"Sam, that is so far from funny."

"It's not a joke. I wish it were, but it's not."

"Cancer?" Dean runs a hand down his face. He stands up and starts pacing the length of the motel room.

"Bone cancer," Sam states; numbly.

Dean keeps his eyes glued on his little brother as he paces. "How did you –? When did you –?"

"Three weeks ago, when I went to the hospital for my broken leg –"

Dean stops dead in his tracks. "Three weeks?" he yells. "You've known for three weeks that you have cancer and you didn't fucking think to tell me about it?"

"No," Sam tries to reassure him but he doesn't think it did much good. "They said they found something weird in the scans. A few days ago, when I said I was going to the library, I went back to the hospital. They ran some tests."

Dean sits down on the edge of the dining room table, facing Sam who's sitting on his bed. "How bad is it, Sammy?" Sam shakes his head. Dean looks up at the ceiling, biting his lip, trying to hide or contain his emotions. He clears his throat, runs his hand down his face again. "We'll find a way, Sammy."

"No," Sam says it quietly like he doesn't want his brother to hear it.

"What?" When Dean looks at him, Sam swears he can see a few tears fall down his cheeks.

"There's always consequences when try to save each other, Dean. And maybe this is the universe telling me it's time."

"'The universe,'" Dean quotes. "Seriously?"

"How many times have I died or almost died? I'm ready. It's inoperable, incurable, malignant. They gave me two months." Now Sam is sure he saw a tear fall.

"I don't understand. You've been fine. How could this happen –"

Sam shakes his head. "I've been in pain for awhile."

"Fuck, Sam. Why didn't you tell me? Or do something. For God's sake," he whispers. Dean doesn't, won't, look at him.

"They said the pain will start getting a lot worse soon; it'll spread to my lungs. They said they can give me things to... make me comfortable." He hates that phrase. "I want to go to Bobby's."

Dean holds up a hand, silencing him. "I need... I don't know what I need." He runs a hand through his hair. "Pack up your shit. We're going to Bobby's."

• • •

The ride to Bobby's house is dead quiet. Dean notices the way Sam shifts his body. Is he in pain? Dean discretely glances at him some. He's lost weight; his clothes are looser. Is his face thinner or is Dean imagining it? How did Dean not notice any of this until now?

Looking back, he realizes how weird Sam has been acting for the last three weeks. He thought his brother was just bummed about not being able to hunt because of his broken leg.

Sam had fallen asleep about three hours into the drive. They're outside Bobby's house now. Dean just sits there, looking at his brother; he doesn't want to wake him.

He turns the car off. The sound of the engine cutting off and lack of movement wake Sam up. He inhales deeply and looks around. Dean takes the keys out of the ignition, says, "We're here," and gets out of the car. Dean's been trying to decide how to feel about this whole thing on the drive over. He's settled on anger. He opens the trunk and roughly grabs the bags out of the back, then slams the lid. Not waiting for Sam, he enters Bobby's house, not bothering to knock, just using the key he gave him a few years ago.

He's greeted with a gun a foot away from his face. Bobby uncocks the gun and sets it only the table beside the door. "Boy, what the hell were you thinking? I almost shot you."

"Sam has something to tell you,"he says, no hint of emotion in his voice.

Bobby grabs his upper arm before Dean can head upstairs to the bedrooms. "Are you okay, son?"

Dean laughs once bitterly. "Oh, I'm fine." He yanks his arm and walks swiftly past Bobby.

• • •

Bobby had planned on mirroring Dean's angry tone, asking, "You wanna tell me what the hell is going on?" but Sam just looked so... down, hurt. He couldn't bring himself to do it. So he asks instead, "What's wrong, Sam?"

Sam looks uneasy, almost nervous. "Can we sit down?" He leads Bobby to the living room. Bobby pulls up a chair and sits in front of Sam who takes the couch. "I don't know how to say this." He pauses so long, Bobby almost tells him to just spit it out. "I have cancer. Osteo-something."

"Bone cancer," they say simultaneously.

Sam nods. "They gave me a couple months before the mets in my lungs make them start to fail."

Bobby shakes his head in denial. "I thought most bone cancers were curable."

"It would've been if I went in earlier."

"Wait. You said 'mets' – it metastasized, spread to other organs. Couldn't you get surgery on the cancer and chemo and radiation for the mets?" 

Sam looks down. "It's too late for that, Bobby." Quietly, he says, "I just wanted to be around family while..." While he was dying?

"I'm gonna check on your brother." Bobby gets up, leaving Sam in a puddle of his guilt.

• • •

Dean hears a knock on the door. "Who is it?" he asks because there's no way he can look at Sam yet or even be in the same room as him.

"Bobby."

"Come in." Dean stops unpacking and sits on the edge of the bed. Bobby enters the room, closing the door quietly behind him. "How could he do this, Bobby?"

• • •

After three weeks, Sam can barely move. He stays on the couch all the time because he wants to be near Bobby and his brother. He sleep almost all the time; the drugs they gave him for pain knock him out mostly. Sometimes it won't even do that; he ends up waking up from the pain. He hardly eats. He looks sick now. Dean doesn't know how much weight he's lost, but considering how gaunt his face looks, he'd say it's a lot.

Dean goes to the bar a lot. It's like he's almost already in mourning.

• • •

A month after that, Sam's lungs start to fail. It's almost impossible for him to breathe.

They go to the hospital.

The hospital staff set him up in a bed. They immediately put in an IV and strap an oxygen mask over his face. When the doctor questions him, Dean steps in and informs him of Sam's situation.

"It sounds like the cancer metastasized to your lungs. We could run more tests –"

Sam pulls the mask away from his face. "No more tests. I just want to go home."

"Well, we –"

"I just want to go home," he says forcefully. He puts the mask back on and turns his head away from his family and the doctor.

So the doctor gives him a tank of oxygen, a prescription for more pain meds, and sends them on their way.

• • •

It's not long after that. One day, Sam just knows. He's about to die. It's the first time he's really let himself think the word. Die.

He calls Dean and Bobby over. Bobby pulls up a chair but Dean kneels beside the couch.

Sam's breathing is shallow so it takes him a minute to get out the phrase, "I don't have to give you the speech, do I?"

"No, Sammy, no. It's not time." Tears well in Dean's eyes, because he knows it is, he just won't admit it.

"You know I love you." He takes sharp breaths between every other word. "We don't say it often, but I do. I love both of you, and I'm sorry."

Dean ducks his head.

Bobby puts a hand on Sam's shoulder. "We're here, son. It's okay."

Dean reaches out and grabs Sam's hand. "Sammy, please." His voice cracks.

"Salt and burn me." Sam inhales sharply; the sound sends a jolt through Dean's heart. "Promise me. And promise you don't do anything stupid like sell your soul. Dean." Dean ties to memorize Sam's voice when he says his name because it may be the last time he hears it. "Please."

"Yeah, Sammy, I promise. I love you too."

A smile appears on Sam's face and he closes his eyes. One last exhale and then he's gone.