Disclaimer: See chapter one!

A/N: This chapter was only written because HoofsTails Gal wanted to know more and I think that's a fantabulous (ignore my weird language) idea! Thanks! Some people don't know what I'd be talking about otherwise. So if this chapter seems boring and stupid (because I had to change a few things around) I'm sorry!

It hadn't surprised John at all at how well Dean had taken the news. He had simply shrugged it off; claiming that no amount of fatigue would keep him down. This alone had surfaced a new amount of pride in both John and Sam, something that was always there, but never really showed itself. Knowles had taken it upon himself to visit the eldest sibling nearly everyday, trying to 'counsel' him, help him through an ordeal, as it were. What greatly disturbed John the most, however, was that Arden had now decided to make further tests and examinations, watching Dean nearly all the time, day and night. This angered John to the point where he took Arden aside, never too gentle with the portly physician.

"You like looking my son up, or something?" John snarled, just outside Dean's room where both Sam and Dean were engaged in an arm wrestle, Sam only ever letting Dean win.

"Ex…excuse me?" Arden stammered to let his words out, his fear of John increasing by the second.

"You watch him, all the time," John felt his blood boil. "Why?"

The doctor reddened considerably. "C…CFS is a condition that stays around for at least six months before it's diagnosed…I…I may have made an error," the doctor studied John's fuming face before taking a hastened step backwards. "It…it may be something else…something else may have caused these symptoms…"

"Like what?" John snarled, taking a step towards the doctor.

"Well, it is possible he could have contracted Lyme disease, any types of cancers, it really depends," Arden narrowed his eyes carefully as John took another step towards him.

"I want another doctor to work on my boy," John growled. "I want a professional doctor."

oOoOoOo

With John's very persuasive techniques, they were able to get a new doctor for Dean in less than a day. The doctor was a fairly built man in his forties with greying brown hair. On appearance he looked like a surly man, but once he engaged John, Sam and Dean in conversation, he was jovial and enthusiastic.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Barton, I'll be taking care of Dean from now on," he introduced himself, shaking John's hand first, then Sam and then Dean's who lay in bed, blinking blearily up at him.

"I hope you're more trustworthy than Arden," Sam said instantly, surveying Barton carefully.

Barton nodded. "Mr…Oh the hell with it," he sighed, smiling gently at them. "May I call you by your first names? 'Mr. Patterson' will get confusing for all of us."

"Sure," all three replied in unison.

"Right," Barton turned back to Sam. "Sam isn't it?" he asked and when Sam nodded, continued with a light smile on his face. "I'll be blunt. Arden is a sneaky bastard. We hired him at a time when we were low on doctors a couple of years back. Lately we've noticed that his diagnoses are all over the place, examinations are done in the crudest fashions and his patients seem to be in worse condition than when they came in."

John's brain suddenly went into overdrive. "Worse condition?" he asked. "How?"

"Well he prescribes the wrong medication, doesn't he?" Barton turned on John, his smile slipping.

"Why is he still practicing then?" Dean asked from his position in the bed.

"No complaints," Barton said simply, sombrely. "We would have no grounds to fire him. We're actually in the process of checking out his history and trying to validate those certificates he's plastered on his walls. The bastard's a smart one. But I think you scared him, John," Barton smiled fondly at the eldest Winchester.

"So what about this Chronic Fatigue Syndrome thing?" John asked, suddenly taking a liking to this doctor. "Is it true or is Arden full of shit?"

Barton sighed loudly and turned to look down at Dean. "It's hard to say unless I have a talk with Dean myself and examine him, that is."

Sam nodded. "Right," he said, shifting awkwardly as he leant heavily against his cane. "And when will you be able to start that?" he asked.

"I was thinking right now," Barton suggested. "I think you guys have been jerked around for far too long. You may have been given the incorrect diagnosis and yet you could have been given the correct one. I think that you should be given a certain one soon and I would like to start right away, if that's okay."

"That's what I wanted to hear," John nodded, but didn't smile, mirroring the doctor's stern face. "Do you need room or should we stay?"

