This story is kicking my ass! I am working on the last (maybe the penultimate) chapter, and I have never struggled more. I am usually happiest when writing angst, but this is different. *sigh* Thanks for bearing with me while I work on it.
Chapter Eight
With all the weapons in his arsenal—the most powerful of which was the fact he was actually dying—Sam persuaded Dean to drive the Trans to Garth's houseboat before joining him in Texas. It took a few days to get them to Missouri and settled in and then to get himself back to Kermit, and he spent the hours tearing up roads to get back to his brother while calling him as often as he could get away with. Sam sounded okay, maybe a little tired on the phone, but he was good at playing things down to avoid worrying Dean, his recent diagnosis was a prime example of that, and Dean didn't feel he could relax properly until he was with his brother.
It was three days after they separated in Santa Fe that Dean pulled the Impala to a halt in the parking lot of the Winkler County Memorial Hospital. He climbed out and slammed the door closed, crossing the lot in long strides. The last time he'd spoken to Sam on the phone, the day before, his brother had played down the apathy in his voice as tiredness, but Dean suspected there was more to it than that, and he wanted to see Sam now to find out what was happening.
His hurry to get to Sam was curtailed slightly by the fact that, in all their calls, he'd not asked which floor or room Sam was in, and he'd been too consumed by worry last time he was here to pay attention. He spoke to a woman at the main reception desk and she directed him to the third floor, oncology—And didn't that word just stick in his throat like a stone—and he made his way to the elevators at the end of the hall.
When the doors opened on the third floor, he looked around, getting his bearings. One side of the hall seemed to be given over to patient rooms, each with a plate declaring the number on the door and a small window. The other side had the nurse's station and a seating area with uncomfortable looking chairs and couches.
A door opened along the hall and Dean recognized Sam's doctor, Doctor Jacobsen. He caught sight of Dean loitering near the elevator and walked over to him, extending a hand to shake. "Dean."
Dean shook his hand. "How's Sam doing?"
"He's doing well all things considered." He led Dean along the hall and they came to a stop outside of one of the rooms.
Dean peered through the window and recognized Sam's form curled in the bed. "Doing well?" he said doubtfully.
The doctor sighed. "All things considered. He's not in so much pain today as his headaches are being managed better by the IV meds. He's in the middle of a chemotherapy cycle, so that's wearing him down. He's given me free rein to keep you informed of all aspects of his treatment, so is there anything you want to know?"
There was plenty Dean wanted to know, but he wanted to be with his brother more, so he stowed his questions for the moment and shook his head. "I'll catch you later, Doc. Right now, I kinda want to see Sam."
Doctor Jacobsen nodded and stepped back. "I'll be here till six-thirty, so have someone page me if you need me."
Dean eased open the door and let himself in. He heard Sam's soft breaths and knew he was sleeping, so he moved across the room quietly, and rounded the bed to face Sam. His first conscious though, that he banished quickly, was that Sam looked like he was really dying now. For the first time, he looked as sick as the doctors and Amelia claimed. His skin was a waxy grey and his eyes were circled by dark shadows. The hand that was curled in the blanket under his chin was shaking slightly, even though his face was relaxed into sleep.
There was a plush chair beside the bed, and Dean sank down into it with a sigh. He tried not to compare Sam's appearance now with the man he'd said goodbye to only days ago, but his mind was not cooperative. He couldn't help but think Sam was better before he had started the treatment. He remembered what Sam had said—'I was sick all the time and so tired all I wanted to do was sleep. That was just radiation. Chemotherapy will be even worse.'—but he hadn't really accepted it as truth until now. And that was after just days of treatment. What would it be like when Sam was weeks into it?
A lump formed in his throat at the horror of his potential future and gasped. The sound was soft, but it broke through Sam's rest, and his eyes cracked open. If Sam sleeping looked bad, Sam waking looked even worse. His eyes were bloodshot and sagging, and if possible, he looked even paler.
He smiled slightly as he saw Dean and spoke in a hoarse whisper. "I know, I look awesome, right?"
Dean had a hundred things he wanted to say. He wanted to apologize for forcing Sam into this, for not realizing he was sick sooner, for blaming him for his 'normal life' while Dean was in Purgatory. He wanted to shout at Sam for not sticking with the treatment when it'd had a chance at actually helping him. He wanted to ask if there was anything, anything, he could do, but he couldn't bring the words to his lips. Instead, he said, "Not nearly as awesome as me," and grinned.
