Author's Notes: My thank you to Carikube, who had the generosity to post the last chapter for me while I was internet-less. And secondly, thank you to everyone who's reviewed- your kindness means a lot to me.
Dean's knee bounced. His calf burned. He sighed again, his breath warming his bare arms and the tops of his thighs as he hunched over with his hands balled into fists at his temples.
Sam paced along the wall, nine steps to the water fountain and nine steps back to his abandoned chair. They were forgotten, just two nameless bodies amidst a sea of worried families in the county emergency room. People swirled around them, everyone seeing to his or her own agenda without giving either of them a second thought. They were completely alone.
Dean kept a watchful eye on the clock above Sam's chair. They had arrived an hour ago- What was taking so long? What was going on? Dean sighed and slumped in the chair, still bouncing his leg as he tried to make eye contact with anyone in a white coat.
"Family of John Winchester?"
The voice had come from behind him and Dean jerked to attention. "Right here," Dean replied. Sam was instantly at his side. "What's going on? How is he?"
The doctor ran a hand through his silver hair. "He's fine, son. We'll talk somewhere more private. Follow me."
"That bad, huh?" Dean murmured as he stood up. His spine cracked and popped with the movement. Ice began to frost his veins as he followed. The hallway was long and bright and their shoes made noise against the polished tile. The sounds of the emergency room faded as they rounded a corner. The silence made him jumpy; the last time he had to talk to a doctor in private, Sam was in a coma.
The doctor opened a door and stepped inside, then waited for Dean and Sam to follow. It looked like a break room of sorts, with a couple leather couches and chairs, a small kitchenette, a few potted plants, and some large gaudy paintings framed in gold. Dean took a seat at one end of the closest couch and Sam sat on the other end. The tension was suffocating.
The doctor closed the door softly and took a seat in a chair across from them. He laid his stethoscope on the glass table between them with a clink. "I'm Dr. Stevens," he said, reaching out to shake their hands. "You're John's sons?"
Dean shook the doctor's warm hand. "I'm Dean, this is Sam." His voice was soft, quiet. His throat was tight. His leg started bouncing again. "What's wrong with him?"
Dr. Stevens looked from Dean to Sam. "I've called in a neurologist to offer a second opinion, but before I discuss diagnoses, I'd like to ask you boys a few questions first."
Dean didn't want questions, he wanted answers. Why couldn't he ever get a straight answer?
Sam nodded. "Sure."
"You brought your father in here because he had a 'memory lapse'- what other kinds of changes have you noticed?"
"Mood swings," Sam replied. "He's moody a lot. Angry at everything, everyone."
Dean kept his gaze on the vomit-colored carpet. "He doesn't sleep much at night. Wakes up and paces or watches TV." His chest hurt and he didn't want to think about how much was wrong anymore. "Look- just tell us what's wrong with him, okay?"
"I know you want answers, son, but I need to ask these questions in order to properly diagnose your father. Is there anything else you've noticed?"
Sam spoke up again, quietly. "He gets disoriented sometimes. It takes him longer to use a map."
Dean could feel Sam's eyes on him and purposely avoided meeting his gaze. He couldn't deal with Sam's pity on top of everything else.
"What about details? Any trouble with names or dates?" Dr. Stevens prompted.
Dean nodded.
"Yeah," Sam said. "He's pretty bad at names, like he get's tongue-tied."
The silence was pregnant with anticipation as Dr. Stevens pulled a pad of paper and pen from his pocket, scribbling notes. "How often do these things happen?" he asked without looking up.
Sam seemed to be handling the conversation so Dean let himself fade into the background, his leg still bouncing furiously.
"Uh… a couple times a week, maybe?"
"Have they gotten worse?" Dr. Stevens asked.
"Yeah."
"How long has he been experiencing these symptoms?"
Symptoms. These things had all been symptoms? Guilt blossomed in Dean's chest. Symptoms of what?
Sam sighed. "I guess it started about a year ago." He paused, running a hand over the back of his neck. "He, uh… mixed up our luggage."
Dr. Stevens finished making notes and put away his pen and paper, leaning back. "Well, based on our findings from all the tests we've run today and the history you've just provided, I'd like to go ahead and make a diagnosis."
Dean looked up.
"Your father is displaying signs of moderate cognitive decline, or stage four of Alzheimer's disease."
Dean's leg fell still as the word echoed inside his head. "Say what?"
"Alzheimer's disease is a progressive brain disorder that gradually destroys a person's memory and ability to learn, reason, make judgments, communicate and carry out daily activities. As Alzheimer's progresses, individuals may also experience changes in personality and behavior, such as anxiety, suspiciousness or agitation, as well as delusions or hallucinations."
