A/N: Companion story to Bad in the Blood (though both are stand-alones). Sam is 16 Dean is 20.

Thanks to Mikey for the Beta- any remaining errors are mine!

Another day, another round of chemo. To Sam, it seemed like his life had become a carousel that was spinning too fast; an endless parade of doctors and nurses, drugs that he could barely pronounce, long car rides to and from the hospital, all blurring together. And it was making him nauseous as hell.

Sam groaned and shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position in front of the toilet. It was only the second day of this particular cycle; things were only going downhill from here.

"How are you feeling?" Dean asked cautiously from the doorway.

"Better than you look," Sam huffed back, easing his cramped legs into a standing position.

"Y'know, I was thinking maybe we should just stick your mattress in the tub. Make a little bed for you right in here." Dean was smiling but the skin around his eyes was tight. Sam could see his fists clenching, fighting back the urge to reach out with soft words and a comforting touch.

Don't you dare.

The banter was what kept them going. If Dean could still tease him, that meant he could pretend things were normal. That he wasn't sick, wasn't missing most of his junior year of high school, wasn't close to flushing his dreams of Stanford down the toilet along with most of what he ate these days.

"You boys ready to go?" The faint jangle of keys signaled the impatience that John was too reluctant to voice.

I guess having a kid with cancer tones down the drill sergeant.

Sam stepped gingerly out of the bathroom, avoiding the mirror out of habit. His hair hadn't completely fallen out yet- he could still feel a few tufts clinging stubbornly to his scalp, like feathers on a crazed chicken.

Their father was fiddling with the sink, adjusting the hot and cold taps and trying to look as if he hadn't been waiting for them the whole time.

"Are you gonna be okay for the car ride, kiddo?"

For a brief moment Sam wanted to scream, but instead he merely nodded stiffly, willing his stomach to stop doing backflips every time he turned his head too fast. I'm not some stupid fucking porcelain doll.

Okay, that wasn't fair. The dark smudges under John's eyes spoke of days working two jobs, and nights spent staring at the ceiling. Still, he resented the special treatment; the concerned looks that passed between his father and brother when they thought he wasn't looking. And the prospect of the hours to come, sitting quietly while poison dripped into his veins didn't help his mood.

Why's Dean coming anyway? I don't need a bodyguar- oh wait. Intrathecal starts today. Awesome.

In both his online studies and personal experience, Sam had learned two things for certain:

One. Leukemia sucked ass.

Two. It was a sneaky bastard; having the ability to worm its way silently through his body until his blood was chock full of crap and he was Ko'd by a freaking nosebleed.

In a spectacular combination of points one and two, leukemia was also apparently pretty good at weaseling past the blood-brain barrier and invading people's nervous systems as well. The doctors said he'd need intrathecal chemotherapy as a precaution. Which mean infusing drugs directly into his spinal canal.

Sam tried to shake of the worry that was beginning to coil around his intestines.

Pretend it's a hunt. Yeah, it's like a ghost or a demon, even. You did your research, so you know how to kill it. Now you just gotta grit your teeth and follow through, even though you hate it, because the sooner everything's over with, the sooner you can go to Stanford.

He caught Dean watching him in the rearview mirror. Yeah, because I'm suddenly gonna drop dead on the way to the hospital.

"You know, if you want, you can come back here and cuddle," Sam cooed with as much sarcasm as he could muster.

"Great idea, Sammy!"

"Wait, no-"

But a devilish look sprang into Dean's eyes. In one fluid motion, he vaulted over the Impala's front seat and tackled Sam against the back door.

"This close enough for you?" Dean grinned, mashing his younger brother's face against the window.

"Get off me, asshole."

"Boys!" John barked, clenching the steering wheel, "So help me, I will pull over right here-"

"Sounds good to me," Sam deadpanned. "Actually, why don't we just stop for burgers instead? The whole hospital thing's overrated anyway."

Two pairs of eyes snapped to his face in shock.

Shit. Bad timing? Too soon for the cancer jokes?

Then Dean snorted in spite of himself, the pressure building and contorting inside him until he finally threw his head back and laughed helplessly.

