A/N: Thanks for all the reviews, guys! It's a real treat when I'm sitting in class and I get an e-mail notifying me that someone is enjoying my story. It really brightens my day! Anyway, this chapter was hard for me to get into, but halfway through, I hit my stride. As always, all reviews are appreciated. Hope you all stick around for chapter five!

Dean sat on the laptop until 3 AM, skull bleeding through his head.

His throat was scratchy, and his hands hovered limply over the keyboard. The words on the screen blurred and danced. He'd done a quick search of Sam's symptoms: bruises, fever, fainting, nosebleeds, all of that jazz. The results had sent him into a cold sweat. Each web address had said: Symptoms for Cancer, Leukemia: Treatments and Causes. Dean scrolled through each page, his hands sweaty, and his lungs tight in his chest.

Leukemia.

Dean felt sick. His brother didn't have cancer.

It was… it just wasn't possible. Dean knew the website was wrong. There was no way in hell Sam Winchester had cancer. Dean's eyes flitted over to where Sam was. His brother was still sleeping deeply, having not moved for the past three hours. There was no way that his badass nerdy little brother had something as… human as cancer.

Dean shook his head furiously, and shut the laptop.

No fucking way.

It was unacceptable.

As he made himself a cup of coffee, Dean paced around the tiled-kitchen floor in nothing but socks and sweatpants. He wasn't worried. His stomach was queasy with concern, but Dean's mind knew the real truth: Sam didn't have cancer. Websites… they always tried to scare you. Hell, if Dean had a headache, and he typed it into the search bar, they'd probably claim he had a brain tumor.

Sam just had the flu.

Hadn't they said that cancer symptoms were similar to flu symptoms?

Dean nodded vigorously to himself, sipping feverishly on the mug.

Just the flu.

Despite this affirmation, Dean wasn't completely daft. He knew he should probably book a dreaded Doctor's visit. Neither him nor Sam were a big fan of doctors, but sometimes they were inevitable. In the off chance that Sam did have cancer (Dean snorted, waved his hand at the thought, because no fucking way), he knew it was better to have it caught early.

He balanced the phone between his shoulder and ear. "Hey, doc? Yeah, I'd like to book an appointment. For my brother. Sam. Doctor Jeff, right? Oh, right, Jack. I knew that."

"… Uh… why?" Dean glanced at Sam. The word cancer flooded him whole. "Um… he fainted."

"Tomorrow morning? Yeah, thanks, that's great, Doctor Jeff – I mean, Jack."

Dean hung up on the phone, and slumped his shoulders. Dumping the rest of his coffee down the sink, he slipped into the bed, gave a precautionary glance at Sam, and then allowed himself to catch a few hours of dreamless sleep.

Because cancer? His brother?

Ridiculous.

….

"Dean…" Sam whined.

"Sammy," Dean said in an admonishing tone. "It's time to get up."

Sam tried to burrow back under the covers, but Dean swiftly ripped them off. Sam groaned, and curled his knees to his chest. The hotel room was yellow with golden sunlight, and the smell of toast and peanut butter wafted through the room. Dean swung bread into the toaster, shirt rolled up to his elbows.

Sam blinked wearily. What had happened? He was too exhausted to dwell on it. He knew he'd ruined the hunt though. He knew it was his fault for insisting to go with Dean. Sam's head pounded, and he wanted to sink back into sleep once more. Sleep was safe. Sleep didn't make him feel awful and guilty.

His eyes flickered to the clock. "Dean…. It's 5 AM."

"Yeah." Dean had a bagel stuffed in his mouth. "We've got an appointment to reach."

Sam tensed. "An… appointment?"

"Yeah. Like, you know, visiting the Doc?" Dean smirked.

"The doctor?" Sam sat up straight, hair all over the place.

Dean shrugged. "Guess you haven't been eating your apples Sammy." He snickered to himself at the joke, and Sam just resisted rolling his eyes. However, as soon as he tried to swing his legs over the bed, and stand up, blood rushed to his head. He stumbled onto the hardwood floor, barely regaining his balance.

He was so tired.

Sam closed his eyes. Dean had materialized at his side, gripping his arm.

"You okay?" Dean asked in a gruff tone.

Sam nodded, woozy. "Fine."

Dean didn't look like he believed him, and Sam didn't blame him. His body ached all over. His stomach felt like it was being blown apart. His head throbbed, and his hands trembled unwillingly. He walked slowly – embarrassingly slowly – toward the bathroom. "Shower," he mumbled. "And no doctor."

"There's no room for an argument here," Dean said. "We're taking you to the doctors."

