Fade 3/10

"You're gonna what?"

Dean was pissed. And more than a little freaked out, to tell the truth, but no one had mentioned this before.

"A Hickman catheter is nothing to be worried about," the nurse explained gently, "It's so we can administer meds, take and give blood without scarring up the veins on his arms."

"You're gonna put a hole in his chest?" Dean said incredulously. He had himself planted between the nurse and Sam, arms crossed while Sam sat silent on the bed. "I want to talk to the doctor."

The nurse seemed to consider him for a moment, apparently decided that he wasn't someone she should go up against and after a quick, "One moment, please" scurried away. Dean sighed, letting his hands fall to his sides, and went to sit down next to Sam.

"Are you okay with this?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

Sam glanced up at the IV stand waiting at the bedside. "Do I really have a choice?"

And damn, Sam sounded miserable. Between bouts of furious research, Dean had spent the weekend trying to keep Sam entertained, take his mind off of the looming Monday. He was fairly sure that Sam had only given in to shut him up but the horror movie they'd gone to had managed to crack them both up – because horror flicks never failed to entice laughs from them, with the gross inaccuracies and B-rate acting – and the night before they'd stayed at the motel with pizza and beer and absolutely no mention of the C-word. Dean's distractions seemed to have worked, mostly.

There was no avoiding the subject now, however, and Dean grudgingly had to admit that the doctor made sense when the nurse returned with her to explain why the Hickman catheter was necessary. Still didn't mean he had to like it.

"You don't have to watch," Sam told him, probably sensing Dean's sudden queasiness. Kid knew him too well. He'd never been good at seeing Sam in trouble, and someone slicing into his chest totally fell into that category. "Go call Bobby."

Bobby. Damn, he probably should have called him already. In his defense, he had been… distracted, busy scouring Dad's journal in search of a cure.

Dean eyed the doctor warily. Doctor Harper was a nice-looking woman, middle aged and a bit on the plump side. She looked like somebody's mother and Dean felt that there was something comforting in that, or there would have been if she wasn't laying out instruments, preparing to slice into his brother's chest.

"Are you sure?" he asked doubtfully, "I can wait."

Sam shook his head, closing his eyes as he rested his head on the thin, hospital-regulation pillow.

Dean hesitated for just a moment, catching the doctor's eye with a look that promised very bad things should anything go wrong while he was gone, then he stepped out of the room and headed for the payphones.

~~~~0000~~~~

Bobby was under the hood of a car when he heard his cell phone trill. Grumbling to himself, he wiped his hands on a rag before digging into his pocket. He frowned at the screen, Unknown Number flashing at him and answered cautiously.

"Hello?"

"Bobby."

Damn it, it was Dean, and he sounded shook up, which really only meant one thing: Sam was in trouble.

Those darned kids, they were already responsible for more than half the gray hairs on his head and by the sound of it, they were about to give him a few more.

"What happened?"

Bobby heard Dean let out a whoosh of a sigh.

"Sam's sick."

Now, when Dean Winchester calls to tell you that his brother's sick, he ain't talking about some run of the mill cold. Bobby considered the possibilities.

"Curse?" he asked gruffly. "Found any hex bags? What have you been hunting?"

There was a pause on the line.

"No, he's, like… sick sick."

Bobby frowned. What had those Winchester's managed to get themselves into now?

"How bad?" He was already moving towards the house. He had the feeling he'd be needing some research material.

"It's, um…"

Darn it, this must be bad. There was very little in this world that left Dean struggling for words. Bobby had reached the front porch by the time the rest of the sentence came.

"Acute Promye-something… I don't know. It's leukemia, Bobby. Cancer."

Bobby stopped dead in his tracks, cell phone crackling in his ear. For a brief, desperate moment he wondered whether Dean was playing some sick joke but the thought was discarded just as quick. Dean wouldn't joke about that.

Which, unfortunately, meant he was serious. It was like a punch to the solar plexus. Sam? Had cancer? No way. Bobby didn't realize how long he'd been silent until Dean's voice in his ear asked, "Bobby? You still there?"

Bobby shook himself and quickly carried on into the house, making his way to the study.

"Where are you boys?" he asked finally.

"At the hospital," Dean's hushed voice said. "He's about to start his first round of chemo."

Another punch. Damn it, those Winchester boys were family, blood or no blood, and with John gone… This ain't the time to go all mushy, Singer, he told himself firmly, Get your head in the game.

"Which state?"

Bobby rustled through some papers, jotting down the boy's location as he searched.

"Give me a few hours, Dean. I think I can find some healers in the area. They might be able to help."

He sort of sensed the now-eldest Winchester sag, and Dean's voice was heavy with relief when he breathed, "Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby flicked open his book of contacts, then paused.

"And tell Sam…" He wasn't sure how to continue.

"I will, Bobby," Dean assured him.

Bobby held his phone to his chest for a long moment after Dean disconnected the call, before he heaved out a sigh and placed it down on the table.

He had work to do.

