Fade 4/10

Chapter Four

Sam woke when the Impala's engine shut off, the absence of the familiar rumbling drawing him into waking. He blinked blearily and got up, Dean's leather jacket sliding off of him, sending a rush of affection for his older brother through him.

"Where are we?" he asked, bewildered as he took in the generic suburban street they were parked on.

Dean reclaimed his jacket and pocketed the car keys. "Healer, remember?"

"What?" Sam asked, frowning uncomprehendingly.

Dean's eyes softened, which told Sam he was forgetting something he should have remembered. It was just… hard to concentrate sometimes.

"Told you before we left. Bobby found her for us."

"Oh. Oh, yeah, I remember." Definitely something he shouldn't have forgotten. Dean had only been going on about it for days, like it was the key to everything.

Dean made an effort to grin. Sam almost wished he wouldn't. It was painful to look at such a lie, Dean forcing a smile. "Going senile in your old age, Sammy?"

"I'm younger than you," Sam halfheartedly returned the banter as he followed Dean out of the car. "I'm okay," he added when Dean moved to help him.

"You sure?" Dean prodded.

Sam rolled his eyes, because he normally rolled his eyes when Dean went into 'mother hen' mode, and he wanted things to be normal again – well, Winchester normal, at least – but he couldn't put any of the usual exasperation in his voice.

"I'm fine, Dean."

Dean led the way up the path of a small house. It looked cozy, with a little garden that Sam imagined looked nice in warmer weather. It was the kind of house he would have wanted to have after he married –

Any good feelings vanished in an instant, not that there were many to start with. Jess was dead, Dad was dead and he was dying. What was there to be happy about?

A woman opened the door before Dean could knock. She looked to be on the right side of 40, a few lines but no wrinkles, and her long blonde hair seemed to be natural. She'd kept her figure too, but her eyes…

Sam did a double take but they were still the same soft violet and something told him that they weren't contacts.

"Bobby's friends?" the woman inquired, those eyes trailing over Dean and then settling on Sam. "Oooh, yes," she murmured, although they hadn't spoken, "You're very sick. I don't know… but I can try. Come inside."

Sam blinked. Neither him nor Dean had even said a word yet. Dean turned to him and gave him an 'everything's-gonna-be-okay-now' smile, which Sam half-heartedly returned, before they stepped into the house.

The woman, Cecelia, Sam remembered now, led them down a hallway. There were photos on the walls, a younger girl in her early teens, bearing a striking resemblance to Cecelia, and a young man leaning against the hood of a deep green Mercedes Benz. Sam saw Dean glance at it appreciatively.

"My children," Cecelia smiled, gesturing at the pictures.

"Nice car," Dean nodded.

"Mm," Cecelia agreed aimlessly, "Gone now. Took my children with it. But yes, a nice car. Henry loved it."

Dean looked suitably mollified, "I'm sorry. I didn't…"

Cecelia patted the air, placating. "Don't worry about it. It was a long time ago. And anyway, the dead don't truly leave us, do they? They're both right here." She placed a hand over her heart.

Dean nodded awkwardly and they carried on to the living room. Cecelia gestured for them to sit on the couch by the coffee table, on which two cups of steaming tea had been placed.

"Are you expecting someone?" Dean asked, eyeing the mugs.

Cecelia's violet eyes twinkled a little, "I was expecting you, wasn't I?"

Dean frowned, "But we didn't…"

Cecelia turned her amused gaze to Sam, "Bit slow, is he?"

Sam snorted and hastily turned away from Dean's glare.

"So how does this work?" Dean asked, still scowling slightly.

Cecelia lost her smirk, her eyes turning serious. "It's hard to explain."

"But it does work?" Dean pressed.

Cecelia canted her head, observing Sam. "I've never fixed cancer before," she murmured, abruptly standing and moving in front of Sam, nudging the coffee table out of her way. All business now, she knelt down before him, scanning him intently.

"I can see it," she continued, with an air of awe, seeming to speak to herself.

Sam felt like she was looking through him. He suddenly found that he couldn't tear his gaze away from her. His eyes widened as a fine mist of colours abruptly sprung out from her body, like an aura. He got a sudden strong sense of power emanating from the woman in front of him. He could feel it as she reached out and put a hand to his chest and he allowed himself a brief flash of hope.

Dean was holding his breath, Sam could tell without looking. The couch was still, no movement beside him, and then, something warm was creeping into him. He let out an involuntary gasp and looked down but couldn't see anything besides Cecelia's hand. She was looking through him, inside him, her strange eyes darting to observe something he couldn't see.

Then the warmth receded, so suddenly it left him cold, and Cecelia pulled her hand away. She stayed knelt on the floor, shuddering slightly. Her eyes flicked up to meet Sam's.

"I'm sorry," she breathed, shaking her head.

Sam slumped down on the couch, wrapping his arms around himself, trying to bring back the warmth. It didn't work.

"You're sorry?" Dean was suddenly on his feet. "What d'you mean, you're sorry? You're a healer – heal him!"

Cecelia shook her head again, climbing to her feet. "I can't."