Sam slammed the bathroom door in response, and Dean just hoped he didn't slip and fall in the shower.

….

When Sam came out, he was layered in heavy clothing. His sweater sleeves dropped over his wrists, and Sam clenched on the ends, fiddling nervously. He'd attempted to comb his hair, but it still looked unruly, stray strands curling around his ears. His eyes had dark circles underneath them, and he rocked anxiously on the heels of his feet.

"Dean," he said. "I really don't need a doctor. We have a hunt-"

"Screw the fucking hunt." Dean slammed the dish down. "And eat your fucking toast."

Sam eyed the food wearily. "People could die."

You could die.

Dean didn't say that. He cleared his throat. "You passed out real pretty last night, so whether you like it or not, I'm dragging your ass to the doctors." He squared his shoulders, and when Sam gave him a pleading look, sighed.

"I get it," Dean said. "The doctors fucking suck. Half the time they have no idea what they're dealing with. But do you really think your fainting was supernatural?"

"It's just the flu," Sam said.

"Didn't know the regular flu made you get random bruises on your body," Dean said bitterly.

Sam froze, eyes widening, and Dean immediately knew that Sam's memory of last night was fuzzy. He watched Sam swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Then Sam's eyes fell to the ground, his back tense as a wire. "You saw that?" he asked, voice soft.

Dean focused on spreading peanut butter on toast. "I saw enough."

"I probably got hurt – or something – "

"Whatever." Dean held up his butter knife threateningly. "C'mon. Eat your food. We don't wanna be late."

The reluctance in Sam's eyes was clear as day. But thankfully, the kid didn't put up a big fight. He seemed to be resigned to his fate, and slid into the kitchen table. Dean watched as he picked up the toast, took a few small bites, and put his toast back down.

"I'm done," Sam said.

"Uh… no, you're not."

"Not hungry," Sam said.

"You ate two bites," Dean accused.

"So?"

"So? The bites were the size of fucking crumbs!"

A flash of the computer screen crossed Dean's mind. Loss of appetite. Dean pushed away the cancer symptom, denying it vehemently in his head. He reminded himself that people didn't get hungry when they had the flu either.

And that's all that Sammy had.

The flu.

The bruises… they were…

Dean shook his head.

There was just no way.

After Sam had finished eating (AKA, ate one more crumb-sized bite), he tried to stand up, but immediately swayed on the spot. Dean had been grabbing his keys from the hook, and instantly, he rushed over to Sam's side. Last time, Sam had resisted his help – however, much to Dean's concern, this time Sam didn't swat him away. Instead, Sam leaned heavily into his grip, head resting on his shoulder.

"Hey… hey…" Dean said. Sam leaned his whole weight on Dean. "Easy there."

"Sorry," Sam mumbled.

Dean wrapped one arm around Sam's torso. "I've got you. Let's go. Into the car."

They staggered down the hallway. Dean kept his grip firm on Sam, practically lugging him along. Sam was breathless by the time they reached the lobby, and as they crossed the parking lot, Sam shook like a leaf.

"Break…" Sam whispered.

Dean stopped, and let Sam catch his breath.

It hurt Dean to the bone to watch Sam so helpless. The tall 22-year old shivered through his heavy layered clothing, blinking rapidly to keep himself awake. His face was pale, and deep circles underlined his eyes. There was fragility in his posture – a mixture of weakness, exhaustion and trepidation.

Dean gripped Sam tighter.

After a minute, Sam said," Okay."

They started the trek to the Impala. As they crossed the street, Sam said, "I'll be fine if you just let me rest. We really don't need to do this."

"You keep telling yourself that," Dean muttered.

Sam's gaze dropped. He felt weak and achy, and his throat hurt bad.

Maybe Dean was right.

Maybe the doctor could prescribe him something to make him feel less shitty.

Accepting his fate, Sam leaned deeper into the crook of his brother's shoulder, and let Dean take the lead.

….

"He's lost five pounds since his last visit," the nurse remarked.

Sam stared listlessly out into space. Dean frowned, and tried to quell the worry bubbling in his gut.

"We haven't visited in a while." Dean was trying to convince the nurse as much as he was trying to convince himself. "…and he's had all of these growth spurts. I mean, when did we last come, five years ago?" Dean tried to laugh.

The nurse hummed. "Only one year, actually."

Dean's eyes shot to Sam. Sam shrugged. "Jessica made me." He winced at her name, and his gaze went back to the ground, chin huddled in his sweater.