"Dean?" Barton looked down at Dean who had remained silent through most of the conversation.

Dean stifled a yawn as best he could before answering. "You mind leaving?" he asked his brother and father.

"No problem," Sam replied and set both Dean and his father with a meaningful look. "I've got to do some research anyway."

Both Barton and Dean watched as Sam and John left the room, quietly closing the door behind them.

"You want to sit up for me?" Barton asked, turning back to Dean.

"No," Dean replied sincerely, but in a tired, worn out voice. "Not really, dude."

"Well, dude, I'd prefer it if you did," Barton replied, a grin playing on his lips.

Dean smirked, but slowly levelled himself up on the bed, leaning heavily against the headboard. Instantly, Barton brought his hands up and started feeling around Dean's neck.

"Dude, too close," Dean said, affronted by the contact.

Barton started to laugh and Dean quickly thanked the heavens that they were an arm's length apart.

"My six year old son says 'dude'," Barton said fondly. "I let him watch 'Dude Where's My Car?' and ever since then he can't stop saying it."

Dean cocked an eyebrow tiredly. "You let your six year old son watch that movie?" he asked, not really caring. "Isn't that a little old for him?"

Barton laughed again. "That's what my wife said," he replied, dropping his hands from Dean's neck and looking down at the young man. "Then she saw that Kutcher fellow and now she's glued to Punk'd."

Dean chuckled softly, instantly stopping as he felt the beginnings of a migraine.

"Headache?" Barton acknowledged and when Dean nodded he pressed a hand to Dean's forehead. "You're hot."

"Why thanks," Dean winked. "You don't look that bad yourself."

Barton laughed and flipped the covers to Dean's bed, revealing Dean's slightly tanned legs only somewhat covered by his hospital gown.

"Whoa, whoa," Dean shuddered, trying to pull back the sheets. "Not until the second date."

"Relax," Barton smiled. "You said your muscles ache? I'm checking if there's any redness or swelling."

Dean relaxed and sighed openly, trying any way how to rid this increasing fatigue.

"No redness or swelling," Barton reported after checking both his legs and arms. He sat on the bed next to Dean's still legs.

"That's a good thing right?" Dean asked cautiously.

"In a sense," Barton agreed. "It rules out a few diseases I've had in mind. Rheumatoid arthritis being one among others. The thing with CFS is that it is literally an invisible illness. It has no markers, no trademarks on the body."

Dean sighed. "So, it could very well be CFS then?" he asked, but already knowing the answer. "Because I look fine, do I?"

Barton chuckled. "Apart from the obvious accident you've just been in and the bags under your eyes, you look as pretty as a picture."

"So what do we do now?" Dean asked dejectedly.

"I want to take blood tests," Barton explained, standing up from the bed. "Although CFS can't be seen through any diagnostic laboratory testing, I would like to rule out any disease I can. I would also like to get a psychologist in here and do some memory and concentration tests and just get a read on your mental state, just so we can rule out Depression."

"Brilliant," Dean drawled. "I love tests."

"Yeah, me too," Barton replied, a sour look on his face. "I had a triple bypass done a year back," he explained. "That's what you get for smoking, eh?"

Dean shifted uncomfortably, his leg jerking involuntarily as he felt a pain run through his muscles. "So, if it is CFS, how will you know?"

"Well, we'll have to rule out everything else first before anything," Barton explained. "But I wanted to get a head start today, so I'm going to ask you a few questions, nothing too personal."

"Shoot," Dean encouraged, preparing himself.

"Before the accident, did you feel drained at all; did you have restless nights or unrefreshing mornings?" Barton asked, pulling out a notebook and a pen from his front pocket of his doctor's coat.

Dean paused slightly, rubbing his chest as it gave a twinge. "Well, I work late you know?" he said in a defensive tone. "I work abroad and travel a lot, sometimes I don't even make it to bed. I stay up really late. Of course I'd be tired."

