Only The Dead
Only The Dead
Summary: Sam is all sharp cheekbones, sunken eyes and stretched-tight skin. Dean can circle his wrist with thumb and forefinger with far too much room to spare. Hell, Dean could probably clasp his whole hand around Sam's bicep and feel his fingers meet
(Warriors 'Verse)
Only the dead have seen the end of war.
~George Santayana
XXX
Sam is all sharp cheekbones, sunken eyes and stretched-tight skin. Dean can circle his wrist with thumb and forefinger with far too much room to spare. Hell, Dean could probably clasp his whole hand around Sam's bicep and feel his fingers meet. To say that he's damn near skeletal seems like it should be an exageration but when they make yet another unschedualed trip to the hospital to have his feeding tube reinserted again - because Sammy keeps throwing it up, which is all kinds of horrible Dean doesn't even want to get into - even the doctors agree that this isn't sustainable.
Of course, Sam doesn't really hear this because he's too busy retching into the little bowl a nurse shoved into his hands after they got him in the hospital bed, being pumped full of anti-emetics and then hooked up to a drip so he doesn't end up so dehydrated he has a seizure. (Now that's something Dean prays to whatever might be listening he never has to see. Not after everything Sammy's already been through. He shudders slightly at the very thought.) By the time the doctor decides to halt the chemotherapy so that he can put on weight, Sam's so utterly exhausted and wiped out that he just mumbles, “Okay,” without seeming to register what's being said to him.
Dad goes off with the doctor, presumably to grill him over whether this is the best course of action, because Dad's read about a million books about cancer and has just as many theories about what he thinks it's treatment should be, leaving Dean to watch over Sam in the curtained cubical.
Sam shakily places the puke bowl onto the bedside table, leaning back in the hospital bed with an exhausted sigh. He frowns vaguely at the two retreating figures, Dad already yammering away and the doctor already looking frazzled. “Izzn' he gonna do the tube?” he asks Dean, looking bewildered.
“No.” Dean reaches out and tugs Sam's beanie over his eyes, just to tease him because he's so thrilled that they don't have to go through the ordeal of reinserting the tube that he feels like being silly. “He said you can have a break. No tube and no chemo until you stop doing your impression of a stick figure.”
Sam pushes the beanie back up with a frail, blue-veined hand and shoots Dean a lighthearted bitchface. “No chemo?” He seems absolutely baffled by the concept.
“Not until you gain some weight.” Obviously Sam needs to hear this in simple terms. This round of chemo has been particularly tough on him. On top of the expelling every tiny bit of food or drink that enters his system - including a whole lot of blood because Sammy's throat is torn to shit right now - side effects, he's also been more zombie than teenager in terms of concentration.
“Oh,” Sam says. Dean's not sure whether it's actually sunk in or if Sam's just given up trying to figure out what he's saying. Then, “Everything tastes wrong.”
“That's because of the chemo, runt,” Dean explains patiently, rocking his chair forward to pull the beanie back down.
Exasperated, Sam tugs the black hat off and throws it at Dean's face. Dean lets it make contact because it's nice to see that Sam still has decent aim, even when he's so run down he's having trouble understanding simple sentences, then grabs it before it hits the floor and tosses it back.
“Lucky shot,” he accuses teasingly.
Sam manages a tiny, exhausted grin, leaving the beanie on the bed rather than bother to put it back on. “Bet I still kick your ass at target practice.”
“Bring it on, baldy.”
“It's so on,” Sam yawns, eyelids drooping.
“You should sleep,” Dean says. “We'll be here 'til that drip finishes anyway.”
“And no chemo?” Sam double-checks, glancing up at the bag he's attached to like it might have been swapped without him noticing. In Sam's current state, it's a real possibility.
“No chemo,” Dean confirms. “Just sleep, and food that doesn't taste weird when you wake up.”
“Awesome,” Sam mumbles, eyes already closing.
