Fade 7/10

Chapter Seven

Bobby left at the end of the week, the books he and Dean had been searching through exhausted, with no hint of a cure.

"Just hang in there," he had said to both brothers before giving them both a hug each. Not their usual way of saying goodbye but then, Sam didn't usually have cancer so Dean figured that was okay. "I got plenty more books at home and a lot more people to contact."

Dean had apologized for his meltdown, and Sam said it was fine, but he probably would have felt better if Sam had had the energy to be pissed at him.

Now it was back to the two of them, not back to normal because nothing had been normal for a long time, but they were managing. Sam even seemed to be making more of an effort to eat, or maybe he was just worried Dean would try to shove food down his throat again.

With that embarrassing and guilt-ridden thought, Dean ducked his head back down and tried to concentrate on the weapons he was cleaning. They might not be hunting at the moment but that was no reason to get slack. Besides, there was something soothing in the repetitive motions.

"Oh," came Sam's soft surprised voice from behind him.

Vision, Dean thought, but when he wheeled around Sam's eyes were still clear and he wasn't clutching his head. Instead, he was sitting cross-legged on his bed, laptop in front of him, and his eyes were fixed on the clump of dark hair in his hand.

There was almost an ice age of silence as Dean frantically searched for something to say. There was nothing. No words to make this better. Sam wasn't six years old anymore, a hug didn't make things okay again and he couldn't just say 'it's all gonna be alright,' and have Sam believe him like he would have back then.

Finally, he turned and rummaged through his duffle, settling on a simple, "Here," as he tossed Sam a black beanie.

He waited, expecting Sam to say something, but the youngest Winchester just sat there, fingering the beanie, his face a mix of shocked devastation, not looking at Dean. Dean opened his mouth, and then closed it again, and eventually, he tuned back to the weapons, retrieving the knife he'd been sharpening.

"You wanna shave my head?"

Dean nearly sliced himself as, again, he spun around to face Sam. Did he hear that right?

"What?"

Sam glanced up at him, his gaze skittering away just as fast, "Do you want to shave my head?"

Okay, so, yes, he had heard it right, but…

"You serious?"

Sam shrugged, the devastated look replaced by a carefully controlled blankness, "You and Dad always said I needed a hair cut."

Dean wavered uncertainly. He got the feeling that Sammy was trying very hard not to think, not to feel. And now that he thought about it, he realized that Sam had been doing that the whole time, right since the beginning. Hell, he'd cried before Sam and that was just wrong. In fact, Sam hadn't cried at all. He did the chemo, slept, threw up, stopped talking. Just did it, and tried not to think about. Tried not to accept it.

A pillow sailed through the air, missing Dean by inches.

"Just do it, Dean," Sam said, sounding small and resigned.

So Dean got up, feeling curiously like he was moving on autopilot as he went to the bathroom to get the electric razor. Damn it, this was wrong. He should have fixed this already. He should have fixed this weeks ago. Before it came to this. This just sucked out loud.

Finally, Dean made his way out of the bathroom, clippers in hand, wondering at the irony of it. So many times he'd threatened Sam with buzz cuts, and now, he could barely bring himself to go anywhere near Sam's hair, didn't want to do this to Sam.

"You're sure about this?" he asked uncertainly, eyeing Sam's mop of dark hair.

Sam ran a hand through it, another clump coming away easily.

"Yeah," he said quietly.

Dean felt his heart clench for his little brother. If he thought this sucked out loud for him, it had to suck all the way to next week for Sam.

"I could give you a Mohawk," Dean suggested, trying to lighten the mood as he dragged a chair over to the linoleum of the kitchen.

Sam's lips twitched in the ghost of a smile but it didn't reach his eyes.

"You're really sure?" Dean asked again once Sam was settled in the chair in front of him.

"Just do it," Sam said.

"Okay."

Dean clicked the electric razor on. Placing a hand on the side of Sam's head, fingers brushing over his cheek, to steady and to comfort, he got to work.

Sam sat still and silent, the only noise came from the buzzing of the clippers as Dean carefully ran them over his head, shearing off layers of thick hair.

Dean tried to keep his mind blank, but the thoughts just kept slipping through. Here was yet another piece of evidence to add to the pile that screamed, Sam's dying, along with the puking and weight loss and that stupid Hickman thing. How was this fair? Sam didn't deserve this.

Finally the floor was covered in hair. Dean brushed a few wayward strands from Sam's shoulders before circling the chair.

"It actually doesn't look too bad," he offered, which was a bit of a lie really because, wrapped up in Dean's too-big hoodie that did nothing to hide how much weight he'd lost, combined with the long-lasting effects of the drugs, Sam looked like a junkie, or a cancer patient.