"Well… you know, Sam's been exercising a lot more," Dean said. "College students always gain weight, don't they? Freshman fifteen…" Dean knew he was rambling, but his nerves were shot to hell. He kept repeating in his mind Sam doesn't have cancer, Sam doesn't have cancer, Sam doesn't have cancer.

It wasn't helping. Dean still felt like vomiting.

"I'm sure he's fine," The nurse said. "Follow me."

She led them to the doctor's room, and Dean sat heavily onto the plastic chairs. He graciously allowed Sam to take the leather one, but Sam didn't seem to notice. His younger brother all but collapsed into the chair, and snuggled up in a sideways position, cheek pressed against the head.

Dean stared at his fingernails. He'd chewed them raw.

Sam didn't have cancer.

It took almost fifteen minutes for Doctor Jack to enter the room. Dean had been staring at a Genital Herpes pamphlet when the door opened. The doctor was a middle-aged man with gray-blond hair and a clipboard in his hand.

Sam straightened up when the doctor came, but his head still lolled, as if it was too heavy for his body to hold up.

"Sam Winchester," Doctor Jack greeted. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Sam grumbled.

"Your brother… he mentioned you fainted on the phone?" Doctor Jack glanced over his computer.

Sam glared at Dean like he'd committed a crime. Then he turned back to the doctor, and said, "I was just feeling sick. The flu or something. It isn't a big deal."

"He has bruises," Dean blurted.

"Dean," Sam hissed.

Doctor Jack didn't look fazed. He typed something onto his computer, then turned on his swivel chair. He faced Sam with serious, concerned eyes. "Sam. You're right. It could just be the flu. But it's important that you tell me everything." His fingers returned to the keyboard. "How have you been feeling lately?"

"Tired," Sam offered.

"Any other details?"

Sam dug the scuff of his shoe into the ground. "Headaches, I guess."

"Nosebleed. Vomiting," Dean said. "And night sweats."

"Night sweats?" Sam demanded.

Dean wasn't about to tell Sam that he'd researched it on Google, so instead, he opted for a shrug and a firm, tight-lipped nod. The doctor frowned, and Dean's stomach sunk deeper into his gut. He pushed aside the nausea. After a moment, the doctor closed his computer, and turned to face Sam. "How about I see those bruises?"

Sam hugged his torso protectively. "Why?"

"I'd just like to see them," the doctor said quietly. "Do you mind?"

Sam looked like he wanted to bolt, but Sam had always had a thing for pleasing people. Nodding, Sam lifted his shirt, and showed off his colorful bruises. Dean looked away, unable to watch. The bruises tormented him, made him feel like a shitty brother.

"I see," the doctor said in a rather grave tone. He reached his hand out and touched one of the bruises. Sam jumped a feet in the chair.

"Sorry," the doctor said. "Didn't mean to startle you."

Dean scowled at the doctor, but the doctor didn't seem to notice. He pressed on the bruises a few times, and then made some notes on his clipboard. "How has your throat been?" the doctor asked.

Sam looked surprised. "Uh… it aches a little. Hurts when I swallow."

"Any infections?"

"No."

"Does it burn when you urinate?"

Sam blushed, and shook his head. "No."

The doctor asked a few more question, and then shut off his computer.

Dean couldn't resist asking. "Is he okay? He's fine right? Just the flu?" He had a tendency to babble when he was nervous.

The doctor smiled reassuringly, but it looked nakedly fake. "We can't know anything until the blood test results come back."

"Blood test results?" Dean demanded. "What're the results?"

The doctor laughed lightly. "He has to take the blood test first. I can let you know by tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow?" Dean asked faintly. He had to wait a whole freaking day to know if his Sammy was safe and sound? This didn't sit well with Dean, but he had a feeling beating the doctor up wasn't going to get him any further on his quest. Settling back in his seat, Dean repeated, Sam doesn't have cancer five times in his head like a mantra.

Because there was no way.

The doctor signed off on a sheet of paper, and handed it to Dean. "The blood test lab is just down the hallway to your right."

"Thanks," Dean said, staring at the pink slip. He held out his arm in case Sam needed help getting up, but Sam managed to stand on his own, forcing himself to push past the exhaustion in his bones. He smiled weakly at the doctor.

"I hope you feel better," the doctor said. "I really do."

"Thank you," Sam said.

Dean ushered Sam out of the door, not wanting to stay in the clinical room for longer than necessary. But just as they were leaving, Dean glanced back. He saw the doctor frowning at his clip board, a sad, resigned look on his face. Dean swallowed, sweat breaking out on his neck, and hurried Sam out into the hallway.

Sam didn't have cancer.

Dean's hand crumpled the pink slip.

He was sure of it.