XXX
Dean gets the idea a couple of days later, after watching Sam devour a stack of pancakes without complaining that it tastes like metal or dashing to the bathroom immediately afterwards. Sure, he looks a little rocky for a while but everything stays down instead of coming straight back up, which practically counts as a miracle these days, and Dean's thinking, it's Sam's birthday in a month. Poor kid will be back on chemo by then and Dean can't think of anything more depressing than the thought of Sam spending what should be a day of celebration being poisoned, throwing up and feeling like crap.
“What's your point, Dean?” Dad asks when Dean brings it up with him after Sam falls asleep on the couch (for the second time that day). “We can't just ask them to stop the chemo for his birthday. They're only stopping it now because he's too worn out to handle it.”
“I know that,” Dean says defensively, a little offended that Dad thinks he's dumb enough to suggest such a thing. “They're stopping it so he can put on some weight. I was just thinking, if he needs to pile on some pounds, what's better than party food?”
XXX
They spend the next week secretly gathering supplies until it's finally time to put it all together. They start as soon as Sam falls asleep for the night and it takes hours to set everything up but it's so, so worth it. It gets a bit ridiculous really; the Winchesters have never been big party people, Dad least of all, and Dean has to admit that out of all the things he's seen his father do, blow up a balloon feels like one of the strangest. It's not that Dad's ignored their birthdays in the past. They've always been celebrated in some way but usually that means some kind of outing and a serious talk about how getting older means taking on more responsibility. Winchesters just aren't really the balloon-and-streamer type, at least until now, apparently.
By morning, multi-coloured ribbons and huge bunches of balloons adorn the paint-crackled ceiling and walls, a giant store-bought cake sits in the center of the table, decorated with candles and icing spelling out Happy Birthday in fancy swooping letters, surrounded by a huge assortment of snacks, both healthy and unhealthy because Sammy needs vitamins and nutrients and not just sugar. For a moment, Dean stands back and inspects their work, trying to imagine Sam's reaction.
“It looks like a rainbow threw up in here,” Dad says, coming to stand by his side. He's grinning wryly as he clasps a large, calloused hand on Dean's shoulder, shaking his head a little at the incongruousness of it all. “This was a good idea, Dean. Sammy will love this.”
“Sammy will love what?” Sam's sleepy voice asks from behind them, the opening bedroom door a soft swishhh over carpet.
Dean whirls around in time to see the decorations register, Sam's mouth falling open in an 'o' of surprise as his eyes widen with shock. He's leaning against the bedrooms door frame, dressed in sweatpants and what Dean at first thinks is one of his t-shirts but after a moment of closer inspection turns out to be Sam's. It just looks so big, sagging down one collarbone to reveal a hint of the Hickman catheter, because Sam's lost so much weight.
“Did I lose track of the date?” Sam asks, eyes flickering towards the calendar that hangs on the wall above the TV. All the notes on it are hospital appointments, which just makes him more confused. “Whose birthday is it?”
“Yours,” Dean grins delightedly. “But no, you didn't lose track. Your birthday's not really until next month but you'll be back on chemo by then so I thought we'd move the party forward so you can actually enjoy it.”
For a moment, it's like Sam's lost the ability to speak. He looks simply awed by the brightly coloured balloons and full table set out in front of him. The house they rent may be small and shabby but with the morning sun filtering through the fine mesh curtains that cover the far right window bringing a soft glow to the balloons it seems a lot warmer and more inviting than usual. Sure, the decorations are a bit over the top but Sam usually likes that sort of thing.
“It looks like the aftermath of a rainbow having chemo in here,” Sam says finally, unknowingly paraphrasing Dad's earlier comment, which of course makes Dean and Dad crack up laughing. Sam smiles a little faintly and Dad pulls a matchbox from his pocket to light the candles on the cake.
“Make a wish, Sammy,” he says.
The stunned, deer-in-headlights look finally fading, Sam rolls his eyes. “I wish you'd stop calling me Sammy,” he quips as Dean shepherds him over to the table, gently pushing him down in the chair in front of the cake. “This is crazy. I can't believe you did all this. Did you get any sleep last night?” He takes in their slightly sheepish expressions. “You're gonna regret that when I start keeping everyone up all night again.”
