Fade 8/10

Chapter Eight

Sam floated. A distant part of his mind registered morphine. A more prevalent part recognized Dean's absence. He wanted to ask for him. He could sense people moving around him, but he was drifting between sleep and wake, fading in and out, and he couldn't make his voice work.

Sam felt empty, lost without his brother's strong presence. He had nothing left to pull himself out of the void he was sinking in. He understood that he was in hospital, that something had happened, that… it was hard to follow his own trains of thought.

He remembered being given blue sickly sweet water and being told to drink it. He couldn't though; he just kept throwing it up. And Dean wasn't there to hold him steady, just the hands of nameless strangers that he didn't want.

At least he wasn't being ripped apart from the inside out anymore. The pain was a vague, far off memory now, enough so that he could almost imagine that it hadn't been real. In fact, he could almost believe that this whole thing had been nothing more than a horribly vivid daydream. Almost.

Dean. God, he wanted Dean. Why wasn't Dean here?

~~~~0000~~~~

Dean was getting ready to start throwing punches. He'd been waiting for an hour, sitting and foot-tapping, flicking sightlessly through out-dated magazines, standing and pacing, demanding answers from the duty nurse, receiving nothing, pacing some more, by the time Dr. Harper finally turned up, looking slightly frazzled and worn.

She held up a hand to halt Dean's immediate flow of questions and, reluctantly, he fell silent.

"He's okay," Dr. Harper assured first. Dean felt himself sag. He braced himself on the wall. An hour of uncertainty, of fear, just waiting, half expecting that when someone came he'd hear, 'I'm sorry. We did everything we could…"

"He's on a morphine drip," Dr. Harper continued, "He's not in any pain now."

"What happened?" Dean asked. He was too tired to demand. Too shaken by finding Sam on the bathroom floor, in pain, seeing him start to bleed. He was running out of time and he knew it. Sam was running out of time.

"The illness thinned his veins until they burst," Dr. Harper said quietly. "He hemorrhaged internally, causing the pain and bruising. It's stopped now."

Dean let out a shaky breath. Bleeding internally… He pushed himself off the wall, forcing himself to stand straight. He had to be strong. Had to look after Sammy.

"When can I take him home?"

Dr. Harper hesitated. She pushed some stray hair back behind her ear, as if stalling for time. "Dean… we misjudged. The cancer's too aggressive."

"What do you mean?" The cancer's too aggressive…

"He's reached blast crisis."

Dean felt the air rush out of the room.

"Okay," his voice sounded oddly calm. "Okay, so, give him another blood transfusion."

Dr. Harper gave him a small sad look. Why was she sad? It was his Sam she was talking about. His Sam that was dying.

"Did you hear what I said? Blast crisis. No red cells, no white. There's nothing left but black cancer. A blood transfusion won't fix this. He's already had three. He's not going home, Dean. It's time for In-House chemo."

~~~~0000~~~~

Seven days on, three days off. Three hours, three bags. Cytarabine, Cerubidine, VePesid. Then a new bag of Cytarabine that stayed attached for the whole seven days. Dean was left to wonder how things had gotten so much worse so fast.

"Is Bobby coming?" Sam asked as Dean made his way back to the bedside.

Sam's voice sounded scratched and wispy, probably had something to do with the tube that now snaked its way down his nose and throat, dispensing nutrients. Sam was too sick to eat, sometimes too sick to talk. The drugs were screwing with his memory too. Dean was impressed that Sam had remembered he'd gone to phone Bobby.

"Yeah. He's got more books for us to go through, and he's gonna stop in at a few places on the way."

Sam nodded vaguely, his face rubbing against the pillow. Sam didn't even have the energy to sit up anymore. He reached up to adjust his beanie.

Dean had to fight the urge to look away these days. He didn't want to see the tubes snaking down under the collar of Sam's hospital-white t-shirt, didn't know what to say to this thin, exhausted, dying version of his brother.

"Think you'll find something?"

Dean gripped the beds railing, "I know we will."

Sam sighed softly, "Good. 'Cause, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"This really sucks."

Dean huffed a small humourless laugh, "I know."

"Dean?"

Dean had to lean in closer to hear Sam properly. "Yeah, Sammy?"

Sam made an effort to look him in the eye, dark hazels searching out his blue-greens. Even Sam's eyes weren't right anymore, clouded and dulled by drugs and exhaustion. "It's okay," Sam breathed, the simple act of speaking taking it's toll, "If you can't…"

Dean recoiled, "Oh, no you don't, Sam. I said I was gonna fix this and I will. You're not checking out on me. You're not dying."

"M'kay," Sam mumbled.

Dean leant forwards again, tracing his finger over Sam's palm, wards and protective sigils, watching as Sam slipped too easily into sleep.