"Bullshit!" Dean actually stomped a foot. "Bobby said you were the real deal. He said he's seen you fix broken bones."

Sam could hear the desperation in his voice. He wondered whether Cecelia could hear it too or if it was just because he knew Dean that he could understand what was hidden behind his anger.

"Broken bones are easy," Cecelia explained firmly, "I just knit them back together. I can't… the cancer's everywhere. Millions of cells. I'm sorry, Dean, I'm not a miracle worker. I can't fix him."

Sam couldn't seem to find the energy to be disappointed. He hadn't really expected it to work anyway. It would have been too easy and nothing was ever easy for Winchesters. But Dean…

Dean stood in the middle of Cecelia's cozy living room, surrounded by photos of her dead children, devastation rolling off of him in waves, looking lost, and Sam could always find energy to feel for his brother. He knew that Dean had been so sure of this, so certain that it would work, because he couldn't accept that it wouldn't.

"Try again," Dean ordered.

"I'm sorry," Cecelia said.

Dena thumped a hand on the coffee table, sloshing cold tea onto the cloth, "Damn it, stop being sorry and heal him!"

"I can't!" Cecelia cried, "I'm sorry but I can't!"

There was a moment's stand off, Dean and Cecelia eyeing each other across the living room. Finally, Cecelia turned back to Sam, taking his hand in hers.

"I really am sorry," she said quietly, and Sam believed her.

"Whatever," Dean interrupted briskly, grabbing onto Sam's other hand and tugging him from Cecelia's grasp. "Come on, Sam. Let's go."

Sam let Dean pull him to his feet before he paused to look at Cecelia. She stood, eyes closed in a private moment of her own.

"It's okay," Sam said, reaching out to touch her hand. He wondered if Dean saw the single tear trailing down her cheek.

Dean growled, tugging back until Sam gave in. Dean dragged him from the house, fuming and muttering to himself.

"What the hell do you mean, it's okay?" Dean exploded, even as he opened the Impala's door for Sam, "How was that okay?"

"It's not her fault," Sam said fairly.

Dean paused a moment to make sure that Sam was settled in the car before slamming the door shut and stomping round to the drivers side. Sam briefly marveled at the way his brother managed to be gentle and violent at the same time.

Dean climbed into the car and slammed his own door, then sat, gripping the steering wheel tightly but making no move to start the car.

Sam fidgeted, "Dean-?"

"God damn it!" Dean yelled, smacking his fists against the wheel, "Son of a bitch!"

He huffed in a few deep breaths before finally turning the key in the ignition and pulling out much harder than usual.

