Fade 5/10

Dean reached out and gently touched Sam's forehead, as if trying to brush hair that was no longer there out of his eyes. An old gesture of comfort.

The ventilator hissed and whooshed, playing in time with the beeping of the heart monitor.

Years had piled onto Dean, in the same way weight had fallen off of Sam. There was probably a connection there. Dean looked gray and haggard, or worse, broken. He took an unsteady breath. It was a rare, unguarded moment, no bravado, no cocky confidence.

Muted hospital noises played on in the background; the soft shuffle of moving feet, hushed words, a female voice paging someone over the intercom.

Dean took Sam's thin hand in his, still brushing Sam's forehead soothingly. Sam looked grayer than Dean, completely motionless, deep purple bruises around his closed eyes. A tearless sob ripped from Dean's throat.

"I'm so sorry, Sammy," he whispered, "I'm so sorry."

The monitor beeped twice, lazily, and then gave out to the monotonous ringing of a flatline.

And Sam bolted upright in his bed.

He heard Dean's voice talking to him long before he could understand the words. He couldn't breathe, as if the tube was still fixed in his throat, and the sound of his heart stopping rang in his ears. Pain lanced through his head and a distant part of him hoped he wouldn't get a nosebleed because how would they stop it if his blood wouldn't clot?

He felt Dean grasp him, thumbs curling over his shoulder blades, heard Dean's voice switch from concerned to panicking, but all he could see was a cold hospital room, himself dying and Dean's grief-stricken face.

Another spike of pain drove its way into his skull. It was too much. Sam tore himself from Dean's hands, twisting to the side of the bed, and threw up.

Dean's voice droned on, folding itself around the ringing of the heart monitor as Sam tried to will the images out of his head. It wasn't until he registered on the word ambulance that Sam realized he needed to pull himself together.

"No. No ambulance," he managed to gasp out, "Vision."

He heard Dean's swift intake of breath, then soothing hands on his back, rubbing gentle circles, some of the panicked urgency gone.

Finally, after what seemed a long time, Sam righted himself, swiping a hand across his mouth and pulling himself back until he was leaning against the wall at the head of the bed. He opened his eyes to the cruel light of the bedside lamp and Dean's worried face.

"I'm okay," he said, after another long moment.

Dean had his phone in his hand. "I'll call Bobby," he said, "He'll get someone on it."

Sam stared at him blankly for a moment before comprehension dawned. Vision equals death equals Sam and Dean to the rescue.

"Oh. No, Dean-"

Dean cut him off quickly and firmly, "No, Sam. We're not going driving round the country chasing your visions. Someone else can do it. We're staying here until you're better."

"No, I meant…" Sam trailed off. He couldn't tell Dean what he'd seen. He couldn't do that to his brother.

"I'll call Bobby," Dean insisted, thumb hovering over the phones keypad.

Sam shook his head, "No. You don't need to."

Dean frowned uncomprehendingly, "What did you see then?"

Sam opened his mouth, frantically searching his mind for something believable, but he wasn't fast enough. He saw realization dawn, the colour draining from Dean's face until he looked ashen in the dull light, his eyes fixed in a shade of horror.

"You… you saw…?"

"Yeah," Sam confirmed regretfully. He met Dean's gaze, suddenly overwhelmed by an irrational fear that Dean would give up on him. "But it doesn't mean anything, Dean. It's not… we've changed things before."

Dean couldn't seem to find words, which scared Sam more than he let on. Dean always found words. Dean raged and ranted and talked. Always talked. Dean was never speechless.

But Sam was tired. Too tired for this. And his head hurt. "Go back to bed, Dean. We can't do anything about it now anyway."

Dean slid off the bed and went back to his own. He settled himself under the covers before he spoke.

"I'm gonna fix this, Sam."