"You're not dying," he said again, willing himself to believe it.

~~~~0000~~~~

Sam couldn't remember what day it was, but then, Sam couldn't remember much of anything anymore. He couldn't remember the nurses names, what the drugs they were giving him were called, how long he'd been in the hospital.

Maybe it was better this way. Dying by degrees didn't give you much worth remembering anyway.

Sam rolled over, eyes still shut, and felt a small tug in his chest. Okay, so, one of the bad seven days. Not that the three days break was much better. Everything had faded into cancer. Sam couldn't even imagine what it was like to not feel sick, to not be dying.

His face itched and he reached up to scratch at the tape holding the tubing to his cheek and a hand immediately covered his, pulling it away.

"Don't mess with it."

Sam opened his eyes, waited until the room stopped twirling.

"Itches," he complained to Dean.

Dean sighed and let go of his hand. Sam reached up again and scratched at the tape.

"Day is it?"

"You've already asked me that."

"Day?"

Dean sighed again, "It's Tuesday, Sam. Bobby will be here tomorrow."

Sam tried to think but his brain was still short-circuiting, "How long…"

Dean looked pained. If he looked closely Sam could see dark circles under his brother's eyes. Sam didn't look closely. There was nothing he could do about it anyway.

"Remember what I said about taking this one day at a time?" Dean started, deliberately dodging the question.

"How long?" Sam insisted, trying to shift slightly, sit up a bit as if to show Dean he could handle the answer. It was too hard. He resignedly lay still, instead focusing on staying awake.

Dean looked away. "You're on day two, Sammy. Five more days, then you can have another break."

"Can't be only day two," Sam whispered. It couldn't be. It wasn't this bad before, after two days. Dean had to be wrong.

Dean looked like someone was tugging on his lungs. He nearly choked on his words, "It is day two, Sammy. You remember how long you've been here?"

Frustrated tears burned his eyes. Sam shook his head.

"Nearly three weeks. You're on your third round. That's why you feel so bad."

The tears were threatening to overflow. Sam shut his eyes against them. It just didn't stop.

"Can't do five more days, De…"

He felt Dean's grip on his wrist. "Yeah, you can, Sammy. You can beat this."

"Thought you were gonna fix it," Sam mumbled. It wasn't an accusation, and he knew Dean would see it for what it was. A plea.

"I am gonna fix this," Dean's not-so-steady voice assured.

"Can't do five more days."

Dean looked torn, tears of his own threatening. "You can, Sammy. You have to."

Five more days. Then a break and it starts all over again. God, he just couldn't do it. It was going to kill him.

"Dean, please," Sam whispered, totally not above begging at this point, "Please don't make me."

"Sam…"

Sam knew that tone. It was just as helpless as he felt. Neither of them had any control over this. The cancer was in charge.

~~~~0000~~~~

"Jesus," Bobby said.

Dean followed his gaze, "I know."

"He looks…" Bobby trailed off and Dean was glad because he knew how Sam looked. Hooked up to I.V.s, dramatically thin, closed eyes bruised and skin that was verging on gray, he looked half dead.

"I could have got here sooner. When you told me he was worse, I didn't realize…"

Dean caught the look in Bobby's eyes.

"He's not dying," he said fiercely.

Bobby focused. "No. Course not." He tore his gaze away from Sam. Dean understood the struggle. No longer was he battling the urge to look away. Instead, an irrational part of him insisted that if he took his eyes off Sam, something bad would happen, that he might look back and Sam would be gone.

"Saw a few people on the way up here," Bobby continued, still sounding shaken, "They're looking into things, keeping their ears open."

Dean swallowed, nodding, his gaze straying over Sam's sleeping figure again. God. They were running out of time.

"He asked me not to make him do it." The words were out before Dean had even realized what he was saying. "The chemo. God, Bobby, I can't stand seeing him like this, but I can't just…"

Bobby's hand found its way to his shoulder, squeezing firmly in a wordless show of support. And the simply gesture almost broke him. He was so sick of being strong. He wanted to sob and scream, yell at a God he didn't believe in, curse every demon, blame everyone who'd had a part in not giving Sam the normal life he should have had, himself included.

He would have traded anything, everything, his Dad's journal, the Impala, his whole life, if he could just turn back time.