~~~~0000~~~~

"What is that anyway?" Dean asked ill temperedly, gesturing to the clear liquid in the IV bag hooked up to Sam. He didn't like this. He really didn't like this.

"Cytarabine," the nurse – a slim brunette – explained. "It kills the existing cancer-cells. And after that it'll be VePesid, which does the same thing and stops the cells from reproducing."

"And it's basically poison?" Dean said doubtfully.

The nurse sent him a sympathetic smile, "Fight fire with fire, right?"

Dean shrugged and turned back to Sam.

"How you doing?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably. "I'm alright."

Dean leant in, lowering his voice so the nurse couldn't hear. "Bobby's making some calls, gonna find some healers. You just gotta hang on until we can fix this."

Sam nodded vaguely, eyeing the IV bag apprehensively.

Dean sat back. Okay, so, distraction time.

"Did I ever tell you about the time…"

~~~~0000~~~~

Sam felt kind of like the way he had when the… something had bitten him. The things name escaped him but the double vision and lightheadedness he remembered.

He heard Dean pause mid-way through a story about a stray cat they'd tried to rescue when they were young. He remembered that cat, even though he couldn't have been more than four or five at the time. They'd hidden it in their closet, where it had made a shocking mess and almost scratched clean through the door. Dad had not been impressed.

"Hey, Sam? You alright?"

Sam blearily looked up and the two Dean's floating above him merged into one, then split into two again, finally settling on two and a half. That was… weird. And the colours seemed to be sliding off of Dean's shirt, melting into a disorientating swirl.

"Sam?"

Dean's lips moved out of time with his voice and Sam closed his eyes briefly, hoping that things would have righted themselves when he opened them. The room rolled like a ship on the ocean.

"Gonna be sick," he mumbled to the bed sheets, wondering vaguely whether his voice was out of sync to, and immediately felt hands helping him up, guiding him towards the bathroom. He closed his eyes as the room spun.

"Hey, can we unhook that thing for a while?" Dean's voice asked, right by his ear. Must've been dragging the IV stand with him.

"Sorry, it has to stay." A woman's voice, a few feet away. When had she come into the room? Or had she never left?

Dean growled in frustration but when he spoke to Sam again his voice was soft.

"It's okay, Sammy, I got ya."

Sam had to hold onto the sides of the toilet to make sure he was throwing up in the real one. He doubted he would have been able to keep his balance, even on his knees, if Dean hadn't planted one hand on his shoulder to steady him, the other rubbing slow circles on his back, murmuring words of encouragement that Sam couldn't quite make out over his own retching.

God, it was like a really bad acid trip. The earth moved underneath him, the walls spun, forming crazy patterns, all disorientating and muddled, the overhead lights developed halos. His body was revolting against the drugs, against him.

Finally, he rested his forehead on the cool porcelain, breathing deep and slow.

"You good?" Dean asked, hand stilling.

Sam nodded and Dean very carefully, more careful and gentle than most people thought him possible of, pulled him back and propped him against the bathroom wall, stepping away briefly to flush the toilet, then sliding down the wall next to him

Sam breathed in the smell of leather and let himself melt against his brother's side, reaching a hand out to fist in Dean's shirt, an old habit of comfort from childhood. Let Dean tease him for it later, he didn't care. He needed something to ground him. He couldn't open his eyes because the room was conspiring to make him throw up, and he didn't want to see the bag of chemicals still dripping into his body anyway, but he needed Dean and he didn't want to let go.

"How much longer?" he mumbled into Dean's shoulder.

He felt Dean shift to look at his watch.

"'Bout 20 minutes."

Sam moaned and Dean pulled him closer, one arm around his shoulders, the other stroking his hair the way he used to when Sam was sick as a child. He buried his face in Dean's jacket and let his brother's murmured encouragements wash over him.

~~~~0000~~~~

"Pull over."

Dean spun the Impala's steering wheel, jerking to a halt at the side of the road, and Sam barely got the door open before he was retching again.

Dean leant over and grabbed the back of his little brother's shirt to stop him from falling out, then scooted over on the seat until he was behind Sam and could wrap a secure arm around his waist, placing a hand on his brother's clammy forehead.

Dean held him for a good 15 minutes before Sam finally stopped heaving and spitting, nothing left to actually throw up, and sagged like a puppet with its strings cut. Dean carefully pulled him back so that he was leaning against his chest. They stayed like that for a long moment.

"This sucks," Sam finally breathed out, and Dean took that as permission to start driving again. He set Sam back down in his seat and moved back behind the wheel.

"Nearly there, Sam," Dean reassured as he once again started the engine and resumed their trip back to the motel.

