over to brush a hand across his forehead.

"Go ahead and sleep," he tells him. "We'll be here."

"Yea," Sam agrees, smiling quietly at his Dad. "We'll be here."

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A few days later, Dean's blood work is run again. They try not to get their hopes up, as there hasn't been any change yet. They haven't done any further treatment and Dean still sleeps through the better part of most days. Another doctor motions them out into the hall, away from where Dean rests now.

"Yea?" John nods for her to speak.

"I have the results." She smiles sort of sadly.

"And?" He nods again and feels Sam stiffen beside him, waiting. Doctors were always saying too much when you didn't want them to and stuttering when you really wanted to hear something.

"Dean's white blood cell count has dropped significantly."

The air rushes out of John's lungs and he grins.

"That's good, right? That's a good thing?"

"A very good thing," she smiles.

"He's getting better?" Sam asks, needing the confirmation. The doctor nods.

"It's a step in the right direction."

Getting all the reassurance he needs, Sam dodges back into Dean's room and jumps up on the bed, kneeling beside his brother and shaking him awake.

"Dean!" He leans over him. "Hey!"

Dean opens his eyes with some effort, blinking up at his anxious brother.

"You're getting better!" Sam enthuses. "You're getting better."

Dean grins, chapped lips stretching, and closes his eyes again.

"Hell yea, I am."

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More chemotherapy. More radiation. More of being sick. Two entire days of lying curled in a hospital bed, not moving, barely breathing.

Sam comes into the room, rounds the bed to face Dean who lies on his side and stands in front of him. Still high off the fact of Dean is getting better, Dean is getting better, and not noticing the tense lines his shoulders are now or the squint of unopened eyes.

"Dean," he starts excitedly, only pausing when that doesn't get a response. "Dean?"

"I can't…"

Sam's brow furrows at the rough, quiet quality of his brother's voice. He leans closer.

"What?"

"I can't talk to you right now." The words are forced between clenched teeth and barely audible. Sam reaches for Dean's shoulder and hesitates; sensing the amount of energy he is putting into just being still. But his eyes still don't open and it makes Sam too nervous to watch.

"Dean?" He rests his hand on his brother's shoulder.

"Don't," Dean bites out between breathes. "Don't touch me."

John enters the room then, just in time to hear those words and see Sam snatch his hand back as if he'd been burned.

"Sorry," Sam stutters. "Sorry." Wide, fearful brown eyes glance up to John where he stands in the doorway. He knows Sam only wants to help his brother, only wants to make this all better, don't they all, but there is a long road to struggle down before they'll get there. Stepping into the room he motions Sam away from Dean, because sometimes, being a family means knowing when to leave each other alone. But mostly, John thinks as he pulls up a chair next to the bed, it's knowing when not to.

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tbc