“No way,” Dean denies immediately. He may be tired but seeing Sammy's face when he spotted the decorations, knowing that he'll be able to actually enjoy his party, is so worth losing some sleep over, and it'll make a way better memory than all the nights he's spent trying to help Sam through chemotherapy's worst side effects. “Who needs sleep when there's enough sugar here to have us bouncing off the walls for a week? Speaking of which, are you going to blow out those candles so we can get this party started?”
Sam shakes his head - covered in a shadow of stubble now that there's no chemo to target the hair follicles - with amused exasperation. “Don't say I didn't warn you,” Sam says lightly before turning back to the cake. For a long moment, he stares at the elaborate swirling letters, the wax dripping slowly down the candles, but his gaze has become more introverted. Dean watches the glow flicker over his face, deepening the dark circles under his eyes and accentuating his sharp cheekbones. The mood of the room becomes somber and Dean is certain that they all have the same wish in mind, the only wish that means anything; for Sam to still be here for his next birthday. For him to be a normal weight and grow his hair and eat whatever the hell he wants when he wants. No more chemo or feeding tubes or blood tests, no mouth full of ulcers or spending days sleeping on the couch or nights spent huddled over the toilet. No more rehearsing death.
Sam inhales sharply, blowing the breath out just as quick. The candles snuff out in a backwards Mexican wave and Sam leans back in his chair a little shakily. Dad tries to interpret this as the kid being cold because he picks up Sam's brown hoodie from the back of the couch and passes it to him.
“You should stay warm,” is all he says, but Dean thinks he does it because somehow, Sam blowing out candles on a birthday cake has reminded them all of how fucking sick he is and looking at stick-thin arms, delicate blue veins tattooing porcelain skin, collarbones stabbing through the t-shirts thin fabric, is too much, too frightening.
Sam pulls the hoodie on. Unlike the t-shirt, it really did belong to Dean originally but Sam claimed it not long after the diagnosis. He has to roll the sleeves up to stop it from dangling over his hands and it hangs almost to his knees but something about it seems to make Sam feel better when he wears it. It makes him look tiny and fragile but it covers up the jut of bone at his elbows and shoulders, hides the Hickman catheter completely, and with the hood covering his nearly-hairless head, Dean can almost pretend that Sam's just recovering from a bad 'flu or something.
“Better?” Dad asks, keeping up the charade that Sam was shaking from the non-existent cold and not the stark reminder of his mortality.
Sam forces a smile. “Yeah.”
“Good.” Just like Dad, pretend the problem's sorted and move on. Dean use to hate it when Dad did that but since the diagnosis, there hasn't been much else any of them can do. The problem's not solved but they only have the here and now to live in and there's no point wasting this opportunity to have fun by thinking about things they can't fix. “Lets dig in then,” Dad says, “Before Dean bursts a blood vessel trying to contain himself.”
XXX
By early afternoon, the three of them are squashed onto the couch, watching rented movies on the VCR Dad bought not long after Sam started chemo, when it became apparent that he was going to spend the next few months without the energy to do anything else. Of course, the chemo also makes Sam's head so foggy that he barely remembers half the movies they watch but it beats staring at the wall.
Sam's bare feet are in Dean's lap and the kid leans into the arm Dad's curled around his shoulders in a way he never would have before the diagnosis, too much of a typical teenager to accept what little affection Dad managed to show.
It's been an awesome day, despite the somewhat rocky start, and now Sam's falling asleep, head drooping onto Dad's leather-clad shoulder as his eyelids flutter, warm and safe and happy and stuffed full of enough calories to last a month at least.
When Sam spends his real birthday in hospital with an infection in his Hickman that leaves him barely conscious and burning with fever, wavering on the edge of death for seemingly endless days, this is the memory that Dean holds onto.
END