Barton nodded slowly, trying very carefully not to distress the young man. "Is it because you don't sleep or because you can't sleep?" Barton asked carefully.

"What is this, doc?" Dean asked, his eyes averting Barton's. "I thought you were cool."

"Answer the question, Dean," Barton replied, any trace of cheerfulness gone from his tone.

Dean sighed, but refused to meet Barton's gaze. "I can sleep most of the time, I really can. But sometimes I just lay awake in bed, trying to ignore everything around me. And when I wake up, that's to say if I'd gone to sleep in the first place, it's like I'd never went to bed."

Barton seemed to find this extremely interesting as he immediately began to scrawl down notes at an alarming rate.

"Can you tell me how your brother and father told you about CFS?" Barton asked, looking back down at Dean. "What were you feeling at the time?"

"I thought you were a physician, not a shrink," Dean replied swiftly, finally meeting Barton's gaze.

The doctor smiled softly. "You know, it'll be a lot easier if you just told me without a fuss," he said.

"Or what?" Dean challenged. "You're going to set Knowles on me, prescribe a few medications? Get me calmed down?"

Barton was taken aback by this new attitude coming from the young man. As far as Barton could tell, Dean was a light fella, hardly letting anything get to him. But it was apparent to Barton now that something had hit a very nasty cord within Dean.

"I'm not getting anyone in here, Dean," Barton replied gently. "I'm not prescribing any medication for anyone until I know what's going on. So tell me Dean, what do you remember being told about CFS?"

Dean looked down into his lap, his Adam's apple working furiously. Barton could tell that Dean was trying extremely hard to control his emotions.

"I…They just said something about fatigue," Dean said in a tired voice. "They said I'd be feeling tired for the rest of my life."

"They said more than that, didn't they?" Barton asked quietly, watching as Dean's face slightly reddened.

"Fuck you," Dean snarled, meeting Barton's eyes furiously. "Fuck you 'cause you already know."

Barton's eyes widened. "Why don't you tell me?" he asked casually.

Dean ran a worried hand through his hair, his face twisted into a painful expression. "I don't remember that much alright?" he said angrily, almost shouting. "I wasn't really concentrating."

"Why weren't you concentrating Dean?" Barton inquired.

"I don't know," Dean might as well have shouted, digging his face into his hands and kicking his legs in frustration.

Barton nodded, closely inspecting Dean before pulling the blankets over the young man and scribbling a last note on his notebook before pocketing it, along with his pen.

"I'll message a pathologist to take a sample of your blood for testing," Barton said quietly, trying to stem the rush of emotions he felt for the Winchester. "You should also expect to speak to a psychologist today…not Knowles. Someone new."

Barton waited briefly, hoping to get a reply or any sort of reaction from Dean, but when he received none; he turned his back on him and started towards the door.

"I can't have CFS," a muffled voice came from Dean, but it was enough to warrant hope from Barton. "I just can't have it…I can't be tired for the rest of my life." Dean looked up, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "I can feel it already, you know. I know it's nothing else, because I sleep and I sleep and I don't get any refreshed. I feel weak and my muscles ache all the time." Dean held up his hands, staring at them almost devoid of emotion. "I feel old. But I just can't have it. I can't."

Barton felt his heart got out for the man that was quite clearly suffering an emotional blow. "Whatever you have or don't have, Dean, I will be the one that tells you, personally," Barton promised sincerely. "I will tell you in whatever way you prefer. Alone, with your family, any way you want. I will tell you the facts, I will tell you what we will do about it and I will tell you anything you want to know. You can lead a normal life, no matter what you have or don't have." He paused slightly, noting the pained expression on Dean's face. "I'll get you something for that headache."

It was evident to Barton that Dean had never been spoken to in such a way before as Dean looked extremely uncomfortable at the moment, but Barton didn't care. He had always taken it upon himself to see his patients through the worst of their diagnosis, treatment and anything in between, so, he smiled gently and left Dean quickly.

Closing the door behind him as he stepped out of Dean's room, he came upon John, the youngest Winchester absent, staring at him anxiously, expecting a diagnosis, Barton surmised. So Barton did the only thing he could do. He gave John his diagnosis.