"I know," Sam said, even though he wasn't too sure.

~~~~0000~~~~

Dean wasn't looking so good. Not that Bobby had really expected the kid to be taking the best care of himself, what with the situation. He'd be running himself ragged trying to help Sam. Before he headed back to the salvage yard he'd be making damn sure that Dean got some sleep, whether he wanted to or not.

"Bobby," Dean breathed his name like a sigh of relief.

Poor kid, it had only been a few months since John's death. That boy had worshipped his father, and, still reeling, he now had the possibility of losing the last of his family dumped on his shoulders. He must have been terrified.

There was a time and place for those chick flick moments Dean always shied away from so Bobby didn't hesitate before pulling the younger hunter into a hug. He kept it brief, with a manly slap on the back, and pulled away, holding the kid at arms length to run a critical eye over him.

"You look like hell, boy."

Dean shrugged out of his hold, "Nice to see you too, Bobby. You bring the books?"

Kid had a one track mind when it came to his brother. Bobby went and fetched the stack of books from his truck, returning with arms laden.

"How's Sam doing?" he asked as he stepped into the motel room.

The lighting in the room was dim, the TV flickering soundlessly. Bobby had spent his share of time in dingy motel rooms but it honestly didn't seem fair that Sam should be battling cancer in a room with mould on the ceilings, nicotine-yellow walls with peeling wallpaper, less than ideal beds and some rather questionable stains on the carpet. Bobby decided he was definitely checking them into a higher quality motel sometime soon.

Dean shrugged, "He's sleeping."

Bobby added the books he was carrying to the already sizable pile on the table before he turned to look at the youngest Winchester.

Sam was curled on his side, his mop of dark hair disheveled, resting his head on an arm. Bobby could see the Hickman catheter that Dean had told him about in strained whispers, just visible over the collar of his t-shirt.

Sam looked… sick was the only way to describe it. His face was pale but slick with cold sweat. He'd lost weight, and the last time Bobby had seen the kid he hadn't had much to lose.

It just didn't seem right, visiting the Winchester boys and not hearing their usual lighthearted banter, seeing Dean standing there silently without a trace of his usual cocky grin, and Sam, poster boy of sleepless nights, dead to the world at barely midday.

The Winchester boys could fill a whole damn cavern with their presence. Dean was loud and seemed to have a case of nearly permanent cabin fever, always on the move, teasing Sam mercilessly, drinking and chasing girls, and Sam could be just as loud, arguing back with Dean until he got his point across, getting excited over a breakthrough in a case. It was just so damn wrong to see both brothers so quiet, the room seeming much larger than usual.

Dean came to stand next to Bobby at the foot of Sam's bed, washing a hand down his face.

"He had chemo this morning, so he wont really be up for much. He's probably just gonna be sleeping or throwing up."

Bobby nodded, "Yeah, figured as much."

He eyed Sam thoughtfully, "You're sure this ain't some sort of curse? What were you hunting before he got sick?"

"Did a couple of salt and burns, poltergeist before that. A shapeshifter. I checked everywhere for hex bags, Bobby. It's just…"

Cancer.

"Alright," Bobby focused himself, "Just because there ain't a supernatural cause doesn't mean there's not a supernatural cure."

He moved over to the table and pulled up a chair. He'd opened a book and skimmed the first passage before he realized that Dean hadn't moved.

"Dean?"

He watched the younger mans shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. Nothing much fazed Dean, unless his brother was in trouble.

"I hate this," Dean said, without turning round.

Bobby swept his gaze over Sam's sleeping figure. It was a morose sight. He sighed heavily.

"You and me both, kid."

~~~~0000~~~~

A soft murmur of voices welcomed Sam back to the world of the awake. He half listened, eyes still closed, warm inside his nest of blankets. He lay there a moment, drifting, until the voices became familiar.

He opened his eyes to see Bobby seated at the small table, head bent over a large, ancient-looking book. Dean was already making his way over to him. How did he always know when he was awake?

"Hey," Dean said, crouching down so that they were face to face, "Bobby's here."

Sam nodded wearily, moving to sit up. Dean moved with him, rearranging pillows so that he could lean back comfortably. It was nice to know that they weren't out of sync, that they still acted and reacted together, as if they were two halves of a whole. Sam had wondered, in the early days after John's death, whether they had been bent so far out of shape that they didn't fit together anymore. He tossed the wayward thought aside quickly.

"You okay? Not gonna barf?"

Sam shook his head. Dean hovered for a moment, hand over the small trash bin, ready to grab it quick if Sam changed his mind, then relaxed, moving back to sit on his own bed.

Bobby stood, one arm raised to straighten his baseball cap, and took Dean's place at the bedside, leaning over to pull Sam into a hug. Sam pretended he couldn't tell that Bobby was being extra careful with him, as if he'd break.

"Good to see you, Sam."

"Good to see you too, Bobby." And it was. Really good. After John's death, and their subsequent extended stay at the salvage yard, Bobby had shifted up the ranks from friend to family. And his extensive knowledge of all things supernatural didn't hurt either.

Sam looked past the older man to the haphazard collection of old books, worn and yellowing, on the table. "You guys find anything?"

Bobby and Dean exchanged a look that Sam read clear as anything. He didn't really need to hear them say it.

"Not yet," Bobby admitted, "But we've only just started."

Sam nodded. There really wasn't anything to say.

"We'll find something," Dean said decisively, "Soon."

Sam nodded again. "What time is it?" he asked, looking towards the pulled curtains.

Dean flipped his arm over to look at his watch, "Almost seven. You up for some food?"

Sam groaned, covering his face with his hands, his stomach flipping at the mere thought of it.

"You have to eat," he heard Dean say, "You need your strength. Even the doc said you'd feel better if you ate."

"Throwing up does not make me feel better," he muttered.

"I'll get you something. What d'you want?" Dean pushed.

Sam battled with the urge to pull the blankets over his head. He may have if he actually thought it would make Dean back down.