Sam eased himself to a sitting position and then almost immediately folded in on himself. "Sick!" he groaned, and Dean just had time to grab the bowl from the table and get it under his brother's mouth before Sam lost whatever it was he'd managed to eat that day. When the sickness passed, Sam sagged back against the pillows and wiped at his mouth.
"You need anything?" Dean asked, desperate for any way to help.
"Mouthwash. Bathroom."
Glad of an excuse to leave his brother for a moment, free to react, Dean retrieved the bottle from the edge of the sink and brought it to his brother. Sam uncapped it, rinsed his mouth, and spat into the bowl. Sagging back against the pillows again, he forced a smile. "Thanks, man."
Dean didn't know what to say. You're welcome? No worries? He didn't know what to say as he had a sinking feeling this was all his fault. He had forced Sam to get the treatment, and now he was suffering because of it.
"Okay, Sammy, you think you can make it back to the bed?" Dean asked, crouching behind his brother in the bathroom.
In response, Sam groaned, and Dean took that as a no. He dampened a facecloth in the sink and held it out to his brother. Sam took it in a shaking hand and wiped it over his face.
After a few minutes of cowering over the toilet, Sam pushed himself to his feet and moved to the sink. He rinsed with mouthwash and set the bottle down again."Bed please," he said hoarsely.
Dean helped him with an arm around his waist to struggle to the bed again. Only when his brother was safely deposited back on the bed and lying back against the pillows did Dean relax infinitesimally. For now, Sam was okay.
Sam was in his fourth week of treatment and they were back at the motel, given privacy but not support for a while. It had been Sam's insistence that made them leave the sanctuary of the hospital, against Dean's better judgment. If Dean'd had his way, Sam would have stayed there as long as he needed the treatment, but Sam had said he couldn't stay there feeling worse than ever, so he'd helped persuade the doctors to release him.
The chemotherapy Sam was having could be given orally, so Sam only had to go to the hospital for his weekly blood draws and check-ups. Sam was on a five-day regimen for chemo with weekends given to rest and prepare for the next round. Dean looked forward to the weekends more than anything, as Sam had some brief reprieve from the side-effects. He wasn't completely free of them, but they seemed easier to manage.
Sam curled up in the bed, hugging a pillow to his chest, and his eyes drooped. Dean knew he would be sleeping soon, so he clicked off the TV that was playing quietly in the background and sat on the edge of his own bed.
There was a light tap on the door and Dean bit back a groan with effort. He knew who it would be, and he didn't want to deal with her today. He was exhausted after a night spent helping Sam and she would flutter about, making a nuisance of herself for a couple of hours before leaving them in peace. It was only the fact that Sam seemed to get something out of her visits that made him get to his feet and open the door for her.
"Amelia," he said, forcing himself to at least sound civil.
"Hi, Dean."
She was either oblivious to his disgruntlement or she was just a lot more polite than he was. She smiled and stepped around him to enter.
"He's sleeping," Dean said, as she stepped around the room to Sam's bed. Sam chose that moment to disprove his words by pushing himself to a sitting position and smiling at her. She beamed at him, and perched on the edge of the bed, her hand reaching across the distance between them to hold his hand.
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
"Not too bad," Sam lied.
She seemed to know he was lying too, as she frowned and asked, "They've not found an antiemetic for you yet?"
He shook his head. "No, but it's getting easier to deal with. Familiarity and all that."
Amelia sighed sadly. "Are you eating?"
"Yeah," Sam said easily. "All the broth and Ensure I could want."
"Speaking of," Dean said. "I need to make a supply run. You two good to hang here for a while." What he was really asking was whether Amelia was good to stay until he got back. He didn't want to leave Sam alone for longer that it took to use the bathroom these days.
"Yeah, I've closed down for the rest of the day," Amelia said.
Sam looked disgruntled. "You didn't need to do that."
She patted his hand. "I know, but I wanted to see you, and there were no appointments this afternoon. I figured Roberta could do with an early release, too."
Dean cleared his throat, drawing Sam's eyes to him. "You want anything special?"
Sam shook his head.