"He needs his family."

oOoOoOo

For the next hour, Dean was exposed to needles and tubes that seemed to come from any location on the pathologist's white lab coat. The tourniquet placed around Dean's arm didn't seem to be doing its job properly and the young pathologist couldn't seem to find a vein, inserting and reinserting needles all over the place. By the end, Dean felt extremely exhausted and nauseas that he didn't think he had enough energy to continue with the day, but alas, as soon as the pathologist left, the psychologist entered, shooing anyone else in the small hospital room away from her and her patient.

Dean endured extensive memory and concentration tests that lasted a good half hour each. On the inside he was crying out for Mary, sometimes John, but mostly Sam, on the outside he fired quirky comments at the psychologist. His nausea hadn't improved by the time they had moved on to his feelings and his thoughts and it only intensified as the psychologist packed up her mountain of paperwork and set off, welcoming John back into the room, where he sat by Dean, watching as Dean struggled to take control of his stomach before spilling it's contents on his bed covers. He hardly noticed the comforting hand on his back or his father yell for a nurse to help him.

Dean slept the rest of the day away, his father by his side, wiping sweat drops from his forehead.

oOoOoOo

It was early the next morning when Dean awoke, his father snoring softly in a chair beside Dean's bed. Feeling slightly responsible for whatever kind of sleep loss his father and brother had suffered, he let his father sleep on, watching him silently, trying to cast his thoughts from that night.

But how could he not think about that night? It might have been over a month ago, but it was still very sharp within his mind. Dean remembered the physical pain as his father-no, his possessed father-slashed his chest and generated blood to flow freely from his mouth. He could feel the emotional pain as he begged his father to stop, to help him when he needed that help. Couldn't his father see that he was in pain? That he was still in pain? Even though he had dismissed the idea? And was it true what the demon had said through his father's mouth? That he wasn't needed as much as he needed the family? Was it true that Sammy was the favourite son? That would make sense, wouldn't it? Dean only remembered being told to take care of his brother, to protect his brother, not to take care of himself, to make sure that he, himself, got out alive. But Sam always fought with their father, always made life hell for the eldest Winchester, even when hell wasn't needed. Why would John favour Sam over Dean? Dean was the more obeying son, the more trustworthy and the greater hunter, why should he be put second? It was he that made John a father, not Sam. It was he that saved John's ass over and over again, not looking for any reward, any thanks.

"Hey."

The object of Dean's thoughts stood in the doorway, watching him carefully. Sam held papers in his right hand as he leant on his cane with his left. Walking forwards carefully he sat on the foot of Dean's bed and stared at Dean carefully, dropping his cane unceremoniously on the cold hospital floor.

"Hey," Dean replied, taking his gaze off John and towards Sam.

"Came in last night to see you," Sam started. "You were out cold."

Dean shifted on his bed as much as he could. "Yeah," he said. "I was-"

"Sick?" Sam suggested. "Yeah, I know. We told Barton. He said he'd take that into 'careful consideration'."

Dean snorted. "Everything is going to be taken into careful consideration."

Sam nodded, but no smile.

"Where did you go off to yesterday, anyway?" Dean asked, watching Sam shrewdly.

Sam held up his papers that he still held. "Research," he said simply.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "On what?" he asked cautiously.

There was a grunt and a quick movement that came from John before he scrubbed his face, blinked furiously and answered for Sam.

"He went to dig up info on Arden," he yawned, but his voice was hinged with conviction.

Dean's eyes widened as he slowly moved his hand up to his chest, still lying on the bed. "Oh, why?"

Sam raised an eyebrow. "I thought that would be obvious, Dean," he said, as though he believed that statement. "We thought he might be working with dark magic or something or other. We thought he might be supernatural."

"And what did you find?" Dean asked his full attention on Sam.

"Whatever you have, Dean," Sam said, almost whispering. "It's not supernatural."

