Another chapter! Hope the Hurt!Sam is going well... Anyway, thanks for the reviews and alerts and favorites, etc. Here you go:

Bobby sighed as he sat down in the chair next to Sam's bed. Sam, who had managed to fall asleep eventually, was curled up beneath the thin sheets of his bed.

"So, anorexia?" Bobby spoke. Dean paced the room, never looking up from the cracked vinyl tiles that covered the hospital floor. "That's right." Somewhere outside the hallway a code yellow was issued and a few nurses ran past. Dean wondered if it was serious.

"Any idea why?"

Dean shook his head. "They're running some tests." He said. "But we won't know for sure until later."

Bobby stood up and put a hand on his shoulder. "It'll be okay, son. That doctor doesn't know Winchesters. They don't keel over and die in hospitals." Dean coughed and rubbed his eyes. He wouldn't mention that John had actually died in a hospital, too.

"Unless Sam starts eating soon, they'll go ahead and diagnose him. If he does eat, they'll consider it some side effect of the fever." Dean kicked the wall, his fists balled in anger. "It's those thieves' fault. And the police are doing nothing about it." He continued.

"They're doing their best." Bobby promised.

"Well, their best is horrible." Dean grumbled. "Sam can't just starve to death, even if it's not a symptom of one of those other illnesses."

"He'll be fine."

"He's just a kid. I don't want him worried that this'll end badly. He's always optimistic but he just seems so depressed lately."

"I'm right here, Dean." Sam interjected. Bobby and Dean looked over at him. "I promise I'll try to eat, but I'm not hungry."

Dean kneeled down next to him like he was talking to a toddler. "No, I know, Sammy, I do. It's just- you're scaring me." He choked out.

"You're mad at the men." Sam said. Dean gave a light, airy laugh and looked down at his hands. "Yeah, guess I am. No sense in hiding it."

"Just don't do anything stupid." Sam said. Even sick, he was the voice of reason.

"Knock, knock," The doctor entered the room. Sam sat up and Dean met Dr. Bennett halfway to Sam's bed. "So?" He asked eagerly. "What's going on."

"You might want to sit." Dr. Bennett warned. Dean waved off his suggestion. "Just hurry up." He urged the doctor impatiently.

He sighed and set down his clipboard.

"Sam has a form of cancer."

Dean wished he'd sat down. Bobby was suddenly at his side, lowering him into the chair. A nurse popped her head in. "I'm sorry, Dr. Bennett? It's an emergency."

"Excuse me." He muttered, speed-walking out to the hallway and following the nurse towards the surgery wing.

Sam stared at the sheets on the bed, his hollow eyes unblinking. His mouth was slightly open as the information sunk in.

As he sat still, Dean's breathing was growing calmer and he stood up, trying not to look at Sam's shocked and hurt expression, instead waiting for the room to stop spinning.

"Dean-" Bobby said, but Dean was out of there, the dizziness subsided and the need for fresh air apparent.

"I'm going for a ride." He muttered, grabbing the keys and his jacket. He pushed past Bobby and out into the hall, past open doors full of sickly patients, past crying families and serious doctors, until he reached the fresh air of the parking lot.

Dean just needed to be somewhere else. Sam? Cancer? No. He didn't need to stay and find out what kind of cancer, 'cause his little brother needed him. He was going to hunt down those sons of bitches, and then he was going to kill them. Slowly. Hopefully he'd come across a crossroads demon along the way, but if not, he could always find one.

After all, Dean was willing to make any sacrifice. He needed his Sam. Sam with long hair, not bald for treatment. Sam cracking jokes and teasing, not serious and deathly ill. Most of all, he didn't want a Sam without hope, and he still couldn't get the look on Sam's face out of his damn head. Blank, emotionless eyes, like he just doesn't care anymore.

He was in the car and speeding towards the highway in minutes. First stop, the drugstore where it all went down. It was a few hours away, but he figured if he stepped on it he could almost make it in two.

Dean's cell phone bleated shrilly, jolting him out of his thoughts. It was Sam.

"Hey." He answered, his free hand tightening on the steering wheel in anticipation of whatever it was Sam had to say.

"Hey, Dean."

"I'm just going for a drive." Dean lied as he finally pulled out onto the interstate.

"Whatever it takes to cool down, Dean. I just thought... you might like to know. The doc came back. Definitely cancer."

Dean sighed, slamming his hand on the wheel. There went his last sliver of hope that someone had gotten it wrong.

"Leu- Leukemia, actually."

Dean was silent as he took in the information. He sucked in a deep breath and breathed out slowly. "How?"

"Some virus from the infection when I was stabbed." Dean laughed sadly, shaking his head.

"Jesus, Sammy, some predicament we've got ourselves into." Sam chuckled awkwardly. "Yes, yes it is."

He hesitated. "You're not thinking about those men again, are you?" Dean scoffed.

"Naw, the farther from us they are, the better."

"I don't believe you." Sam replied shortly. "I think you're feeling more 'the sooner my shotgun's blowing their brains out, the better."

"Oh, come on, Sam."

"No, I mean it. Hey, and will you get me a deep fried Twinkie? They're officially on the bucket list I've just created."

"Stop it, Sam." Dean admonished. "Talk to you soon." He flipped the phone shut and groaned. Sam. Leukemia. And he was taking this better than Dean was.

A little voice in the back of Dean's head was nagging at him, the unspeakable idea whispering in his ear. Sam was taking his death sentence considerably well, but had the thought ever occurred to Dean that Sam wasn't upset about dying? Leaving forever?

The thought worried him. Suicidal Sam. Kind of rolled of the tongue. But Dean had more pressing matters at hand. Like finding those murderous thieves, and a crossroads demon, and Sam's hope.

He stopped at a motel, ignoring Bobby's calls and texts. That night he slept soundly. That is, until the nightmares started. Sam swinging from the rafters, Sam falling off the bridge like a rock, Sam's blood and guts repainting the wall, the warm handgun still smoking after he'd aimed it's muzzle against his temple.

Sam- dead.

So, Dean's thinking Sam might not be so bummed about the cancer? He has his own way of dealing though- revenge. I'll try to update next week so you can figure out where Dean's confused feelings and Sam's sickness is heading. Until then, please review if you liked! I'll update next Tuesday!