Sam was pacing again. "Our grandfather died of Alzheimer's."
Dean stared at him. "How do you know that?" More importantly, why didn't he know that?
"I asked," Sam shrugged. "There was a school project about family history…"
Dr. Stevens nodded. "That certainly strengthens my diagnosis," he said. "This disease tends to run in the family."
Dean ran a hand over his head. "Yeah, but there's a cure now, right? There's some sort of pill you can give him and he'll be fine." The room was getting hotter, the air thicker.
"I'm sorry," Dr. Stevens shook his head. "Although there is currently no cure for Alzheimer's, new treatments are on the horizon as a result of accelerating insight into the biology of the disease. Research has also shown that effective care and support can improve quality of life for individuals and their caregivers over the course of the disease from diagnosis to the end of life."
"End of life?" Dean echoed. "What's that mean? You just said his memory will get worse, you didn't say anything about-"
"His brain is deteriorating, Dean!" Sam exploded. "He's gonna die slowly, a piece at a time, lying in some nursing home like a complete vegetable." His own words seemed to hit him in the gut and Sam sank onto the couch, his face pale. "He's gonna die."
Dean stared at the doctor. Sam had to be wrong.
"Son, you have to stay optimistic," Dr. Stevens said firmly. "Your father still has many years ahead of him. There are treatments that may help relieve some of the symptoms. Taking full advantage of these treatments, care, and support can make all of your lives better. You have time to make plans."
Dean was still reeling. Dad was dying. It was all his fault- he should have seen the symptoms earlier, should have taken them seriously. Should have been a better son.
His stomach lurched and the bitter taste of bile filled his mouth.
"I suggest you find a support group and use their help in making the appropriate decisions," Dr. Stevens said. "This is going to be hard for all of you. It will help being able to talk to other people in the same situation."
"Can I see him now?" Dean asked, his voice cracking. He scrubbed his eyes, trying to ease the burning.
"Of course," Dr. Stevens replied. "He's resting comfortably right now. I'll take you to him."
The old doctor pushed himself to his feet and Dean did the same. The room spun slightly and he took a deep breath, steadying himself before following Dr. Stevens. Sam followed silently, looking lost in his own thoughts. Dean said nothing.
"Your father is physically sound, so I've chosen to go ahead and release him," Dr. Stevens said as he led the brothers.
The hallway was desolate. Harsh lighting glared off the sterile tiles and their footsteps echoed like rolls of thunder during a midnight storm. Dean was numb. Images swirled in his head with frightening clarity: Dad in a nursing home, Dad being spoon-fed, Dad in a wheelchair, Dad in a casket. He and Sam standing before a granite headstone. Flowers. Graveyards. Mom.
A bitter taste filled his mouth as his stomach lurched. He couldn't fathom a life without Dad. Even when they were separated, he still had the knowledge that John Winchester was out there, hunting, bringing justice to Mary's death. Even in absence, Dad was still their leader, still provided direction and hope. They were still a family.
"Dean."
He blinked and focused on Sam. They were stopped outside a curtained cubical. Sam stared at him expectantly.
"What are we waiting for?"
Dr. Stevens put a hand on Sam's shoulder and pushed aside the curtain. "I've got some visitors for you, John. Found these boys loitering in the waiting room. Claimed they were with you."
Inside the cubical, John smiled from his seat on the thin mattress. He was wearing his normal clothes and looked the same as he had when they arrived, except for the small bandage on the inside of his left elbow and the lines of fatigue around his eyes. He was not on his deathbed, not shriveled and feeble and helpless. He was still Dad.
"Hey boys," John said. "Thought I told you not to take candy from strangers."
Dr. Stevens smiled and let go of Sam. He approached the bed and took note of a chart. "As pleasant as your company has been, there's no reason for you to stay any longer. But before you go, I'd like to talk to all of you for a moment."
"Sure thing, doc."
"It's important that you know what to expect," he started. "Certain tasks will get harder for you and I want to see you regularly for check-ups, but in the meantime, be prepared for things like balancing your checkbook or cooking meals to take longer. Do these things during the times of day when you feel best, and if needed, give yourself a break. Let your boys help you."
Dean stared at his father. The Winchester equivalent of balancing a checkbook was hustling pool and instead of cooking meals, the Winchesters placed orders. Their father would soon need help doing these simple things? What about cleaning the guns? What about interviewing locals?
What about the important stuff?