Dean nodded, or as much as he could lying down, finding that he was completely calm. "Yeah," he said, quite confidently. "I didn't really believe it was."

"I did find something on Arden though," Sam said, obviously trying to please the other two men.

"What is it?" John asked hurriedly.

Sam indicated towards the papers. "Didn't even go to med school," he said a new kind of hatred in his voice. "Dropped out of high school at seventeen, got arrested for fraud. So, what did he do?" Sam paused, as though expecting Dean or John to answer. "He acquired fake IDs. Would you get this? His résumé includes a chef, a pilot and a fucking garbage man! He's been conning people for ages, but never stays in the same place for too long. This has been his longest stay."

John laughed, almost heartily. "Oh, so he's like you two rolled into one?" he chuckled.

Sam's bottom lip lowered. "What?" he asked. "Dean and I aren't like him. We're nothing like him!"

"Fake IDs?" John questioned. "Doctor? Chef? Pilot? Who're you kidding Sam? Even I don't put up such a pathetic act."

Dean grinned. "Bet you wish you could."

John looked over at his eldest. "What are you implying?" he asked, but a soft smile on his face.

"Anyway," Sam interrupted. "He's wanted in Arkansas, Utah and Minnesota. Guess who his partner in crime is?"

"Knowles," Dean stated assertively.

"Knowles," Sam agreed. "I'm handing in my papers and filing a complaint."

"Sam, don't," Dean snapped. "Hand in the papers if you want, I don't give a damn, just don't file a complaint."

"Why the hell not, Dean?" Sam retorted, almost angrily.

"Maybe we could get a fair bit of cash out of it," John interrupted, his eyes shining with the uncertain possibilities.

Dean groaned. "Sammy, don't file a complaint, okay?"

"I don't see-"

Sam was interrupted as a curt nod echoed distantly around the room. All three Winchester's glanced up as Barton stepped inside, carrying a clipboard, disclosing no emotions.

"Hello, all three Mr. Patterson's," he said, before fixing Dean with a serious face. "I have the results of your blood test and a legit diagnosis. How do you want to do this?"

Dean glanced at his father's emotionless face and his brother's worried one as they both turned to face the doctor.

"Just tell me its cancer," Dean said steadily, choosing to ignore Sam's noise of objection. "Tell me it's my heart or my liver. Tell me I'm going to die…just don't tell me I'm tired."

Barton set Dean with a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry, Dean, but Arden was right. I could find nothing physically wrong with you," he took a deep breath and continued, trying to block out the helpless look on Dean's face. "It seems that you do have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. I really am sorry."

Dean nodded slowly and Barton could tell that it had taken him a lot to do that one simple action. Sam sat on the end on the bed, swallowing so much that Barton was sure he had sucked his mouth dry. John's face had reddened, and he stood up, clasping a hand around his son's arm and holding it up to his side, as though to keep him comfort.

"Can…Can you tell us exactly how that will affect Dean?" John asked slowly.

Barton stood up straight and looked squarely at Dean. "You have already gotten a taste of the most of it," he said softly, but loud enough so that all could hear. "Fatigue is the most obvious. I'm afraid that symptom will never completely vanish, but hopefully over time, it will lessen. Muscle ache, which I will be prescribing medication for, as well as headaches, the more severe than most kinds. Concentration and memory will suffer, as the results from your psychological tests have proved. There is nothing I can prescribe for that. You need to practice your ability to memorise and to concentrate. If you exert a lot of mental or physical energy, you may experience an increase in malaise."

Dean swallowed uncertainly. "Mala-what?" he asked, feeling his father's grip on his arm tighten.

"Malaise," Barton provided. "If you do something extremely exhausting to your body, you are likely to get fatigued and become sick, which is what happened yesterday when the psychologist left."

"Oh," Dean replied softly, his mouth twisting downwards. 'So…so no hunting?" he asked, his voice quavering.

Barton could see that the idea of not being able to hunt again would be devastating for the young man. "We'll talk about what activities to pursue later, okay?"