"Jesus, I just keep picturing-" he stopped, gasping for breath, "The nurses and doctors, waiting around with their IV bags 'n shit, all excited to get their hands on you and we just stroll in two hours late with fucking burgers. The looks on their faces…" He dissolved once more.

A wave of relief washed over Sam. Even John was shaking his head and chuckling.

"But seriously though, can we grab something to eat?" Dean asked, rubbing a hand across his middle, "the hospital cafeteria is terrible."

Yes please let's stop, eat a plateful of greasy fries, forget about cancer for five goddamn minutes.

But the corners of his father's mouth were already pulling down and thunder was rolling across his brow.

"Your brother's treatment is more important than your stomach, Dean. Don't be selfish."

The elder Winchester flushed briefly and nodded, chastised.

Treatment for ALL is usually aggressive. We need make sure we knock out every last cancer cell in your body, which means we're going to have to kill a lot of healthy cells too. Your immune system will be very weak, so you'll be at a very high risk for infection. Once we start induction therapy, which will include the intrathecal chemo, you'll probably be looking at a four to six week hospital stay.

The doctor's words echoed in Sam's ears. He hadn't thought about it much, as so far he's been able to receive his chemotherapy as an outpatient. But now they were stepping things up…

"Dad," he began cautiously, trying desperately to keep his voice steady. I am not weak, I am not weak.

"Well, this might be the last time I'll be out of the hospital for a while, so maybe-"

The air in the car suddenly sparked with tension. If someone lit a match, they were likely to explode.

Maybe I want one last day to be a normal kid. Or at least, a kid who can get out of bed on his own and keep down half a meal. Before I'm caged up like a sideshow freak for the doctors.

Dean was staring straight ahead, no longer slouching. His jaw was clenched and his fingers danced nervously around the medallion Sam had given him for Christmas almost ten years ago.

A sudden panic ripped through Sam. What if I do actually die from this? The doctors were optimistic, said that the remission rate was really good but what about the infections and the drugs and metastasis and what if this is the last time I'm ever going to sit in the backseat of the Impala and Dean never gets another Christmas gift from me again?

John adjusted the rearview mirror so he could scrutinize Sam, an unreadable darkness in his eyes. Sam curled against the window, cursing the tears that have begun to drip down his cheeks, and the muffled hiccoughing issuing from his throat.

"Forget it," he choked out, "let's just get this over with okay?"

An uncomfortable silence hung in a pall around the car. Sam squeezed his eyes shut and tried to pretend he couldn't feel their pity, hot and stifling like a pillow held over his face.

He didn't dare lift his head when the Impala grumbled to a stop fifteen minutes later.

We can't possibly be at the hospital yet; even with Dad driving…

The door clicked open and Sam felt Dean's weight shift away from him without a word. Several minutes later, her returned and shoved a white, grease-spotted bag under his nose.

"Eat up, loser. While it's still hot."

Sam felt his ears burning but he quickly scrubbed his eyes and grabbed at the food. He was careful not to meet John's eyes again. That meltdown never happened. Just keep going.

He started munching on the French fries, knowing full well that he'd regret it later.

Don't think about it as the last meal of a condemned man.

Dean was watching him a little too closely out of the corner of his eye.

"What?" Sam demanded flatly. D'you think I'm going to fall apart again or something? That maybe I need a mother hen?

"Nothing." Dean's lips quirked the way they had before Sam had taken that fateful, Nair-infused shower. Or that one time he'd found skin mags plastering the inside of his locker the second day of a new school. Or when Dean told him that the Easter bunny was just like the one in Monty Python and Dad had to hunt him down.

"WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY FOOD?"

"Calm down, princess," but Dean was shaking now, his whole body wracked with glee.

Sam tore through the bag, searching for signs of foul play. At the very bottom he found a pink-tiara'd doll toy nestled in a bed of napkins.

"Dude, seriously? That shit might've made me mad when I was like, twelve. Now you can just be jealous that I have one and you don't."

"Puh-leez," Dean scoffed. "I saved Meredith for myself. She's way hotter. Plus, I licked your burger."

Sam paused, the item in question halfway to his mouth. The wrapper had looked untouched, but still…

He punched Dean in the arm, just to be safe.

And for the remaining twenty minutes to the hospital, they were brothers again.

Or, as John aptly put it, "a pair of dumbass clowns."