Sam made a face and ran a hand over his head, then pulled the beanie on.

"You're not gonna look at it?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head tightly.

Dean sighed, sinking down to one knee in front of his brother. "Sam, if you need to…"

He wasn't sure what he was going to follow that with. Lose it? Freak out? But it turned out that that was permission enough for Sam (as if he needed permission) because, without knowing exactly how it happened, Dean found himself on the floor, surrounded by tufts of hair, with Sam curled half on his lap, crying for the first time since this nightmare began.

~~~~0000~~~~

There are a lot of things that Sam can't stand even the smell of anymore.

McDonalds, KFC, meat pies, eggs, bacon and, most recently, coffee. Everything Dean likes Sam can't stand, but he can't help it. He imagines that he can smell the chemicals leeching out of his skin and he can't stand the smell of that either. He can't stand the smell of the hospital, the smell of the motel room, and he can't stop throwing up.

Sam spends hours on the bathroom floor, wrapped up in Dean's hoodie and beanie. When he's feeling okay, he plays cards with Dean but he can't concentrate long enough to play poker so they play endless games of Go Fish and Last Card. Sometimes Dean buys more pot and they get stoned but it just makes Sam fall asleep now.

When Sam's not feeling okay, which is every Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, sometimes Friday too, he doesn't do anything. Dean doesn't do anything. They half watch bad daytime television. Sam throws up the Gatorade Dean makes him drink, throws up spit and stomach acid when that's gone because his body insists that it's being poisoned and has to get it out.

Sam knows that it won't work. There's no escape because he's Sam Winchester and he's cursed, because nothing good ever happens to him, apart from Dean and Dean's not a superhero, no matter what he believed when he was five.

Sometimes, he wants his Dad, which he finds strange because his Dad was never good in these kinds of situations and they probably argued more often than they talked. Sam wants him anyway.

Other times, he wants his Mum, which he finds even stranger because he doesn't know her, can't imagine what she'd do to help him, can barely remember her face, which he only knows from old photographs. He still wants her anyway.

Mostly though, Sam just wants Dean, because no matter how many things Sam can't stand anymore, he can still breathe in the scent of leather and gunpowder and peanut M&Ms, and feel better.

~~~~0000~~~~

They rang on Sunday, which was Sam's best day of the week, except that it was the day before Monday, which meant the cycle was about to start again. Sam thought there might be something morbidly humorous in that – his best day that was still filled with dread and illness.

"What the hell do you mean?"

Sam rolled over on the bed to look at Dean, who was pacing back and forth in front of the door, his cell phone crushed to his ear, free hand curled into a fist. Sam wondered vaguely what the hell who meant.

"That doesn't… what the hell… How can I not be a match?"

Oh. That's what the hell someone meant. Figures. Sam thought there also might be something darkly humorous in that. Sometimes, especially while growing up, he and Dean had seemed almost like one person, two halves of a whole. On hunts they moved as one, they could read each other's expressions and body language and know how the other was feeling just as easy as if they were feeling it themselves. They sometimes finished each other's sentences and often spoke in unison.

And yet, Dean wasn't a match.

Figures.

Sam listened to Dean's less than polite goodbye, watched him pull the phone away from his ear and curl his fingers around it, staring at it as if it had bad-mouthed their mother, squeezing so tight that the cell was in danger of being crushed in his grip.

"It's okay," Sam said, wondering where Dean would find the money to buy a new one. They would still be paying off their debt to Bobby when they were in their fifties.

Dean spun, "Okay? Sam, none of this is okay! Nothing's fucking okay, okay?"

Sam startled at the unexpected venom in Dean's voice. "Okay," he said.

Dean turned his glare on Sam, who held his hands up in surrender. "You said it first."

"God damn it!" Dean spun again, reaching for his jacket before stopping, mid-reach, and then withdrawing his hand.

Sam sighed, "You can go out if you want, Dean. I'll be o… fine."

"I'm not leaving you alone," Dean grunted, his face tight with tension.

Sam rolled his eyes, "I'm not five years old, Dean."

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. Dean exploded.

"You have cancer, Sam! You've got fucking cancer!"

"I've noticed!" Sam cut in, trying to stop Dean's rant because he got too worked up. "And it's not going to go away just because you're refusing to let yourself blow off steam."

"You want me to leave?" Dean challenged.

Oh, for Christ sake… Sam felt his temper flare. God, he was sick and tired – literally – and he just didn't want to do this right now. Dean in a bad mood was just more than he could handle.

"Yes! Damn it, Dean, just get out of here for a while. Go have a few drinks, play pool, whatever, just calm down."

Dean Winchester, the man who never backs down. Even when he's got his head up his ass.

"Fine," he spat. "You can just look after yourself for a change."