But he couldn't. He had failed. He was failing. He couldn't save his Dad. And he couldn't save Sam.

~~~~0000~~~~

"Where's Dean?"

Bobby started, his thoughts – riddled with possible spells and healers – scattering as he looked down to see Sam awake, eyes still searching the room for his older brother.

"He went to get something to eat," Bobby said, "Couldn't convince him to go get some rest though, stubborn idjit."

Sam smiled tiredly. "Not surprised," he breathed out. Sam's voice was barely more than a whisper, and Bobby felt his stomach sink.

You're too late, murmured a forbidden corner of his mind, There's no time.

He pushed the thoughts away. He couldn't think like that. Certainly couldn't let Sam see it in his eyes. Not Dean either. They needed someone to stay strong.

"Bobby, can you… do something for me?"

Bobby had the feeling that whatever Sam was going to ask, he wasn't going to like it, but if that kid, his almost-son, needed something then damned if he was gonna deny him.

Sam went on, as if intent to get this out now. Bobby supposed that the kid knew, maybe better than any of them, that time was slipping away. "Can you… if you can't… Dean wont listen."

Bobby nodded, waiting.

"Can you… make sure he knows it's not his fault? If… you don't find anything. It's okay."

Bobby had to blink back tears. That was so damn like Sam, even dying he cared more about Dean than about himself. More worried about what Dean would do… after.

"Sure, kid," Bobby promised, through a clogged throat. "I can look after your brother for you."

Sam looked relieved. Bobby coughed, clearing his throat, "But I wont have to. We're gonna find something, Sam."

Sam nodded but Bobby could tell that he'd given up believing in the mantra. "I know," he said, "And Bobby…"

"Mm?"

"If you can't… it's not your fault either."

Bobby sat back, fighting tears. Damn Winchesters. "I know, Sam," he half lied, "I know."

~~~~0000~~~~

"What about this?"

Bobby took the book from Dean and skimmed over the page. He looked up at Dean, eyebrows raised.

"Dean-"

"It would work, wouldn't it?"

Bobby shook his head, "You know that stuff's not to be messed with. That's some heavy dark magick."

"But would it work?" Dean insisted.

"Dean-" Bobby tried again.

"Damn it!" Dean cursed, softly so as not to wake his sleeping sibling, "We're running out of time! We need to do something now!"

Bobby snapped the book shut. "And how do you think Sam would feel? Knowing that someone else died instead of him? How did you feel, Dean?"

He saw Dean hesitate, "We wont tell him."

"That's not an answer."

"Well, what is the answer?" Dean fumed, "'cause I don't see any other options."

Bobby opened his mouth to argue, but a soft whisper from the bed interrupted him.

"Dean… no."

Bobby turned. Sam looked barely conscious, eyes half open and unfocused.

Dean swallowed, "Sam…"

Sam was quiet for a moment, visibly trying to build up the energy to talk. "Dean… no," he whispered, searching his brother's eyes beseechingly.

Dean chewed on his lower lip, his face crumpling.

"Sam… I have to fix this. You can't… I'm going to fix this."

Sam shook his head slightly, his eyes closing for a moment. With effort, he opened them again.

"Fin' somethin' else… please."

Dean moved forward, determination leaving him. He couldn't deny a request from Sam. His throat worked as he sought for words.

"Okay… okay, I'll find something else, but Sammy, you have to hang on until I do. You have to."

"'kay," Sam murmured, his eyelids sagging again.

"You have to promise, Sam."

Sam nodded, "Promise…"

And then he was asleep again, as he most often was these days, leaving Dean and Bobby to continue their search, growing each day a little more desperate, fighting to push away hopelessness, as time slowly ticked away.

~~~~0000~~~~

Sometimes when he woke, it was to Bobby's gravely voice, asking hushed questions to the nurses, talking to the doctor, murmuring encouragements that washed over him.

Occasionally he woke to the nurses fussing mutely around him, straightening pillows or checking blood pressure, tugging down the front of his t-shirt to inspect the Hickman.

Mostly though, Sam woke to Dean, talking softly, telling stories of their childhood, commenting on any hot nurses, or reading aloud from whatever book he was going through. Even when Sam woke to silence and dark, he could always reach out a hand and it would brush over soft hair; Dean asleep, head rested on his arms, curled on the bed by his side.

Everything filtered through a fog of morphine and whatever other drugs they were giving him, Sam could never tell how long he'd been sleeping, and he slipped from awareness to unconsciousness so easily he could barely differentiate from when he was awake and when he was dreaming.

He was tired. Tired of being sick and fighting against it, tired of the hospital and the drugs, and sometimes he wished that it would all just end so he wouldn't have to make the effort anymore.

It would be so easy to just let it all fade away… but he couldn't go without telling Dean that it was alright and it wasn't his fault and that he loved him, that he was sorry about breaking the promise to hang on, but any time he was awake he couldn't find the energy to form the words.

He was so tired, just so tired. Time and life were slipping away and there was still so much he needed to do and say.

Which was why Sam was devastated when he woke and, instead of Dean or Bobby, it was Jess at his bedside.

TBC…