Thread of Gold //Destiel Cancer AU\\

Curiosity Brought the Cat Cancer

Dean Winchester's mother always told him "Hope is as good as gold. Keep as much of it as you can." Unfortunately, Dean wasn't very rich in hope, or "gold," as he liked to call it.

His mother ended up passing away when Dean was only four, and his brother no more than six months. Consequently, John, Dean's father, turned to drinking. He would drink, and drink, and drink, until his head was pounding and his mind was not in the right place. When John just couldn't take the morning hangovers, he traded drinking alcohol in for cigarettes. Those days, he couldn't go a full 20 minutes without taking a drag of the drug, and he smoked at least two packs a day. John smoked anywhere, and it never occurred to him that second hand smoke could cause issues. That is, until Bobby had to cruelly remind him. Not that he didn't deserve the harshness.

"Listen to me, you idjit! One of you is gonna get sick, and I pray to God it ain't one of them boys. You need to quit, I'm giving you the cold turkey." Bobby tore up the whole house that night, despite the protests from John, up until the point John actually grabbed a gun and threatened him. Bobby, naturally, dropped everything and took the boys with him that night. After all, John hadn't been in his right mind ever since the death of Mary Winchester.

Dean was only fourteen years old. That night, he didn't sleep. He just sat next to Sammy's bed and cradled him while he slept, every so often pushing the shaggy hair out of the young boy's eyes. He was more than grateful for Sam's safety.

That was when Dean started becoming short winded. Often, he couldn't catch his own breath from a small lap around the gym. He also started to pale. They thought nothing of it then.

-Now-

Dean clutched his chest, wincing at the sharp pain piercing through it. What the hell is happening to me, he thought. This past week, he dropped four pounds, and was undeniably frail and weak looking. Peers would shoot worrying glances at Dean in the halls when he hobbled his way to class, almost dropping his books. A seventeen year old wasn't supposed to look so thin and pale.

Dean sighed wearily as he dropped his bag onto the green recliner in their humble abode. Glad to be back from school, a small smile ghosted across his lips, but quickly faltered when he recognized the repulsive smell coming from John's bedroom. He knew that smell, he could never forget it. That was the smell of Malboro, his father's favorite cigarette brand.

Dean cringed massively. He dreamed of the day he could finally breathe fresh air, and vowed to make sure he could take Sam with him.

The TV was broken, had been for the past year. No one could turn it off, and it showed only static on the small screen. Sam had urged Dean to throw it out when their dad wasn't looking, but fear always clouded Dean's thoughts. Fear of what would happen to him by his father's own hands. He sighed, glaring coldly at it. Dean was just about to sit down on their couch that had a hint of the stench of smoke on it when someone knocked at the door.

Dean groaned and went to see who it was. He had a coughing fit on the way there, and looked down at his hand to see a speck of blood.

On the front porch outside the door stood a pretty pissed off looking Bobby Singer. Impatient tapping foot, cold look in the eyes, frown spread across his face, the whole nine.

As soon as the door swung open, Bobby began. "What the hell were you thinkin', boy?! You're sick, and you just decide not to tell me?!" He had a harsh tone of voice to accompany his words.

"How did you-" Dean tried, but was cut off.

"I'm no idjit, boy! I know sick when I see it!"