Dean sighed. He hoped, every time he asked that question, that Sam would come up with something other than soup and meal-replacement milkshakes that he would want to eat. His brother was dropping weight and that wasn't good, as he didn't have a lot to spare in the first place; his bulk was all muscle.
He grabbed the keys from the table by the door and gave his brother one last searching look, assuring himself that it was okay to leave him for a while. Sam smiled and then asked Amelia a question about someone named Riot—which Dean thought was an awesome name—so he left.
Closing the door softly behind him, Dean strode across the lot to the Impala. The kid that ran the motel, Sam's friend, was just locking up a room further down the block. He caught Dean's eye and walked towards him, and Dean knew what was coming—a list of questions about Sam—so he climbed in quickly behind the wheel and turned the keys in the ignition, shooting the kid an apologetic smile. He didn't want to have to explain that Sam wasn't doing too good, that he was sick all hours of the day, that he was scaring Dean now. He didn't want to face those things, so he raised a hand in greeting as he passed and pulled out of the parking lot.
There was a Walgreens on the edge of town, and as Dean ambled along the aisles, he wondered at the direction his life had taken. From hunting down a way to close the gates of Hell to stocking up on meal replacement drinks for his ailing brother. It didn't seem possible. When he was with Sam, taking care of him, time seemed to rush past and he didn't think too hard on what was happening. When he was away from Sam, as well as worrying whether he was okay or not, he found himself slipping back into the life before. He scanned headlines at checkouts and searched for anything that might be in their line of work, then he would remember, and his heart would clench. Sam was sick. Sam was really sick. Sam was… He couldn't let that thought finish. He had to fight reality back with every moment to save himself from losing his mind altogether. He could only handle so much.
He picked up a crate of vanilla flavored Ensure from the bottom shelf. Sam seemed to prefer the vanilla. He said it tasted slightly less awful than the others. Moving along the aisle, he came to the candy. He knew Sam should be eating as well as he could, but his weight loss worried Dean, and he figured if he could get some sugar into him, it might build him up again a little. He needed energy to fight.
When he got back to the motel, he found Sam fast asleep on the bed and Amelia darting around the room, picking up the detritus of their bags that had spread itself across the room. It wasn't like they were living in squalor, but neither of them had been bothered with housekeeping lately. They were both too occupied with Sam's sickness. She had picked up the clothes and folded them neatly on the end of Dean's bed.
"You don't need to do that," Dean said, hurrying to pick up the shirt from the floor where he'd left it the night before.
She looked up and smiled a little. "He fell asleep about ten minutes ago and I ran out of things to read."
Dean shook his head. "Look, Amelia, I appreciate it, but we can take care of ourselves. We don't need you picking up after us."
She raised an eyebrow and Dean could practically feel the judgment rolling off her. It made him bristle.
"Okay, so I've not exactly been keeping things neat, but that's what me and Sam are used to. He's not going to care whether there are clothes on the floor."
"That's because it's easier for you," she said.
Dean snorted. "Believe me, there's nothing easy about this situation for me."
She raised her hands. "That's not what I mean." She sighed. "Before, Sam let me take care of him. He didn't hide his suffering at all, and I could help. Now, he's got you. He doesn't need me to take care of him anymore, so he hides it all. I can tell how bad it is by looking at the two of you, and I can't do anything. So I tidy and talk to him. I tell him about people we know and hope that taking his mind off what's happening will do something useful. Before, it was easier. Now, it's so much harder, so I clean up."
Dean shook his head. It did make sense in a warped kind of way. He knew how he'd feel if Sam refused to let him help. He had tried at first, when Dean arrived in the hospital, but that stopped pretty much the same time as the next day of chemotherapy and sickness started. There were times in there that Dean didn't think Sam even recognized his brother as the person that was fetching him washcloths and water. When Sam had become aware enough to be care again, he seemed to accept Dean's help as inevitable. Remembering those early days, made Dean feel a little sympathetic to Amelia's plight.
"He needs you," he said grudgingly. "I think you help him feel normal. He's trying so damn hard to be strong and treat this like it's nothing, but he can't do that with me, because I'm seeing it all. With you, he can pretend that he's doing better."
"But he isn't," she said sadly.
Dean looked at his sleeping brother, with his pale skin and shadowed eyes, and shook his head. "No, he really isn't."
Thanks for reading. If you have a minute, drop me a review to let me know what you think. It really does make a huge difference to a writer's day to hear from readers.