"Your communication will continue to be affected by this disease. Take your time and ask people to repeat things you don't understand. Write them down if you have to."
Dean swallowed the lump in his throat. Sam was leaning against the sink, his arms crossed as he stared at the floor. John was doing his best to keep his game face on. Dean wondered how much more the man could take.
"There will be a point when it will no longer be safe for you to drive," Dr. Stevens said. "Luckily, you have two young men here who will be able to take over for you."
John glanced at Sam, the fluorescent lights overhead glittering in his dark eyes. "What about my memories?"
"You can make a schedule of your daily activities and keep it posted somewhere. Keep a book with important names and phone numbers. Mark off days on the calendar to help keep track of time." Dr. Stevens glanced at Dean and Sam. "Label photographs so you can keep names with faces. Label drawers and closets with their contents." He took a deep breath. "I know this sounds degrading and infantile, John," Dr. Stevens said. "But I want you to keep your sons in mind. Let them help you. This disease affects all of you- you're not in this alone. Right, boys?"
"Yes sir," Dean replied. John flashed him a smile.
After a few seconds, Sam said, "Right. We'll help."
"Now," Dr. Stevens said, "I'm going to turn you loose. I want you to set up a follow-up appointment before you leave, okay? From there, we'll determine how often you need to come in."
"Thanks, doc." John glanced at Dean then Sam. "Can we have a minute before I go?"
"Sure. Just a minute though, or else you'll be sharing your bed with whoever comes in next," Dr. Stevens grinned.
The doctor spared them all a final, encouraging smile before disappearing through the curtain with a soft swish. Dean shifted in ensuing silence. John looked at them.
"Boys…" John started.
Sam pushed away from the sink and began to pace.
John looked at Dean. "You boys okay?"
"Yeah, sure," Dean shrugged. And he was. You know, if he ignored the incredible pressure in his chest and the numbness of his legs.
John looked at Sam but kept his mouth shut.
He looked at Dean again. "Right. Well, let's get out of here, huh? We'll grab some breakfast before we get back on the road."
"Wait," Sam said, his shoes squeaking against the floor as he stopped suddenly. "That's it? We're not going to talk about this?"
John stood up and Dean stepped to the side as his father brushed past. "Not here, Sam. This isn't the place."
"Then where?" Sam challenged, moving forward in an attempt to block their father's exit. "This is serious, Dad. You can't just ignore it and hope it goes away."
"We will talk about it," John growled. "Later."
Sam's gaze jumped to Dean.
Dean kept quiet, stepping out of the way as John moved about the small cubical, gathering his things. Sam was probably right but so was Dad- this was not the place. No place would be good enough for John Winchester. Dean knew what would happen; Sam would keep pressing and Dad would keep avoiding until one of them burst and the whole conversation would be colored in anger and spite. Dean would play mediator and in the end, they would regret all the time they had lost.
That was how it always happened. Why would this time be any different?
But Sam yielded easy, staring at John with those damn puppy eyes.
John turned to face his youngest son. "We'll talk later. We've got plenty of time, remember? Right now I'm starving and I know you two have got to be hungry as well."
Sam remained silent. He'd stopped believing John's promises long ago, sometime between the second broken bone and the third missed dance. Dean would give anything to change that now.
John always interpreted silence as acquiescence, so with a curt nod of his head, he said, "I'll meet you boys in the parking garage in five."
They were left alone in the curtained cubical, staring at each other as staff and patients moved about in the hall. There was nothing to say, nothing that would take the pain away. Dean took a step back, avoiding Sam's gaze. Although the thought of food turned his stomach, the sense of normalcy might provide some comfort.
And courage.
"Come on, Sam," Dean called over his shoulder. "Let's get out of here."
"Dean."
His gut twisted at the sound of fear and pain in Sam's voice. He kept one hand fisted in the curtain and turned towards his younger brother. "Yeah?"
Sam stood still, looking thinner than he had a few hours ago, more drawn. Younger. "I…" he swallowed and looked away, his eyes shadowed by his overgrown bangs. "Are we… I mean… I just wanted…"
Dean's heart would have cracked with empathy, had it not already been shattered. "I know," he said. He had a pretty good idea how Sam felt. But this was not the time or place for one of their brotherly heart-to-hearts. Dad was right- there would be plenty of time for that later. "I know," he repeated.
Dean took a deep breath and waved Sam forward. "Come on, Sammy. Let's catch up with Dad."
Sam rubbed at his eyes then nodded jerkily.
Without a word, they disappeared through the curtain with a soft swish.