"Is there anything else, doctor?" Sam asked, looking up at the doctor with watering eyes.

"Joint pain," Barton continued, not taking his eyes off Dean and surprised when he saw no emotion encased in those green eyes, just his mouth's downward shape might have provided an insight into Dean's emotions. "Sore throat. Both of these can be controlled of course. And you will have problems with sleeping. All these symptoms you have already experienced, these are the symptoms that diagnoses CFS."

Dean closed his eyes briefly, shuddering involuntarily, but when he reopened his eyes, his expression was as stoic as ever.

"Anything else?" he asked, shoving his free hand under the blankets and crossing them tightly.

"I have a pamphlet for you to read through," Barton said, pulling out a brightly decorated pamphlet titled 'So Your Tired?' printed in large, bold lettering. He handed it to Dean who flung it on the floor and set the doctor with a stern gaze.

"I don't want to read it off some pamphlet," Dean said defiantly.

Barton nodded. "These are extra symptoms, something you might not even experience," he hesitated, but on seeing all three Winchester's sour expressions, he continued. "You might experience bowel troubles, allergies to certain foods and smells, as well as visual disturbances and dizziness. You may have night sweats and chills. What I'm most concerned about is your psychological state."

"Psychological state?" John questioned, suddenly letting go of Dean's arm. "Like what?" His voice lowered an octave as he stepped forwards towards the doctor. "He's not…you know?" He made a face which he believed illustrated that of a mentally incapacitated individual.

"I'm not crazy, dad," Dean snapped heatedly.

Barton smiled softly. "No, he's not crazy," he assured. "It's just that, with this type of illness, people focus too much on the negatives. They begin to see the black and whites and not the in-betweens."

Dean's mouth tilted lower at this. "Black and whites?" he asked sceptically. "Negatives? Sorry to disappoint you, doc, but I can't see the greys and I can't see the positives."

Barton looked down at Dean sadly. "I spoke to your psychologist last night," he said.

Dean knew where this was going and knew he had to stop it before all else. "Fooling around behind the missus, eh?" he replied, winking.

Barton frowned. "She thinks you're going through things you're not telling me about," he said bluntly. "And you don't have to tell me, but that psychologist knows what's she's talking about and she knows that you could be bet-"

"I don't need some shrink to tell me about me," Dean growled, struggling to sit up, but getting there, clutching his head and closing his eyes when he did.

"Dean?"

Dean felt a steady hand on his shoulder, and he wanted to lean into the touch, but knew he could show no weakness. So, he removed his hand from his head, blinked away the dizziness and threw off the bed sheets and blankets, shoving away Sam's hand in the process.

"I don't need some fucking shrink to tell me how I feel!" Dean shouted, feeling a headache come on. "And I don't need you to tell me I'm going to be homebound."

Barton took a step forward towards Dean as the young man flung his legs over the side of his bed and attempted to stand up.

"You're not going to be housebound," Barton said carefully. "I see that's not an option for you, and it won't have to be. Trust me. You have only a mild case, it's controllable."

Sam snatched his cane from the floor and hurried to Dean's side, where Dean attempted to stand up.

"Why is this happening?" John asked, almost desperately. "What's brought this on?"

Barton looked at him sadly. "Adults are more susceptible to it than children," he explained carefully, watching as Sam tried to coax Dean back into bed. "It's not something your born with, it's something that's gained. I'm really sorry."

Barton looked around at the three Winchesters briefly before quietly leaving the room. John turned back to his two boys, feeling his heart break slightly as he witnessed Dean successfully upright himself, and then tumble back down.

"Dean, buddy, back into bed," John said softly, trying not to notice the way Dean's eyes lit slightly with unshed tears.

"A bit of fatigue isn't gonna bring me down," Dean choked out, staring up his father, begging him to agree.

"You already said that Dean," Sam said softly, patting him on the back of the neck, a lone tear tricking down the bridge of his nose.

Dean turned to face him, a confused look on his face. "I know," he said. "I know."

But the thing is, he didn't know.

TBC

oOoOoOo

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