"I'll be right back," Dean said, as if Sam had agreed. His brother, the food Nazi. "Can you keep an eye on him?"

This drew Sam's hands away from his face, "I don't need Bobby to keep an eye on me. I'm sick, not five years old," he grumbled.

Dean was shrugging into his jacket. "Geez, Sam, cranky much?" he teased lightly.

Sam glared at him.

"I'll be right back," Dean said again, and Sam tried not to let on how much that reassured him. Sick, not five years old, he reminded himself. Nonetheless, he couldn't help tracking his brother's progress to the door or the sudden pang of unreasonable loss that hit him when the door closed, Dean on the opposite side.

It reminded him of when he was sick as a child, unwilling to let his father console him, keeping up a steady litany of "Want Dee!" until John gave in and allowed Dean, who was always hovering nearby when Sam was sick, into the room. He thought he'd grown out of that when he was nine.

"Your brother's only trying to help, Sam," Bobby's voice broke him out of his thoughts. "You do need to eat."

This time Sam really did pull the blankets over his head, "Don't you start too."

He must have fallen asleep. Again. He was really getting sick of this whole can't-stay-awake business. The next thing he knew Dean was back and waving something in front of his face.

"It's just a muffin, Sam. Think you can handle it?"

"No," Sam muttered grouchily. Couldn't Dean have just let him sleep?

Dean's face brightened in amusement, "Come on, sit up."

Sam did, and took the muffin. Resigned, he began dissecting it, breaking it into pieces.

"Eat it, Sam, don't play with it."

"Shut up," Sam said, but popped a bit into his mouth anyway, chewing slowly. "Where's Bobby?"

Dean plunked himself down at the table. The smell of whatever he was eating made Sam's stomach lurch, threatening to expel the one bite of muffin. He tried to breathe through his mouth, averting his eyes.

"Outside, making phone calls."

"More healers?"

Dean shrugged, "Maybe. Better be the real deal this time."

"Cecelia was the real deal."

Dean's mouth set in a hard line, "She was just more convincing than the other one. Still a fake."

Sam frowned at him, "Couldn't you feel it? She had some kind of… aura or something."

Dean shook his head tensely, "Fake, Sammy."

Sam dropped it. Maybe it was easier for Dean to pretend that Cecelia hadn't been able to help because she was a fraud. Sam kind of wished she'd been a fraud too.

Dean finished his food in silence before registering the empty muffin wrapper on Sam's bed. His face lit up.

"See, Sammy, told you you could handle it."

Sam also kind of wished that his stomach hadn't chosen that exact moment to revolt.

~~~~0000~~~~

Bobby was sitting at the table, going through a very old book about some much older magick, Dean at his side, when Sam's cry from behind them jolted them from their research.

Bobby turned in time to see Sam's expression go blank, his arms dropping limply from where they had previously cradled his head.

Dean was at Sam's side in a flash but instead of the panic Bobby expected, he just knelt down and gripped Sam's shoulders, apparently… waiting.

"What's going on?" Bobby asked, standing and taking a few bewildered steps towards the boys.

"It's a vision," Dean said tightly, his eyes searching Sam's face intently.

Oh. Bobby had never seen Sam having one before, only been told the vaguest details, and he had to admit that seeing Sam suddenly check out, unreachable, his eyes moving as he watched something no one else could see, was more than a little unnerving.

"A vision," Bobby repeated, at a complete loss for what to do. He wondered whether Dean felt as helpless as he did.

It was a long four or five minutes before Sam snapped back to reality, face awash with grief and panic. Dean was upon his younger sibling immediately, gently pushing him down on the bed when it looked as though he would faint, one hand brushing through his hair, and Bobby heard a soft, soothing, "It's okay, we can change it. We'll change it, Sam."

After another long few minutes and some more hushed words, Dean returned to his chair and his book. Sam rolled over so that he was facing away from them, feigning sleep, and Bobby stayed where he was, turning his gaze from one Winchester to the other in puzzlement.

"I can go check it out," he offered eventually.

Dean looked up at him. "Check what out?" he asked, his puzzlement matching Bobby's and making the older hunter even more confused.

"The vision," he elaborated, "What Sam saw. I can follow up on it for you. Or contact someone else?"

What, were they just ignoring Sam's visions now? Sure, they had a lot on their plates right now, but… Dean had assured Sam that they'd change it, right?

Dean snapped his book shut and took up another one in its place. "There's nothing to check out," he said flatly.

Winchester avoidance. Huh.

"I thought you said these visions were always about death?" Bobby questioned. He must have been missing something. They weren't just going to let someone die…?

Dean bent further over his book, pointedly ignoring him.

"It's me."

Bobby turned away from Dean's back, toward the bed to stare at Sam's back instead.

"What?" he asked.

"It's me," Sam said, his voice just as flat as Dean's had been. "The visions are of me dying."

Bobby felt his stomach drop. This just kept getting better and better.