For a drive that should have taken maybe 20 minutes, in slow traffic, it took them nearly an hour, if you counted the time they spent in the hospital parking lot, waiting until Sam thought he could handle being in a moving car.

Reaching the motel was a welcome relief. Dean eased the car to a halt and slid out to help Sam. Sam waved him off and followed under his own steam, which made Dean feel slightly better, even if he was a little unsteady.

"You need anything?" Dean asked, shedding his jacket. Sam dropped down onto his bed, flopping back and closing his eyes.

"New blood," he thought he heard Sam mutter but when he turned back from hanging his jacket on the hook by the door, Sam's breathing had evened out, his face smoothed by sleep.

Dean sighed, giving his little brother a sad, fond half-smile as he gently repositioned Sam on the bed, easing off his shoes and tugging the blankets over him. He stood back, regarding his younger sibling for a moment, then leant forward again, shifting the neck of Sam's t-shirt so that it covered the Hickman catheter in his chest. He so didn't want that thing staring at him while Sam slept.

He was about to turn on the TV, watch some daytime drivel while flicking through his Dad's journal for the umpteenth time, when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, scanning the Caller ID quickly, and pressed Answer before the Metallica jingle could disturb Sam's rest.

He walked to the bathroom, catching the door with his foot to pull it most of the way shut, before speaking.

"Bobby. You got anything?" He leant against the towel rack. Straight to business, and if that was rude, well, who gave a damn anyway? Obviously not Bobby, who seemed to be on the same wavelength.

"Two in your area," he replied promptly, indeed cutting to the chase, "One's called Cecelia. I've met her. She's good. Seen her fix broken bones in minutes. Not sure about…"

The C-word.

"What about the other one?" Dean pressed, his eyes fixed on the grimy tiled wall of the shower.

"Now I don't know about her," Bobby confessed, "Got her name through a friend of a friend. But it's worth checking out."

"Yeah," Dean agreed readily.

"How's Sam?"

Dean glanced towards the bathroom door, "He's sleeping." He sunk down onto the rim of the tiny bathtub. "Damn, Bobby, chemo's a bitch."

He heard the older man sigh, "So I've heard. Sam's tough, Dean, he can handle it. It's only until we find something."

Dean nodded, forgetting that Bobby couldn't see him. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. Thanks Bobby."

"No problem, kid. Look after that brother of yours."

"Always do, Bobby."

~~~~0000~~~~

"Will he get used to it?" Dean asked, "Like, build up a tolerance?"

The nurse – Catherine – gave him that sympathetic look. The one Dean was really getting sick of.

"No. It gets worse. The cumulative effect of the drugs…"

Dean stopped her with a wave of his hand. Didn't want to know. Didn't think Sam wanted to know.

"What's that?" he asked instead as Catherine presented Sam with a pill.

"Vitamin A," Catherine, who was apparently Sam's 'critical care' nurse – in charge when the doctor wasn't around – answered promptly, adding a few points to her score. Dean liked nurses that explained things readily.

"It's called ATRA in pill form," she went on, "It works very well in combination with the other drugs, although it does have some risks."

"What risks?" Dean asked, placing a hand over Sam's to stop him from swallowing the pill, ignoring the exasperated look his brother gave him.

"It's associated with pulmonary leukostasis syndrome. White blood cells clump in the lungs and cause respiratory distress. I explained it to Sam yesterday."

Dean shot Sam a look, but it was hard to be angry at him for not divulging this information when he was sitting in a hospital bed, looking damn miserable again. He gave Dean a slight shrug.

"Why use it then?" he demanded.

Catherine looked him straight in the eye. Damn no nonsense nurses.

"I don't recommend not taking it," she said, in a tone that suggested he should just let her do her job. "It's aggressive treatment for an aggressive cancer."

Dean grudgingly removed his hand from Sam's and allowed him to swallow the pill. Maybe he'd feel more lenient had the chemo sessions not been getting in the way of his plans to take Sam to Cecelia, let her use her mojo to fix him rather than pouring poison into him three days a week.

Speaking of which, Dean averted his gaze slightly as Catherine hooked Sam up to the IV. Damn Hickman catheter.

Sam went quiet, chaffing the bed sheet between his fingers in a nervous gesture Dean recognized easily. He pushed away his frustrated helplessness over the whole situation and leant forward to begin another round of distraction, reminding himself forcefully that this was only until he could get Sam to Cecelia.

~~~~0000~~~~

Dean wanted to take Sam to Cecelia on Thursday morning, as soon as the week's chemo was done and after a nights rest. Get this thing over with already because this had to be the suckiest week in the history of sucky weeks and he wasn't keen to continue it any longer than they had to.

But Sam spent most of Wednesday night throwing up until, exhausted, he fell asleep leaning on Dean on the bathroom floor in the early hours of the morning.

Dean changed his plans to Friday.