"I'm gonna fix this, Sam," he said, eyes on the road, voice low and steady. "Don't you worry. I'm gonna fix this."

~~~~0000~~~~

The second healer was a total bust. She was a young woman, barely out of her teens, wearing long swirl-y clothes, with a house full of crystals and various other 'New Age-y' objects that were obviously supposed to impress her clients.

Dean wasn't impressed.

He didn't even bother catching her name, and barely noticed the curvaceous figure under those hippy clothes, before he dragged Sam back to the Impala.

Again, he sat gripping the wheel, clenching his jaw so tightly his teeth threatened to shatter, unmoving, glaring out the windscreen.

"We should have let her try. Would've been a laugh."

Dean threw an incredulous glance at Sam, unwilling to allow his brother to lighten the mood.

"Do you think this is funny, Sam? Those were our two best shots! What the hell are we meant to do now?"

Sam flinched as if he'd been hit, then sunk down in his seat, eyes averted.

Dean sighed, immediately wilting. What did he think he was doing, yelling at Sam? He released his grip on the steering wheel, flexing his fingers, and leant back.

"Hey."

He waited until Sam raised his head, not quite making eye contact but Dean would take what he could get.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I didn't mean to yell at you. Just…"

The dark head bobbed, "I know."

There was a moment of silence, before Dean wordlessly took the wheel and began driving.

Sam fell asleep ten minutes in and, even though his position didn't change – leant against the door, head against the glass, hair falling over his eyes – Dean could tell the exact moment he drifted off.

He relaxed slightly in his seat. No need to be staunch when Sam wasn't watching. He was glad Sam was getting some rest but it left him with a half hour drive back to the motel with nothing but his thoughts for company. And his thoughts were not very good company.

Two healers down. Two chances to save Sam gone, and Dad's journal was drawing a blank. He wasn't really surprised – if there had been anything Sam would have found it when Dean's heart was failing. He felt an ill sense of regret that they'd dealt with Sue-Ann and her reaper. As much as the knowledge that someone else had died in his place hurt, he would have traded for Sam. And that thought sickened him, but he couldn't help it. He knew, without a doubt, that he would have let someone else face the reaper before he let Sam. If only he had the option.

Dean swung by the diner to pick up some dinner, welcoming the distraction of food, still turning ideas over in his head. There was no real distraction. Cancer took up his every thought.

It was a relief when he finally turned into the gravel parking lot of the motel. He shook Sam awake and steered his still half-asleep brother into their room and over to the bed. Sam sat there for a moment, blinking into space, before his eyes cleared and he looked around the motel room as if wondering how he got there.

"You fell asleep again," Dean said in explanation, holding out a plain chicken sandwich to him. Sam eyed it warily.

"You have to eat, Sam."

Sam looked up at him, turning on the puppy dog eyes. Dean shook his head.

"That ain't gonna work. Eat. Now."

Sam sullenly took the sandwich and Dean retreated to his own bed, kicking the trashcan closer to Sam.

"What's the point in eating if I'm just gonna throw up?"

"Don't throw up."

Sam threw him an exasperated look, "I'm not doing it on purpose."

"Just eat it, Sam."

Sam scowled at him but grudgingly peeled off the wrapper. Dean tucked into his burger while Sam slowly dissected his sandwich. He watched, trying to act as if he wasn't, but Sam was eating, not just messing around with the food and it seemed like it was staying down, which was a relief. For three days nothing had stayed down longer than twenty minutes. Day four managed an hour at best. Maybe day five would actually allow Sam to digest something.

"You wanna do something tonight?" Dean asked with his mouth full, hastily swallowing when Sam suddenly turned a pale shade of green.

Sam swallowed convulsively a few times, and Dean thought he'd blown it, but he recovered and shrugged.

"What's there to do?"

Dean took another bite of his burger and Sam looked away. "We could go to the library or something?"

"You, want to go to the library?" Sam asked doubtfully.

Not really. Give him a bar with good music and cheap beer and Dean was in Heaven, but he doubted Sam would be keen and he sure as hell wasn't going anywhere without him. So Dean just shrugged. "There's only so much bad TV a person can stand."

Sam gave him an odd look, like he knew why Dean was offering the library instead of a bar – hell, he probably did know – but he didn't say anything about it.

"Library'll be closed by now," he said instead, abandoning his half-eaten sandwich and pulling the laptop towards him. "Maybe tomorrow."

Dean frowned at the discarded food, then at the laptop. "What are you doing on that?"

"Checking emails, why?"

Dean shrugged, crumpling his burger wrapper and throwing it at the bin. "I guess I'll call Bobby."

Sam nodded vaguely, already engrossed in whatever he was looking at on the screen.

"Want anything from the vending machine?" Dean asked as he headed for the door.

Sam didn't answer so he took that as a no and stepped outside, already dialing Bobby's number.

"Dean, how'd it go?"

Dean made his way to the vending machine, – still in working order despite his earlier efforts – tucking the phone under his ear as he patted his pockets for change.

"No dice, Bobby. Cecelia couldn't do anything and the other was a complete fraud. Don't bother giving her name out anymore."

There was a disappointed pause. Dean pictured Bobby twisting his baseball cap. "I'm sorry, Dean. I really thought Cecelia would've been able to help."

Dean absently fed some coins into the slot. "Don't sweat it. I'll figure something out."

"About that, I was thinking I'd come meet up with you boys, bring a few books, see if we can find something."

Dean paused; listening to the muffled thud as a can of something he couldn't remember ordering fell into the dispenser tray. "If this is some kind of 'final visit' with Sam…"

"No, of course not, ya idjit," came Bobby's gruff denial, "Just thought I could help. And it's been a while, it'd be good to see you two."

Dean exhaled a whoosh of air, bending to pick up his can. Huh, L&P. Who even drinks that stuff? "Yeah. Yeah, okay, Bobby. It'd be good to see you too."

"Good. I'll start packing. How's Sam doing?"

"He's keeping food down again. That's an improvement."

"Tell him to hang in there. We'll find something."

Dean nodded determinedly. They would. He would. "Yeah, we will."

"And Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"You hang in there too."

Dean felt his eyes mist up at the older man's concern. He rubbed them furiously. "Always do, Bobby."

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and made his way back to their room, sipping distractedly at his L&P. Sam didn't look up when he entered, still captivated by the screen.

"Bobby's gonna bring some books up for us to check out," Dean said.

Sam didn't seem to hear him.

"Sam? What are you looking at?"

Sam finally glanced up. "Nothing," he said, not looking at the screen as he clicked the mouse a few times, then closed the laptop.

Dean narrowed his eyebrows but Sam wasn't offering anything else.

"I'm gonna go have a shower," he said instead.

Dean waited until he could hear running water in the bathroom before he crossed the room to Sam's bed and re-opened the laptop. So Sam usually did the research on hunts, it didn't mean that Dean didn't know his way around a computer. At the very least he knew how to access the history. It didn't take long for him to find the web pages Sam had been looking at.

'AML causes a third of all deaths from Leukemia,' he read, 'It offers a 17 percent chance of living beyond five years, earning it the lowest five year survival rate of all Leukemia's…'

Dean read no further. Maybe Sam was onto something when he said he was cursed – Sam couldn't just have cancer, as if that wasn't enough. No, of course Sam had to have one of the worst cancers. Winchesters never do things in halves.

He sat back on the bed, turning his gaze to the closed bathroom door for a long moment, then he slowly shut down the open windows and closed the laptop.

TBC…