Sam saw that Dean regretted his words immediately, but that didn't stop it from getting under his skin. He'd never asked Dean to look after him, and it wasn't his fault he was sick.

"Fine!"

They held a stand off, each staring the other down, but Winchesters are nothing if not stubborn. Sam saw it in Dean's face; he didn't want to leave, and when it came down to it, Sam didn't want him to either, but it didn't change the fact that Dean needed some relief. Being stuck in a motel room for any extended amount of time was hard for him, cancer-ridden little brother or no.

"Fine!" they both said together, and Dean grabbed his jacket, slamming the door after him.

~~~~0000~~~~

Dean found himself at a bar, which didn't surprise him, even if he'd had no idea where he was going when he left the motel in a huff.

The duke box was blaring Iron Maiden's Can I Play With Madness, the girls were pretty and tipsy, which was always a good mix, and the beer was cheap. It was just about perfect. Would have been perfect if Sam was next to him complaining about the noise or the taste of the beer instead of back at the motel room dying of leukemia.

Okay, so it wasn't Sam he was mad at. He figured that Sam knew that, but he was still going to have to apologize when he got back. Seriously though, finding out that he wasn't a match? Talk about a kick in the teeth.

Dean took a swig of his beer. One drink, and then he'd go. Not quite drowning his sorrows, but Sam always said that sorrows could swim and, in this case, Dean was willing to concede.

"You look like you've got troubles."

Dean glanced sideways at the woman who had seated herself beside him.

"What makes you say that?" he asked, managing to make it come out as; None of your business.

Luckily, the lady could take a hint. She smoothed out her skirt and ran a hand through her hair. "Can I buy you a drink?"

Dean sighed heavily, turning to her. She was pretty, if not a little older than he'd usually go for, but this just really wasn't the time.

"Look, I'm not interested in…" he gestured at her vaguely, "I'm just trying to have a drink."

The woman laughed, taking Dean by surprise, "Geez, you try to do something nice. I'm not trying to get in your pants, dude. You just looked like you needed some company."

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, "Alright, sorry. I didn't mean…"

The woman waved a hand at him, "Don't worry about it." She gestured to the bartender, "Two beers."

Alright, so, two beers and then he'd go. Yup, just two beers.

An hour or two, and many beers, later Dean was beginning to change his mind about what he was interested in. Candice was funny, pretty hot in an older woman kind of way, and she drank beer, which was pretty much what he looked for in a girl. He was also doing a good job of not thinking about –

As if on cue, his phone rang. He disengaged himself from Candice and fished it out of his jacket pocket, answering without checking the Caller ID.

"You okay?" he asked gruffly.

"Where'd you go?"

"I'm just-" he broke off, listening to the clatter on the other end of the line; Sam dropping his cell phone. And then a moan.

Dean may have had a few drinks in him but straight away he felt stone-cold sober.

"Sam?" he barked out urgently, as soon as Sam was back breathing in his ear.

"Dean?"

Dean was already standing. Something was wrong.

"Hey, just hang on. I'll be right there." He shoved the phone back in his pocket and headed for the door.

"Is everything okay?" he heard Candice's voice behind him, but he was already at the door and then he was running.

By all rights, the journey back to the motel should have taken ten, maybe even fifteen, minutes. Dean did it in five. Struggling for breath, he crashed into the motel door, fumbling for his key, and stumbled into the room.

Panting, he looked around, finding empty beds, a soft murmur from the TV and no Sam.

Dean strode to the bathroom, pushing open the door. "Sam?"

Sam was curled against the bath, arms wrapped around his abdomen, head ducked down so Dean couldn't see his face. The cell phone lay on the tiles next to him. Dean kicked it away and crouched down beside his brother.

"Hey, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have stormed off like that."

One of Sam's hands moved, following Dean's voice to clench in his shirt.

"Hurts…" he mumbled.

"What hurts?"

Sam just moaned, trying to curl in tighter.

Dean crouched there for another moment, panic freezing him, before his brain kicked into gear and he was moving, pulling Sam up and bundling him into the Impala.

Dean jumped in and screeched out of the parking lot. Sam remained curled up, both arms still held tight around his stomach. As Dean watched, a rivulet of blood trickled from his nose. Dean pressed his foot flat on the accelerator.

He didn't think he'd ever driven as fast as he did then – and he's blasted several speed limits in his time – but it still seemed to take an age before he reached the hospital.

Sam was so light now, it hardly took any effort to carry him through the doors. He'd barely taken two steps inside before medical professionals were swooping down on him, prying Sam from his grasp and loading him onto a gurney, asking a million questions that Dean couldn't seem to answer.

"He's got leukemia," he heard himself say, and then Sam started screaming.

To Be Continued…