Chapter 1: It's not Fair

All out of Faith

Chapter 1 – It's not fair

Summary: What if Dean had not been chosen by Roy Le Grange.

A/N: I don't own anything related to Supernatural. All I can claim are the errors, grammatical or otherwise.

This fic is for entertainment purposes only. Enjoy.

SPN~SPN~SPN

Sam's first clue the drive to Nebraska had taken a lot out Dean was how uncoordinated and weak his brother looked getting out of the car. The second was the look of disgust and disappointment on Dean's face at the realization they weren't going to see a doctor but a faith healer. That was the look that made Sam's stomach churn with guilt and left him wondering if bringing his exhausted brother here was the right thing to do.

"Give it a chance, okay?" he whispered, as they ploughed through the slick field on their way to the tent.

Dean shoved Sam's hands helping away. "A charlatan...," he took a few shallow breaths. "Is not a specialist," he finished, looking back at his beloved Impala.

Sam watched Dean's boots sink deeper into the mud and he wilted at the idea they'd come all this way and they might never make it to the service. "Dean, we're here now. It won't take long…please," he pleaded, touching his brother's elbow lightly.

Dean's hard stare dissipated, and he grunted in displeasure before allowing Sam to steer him towards the tent.

Once inside, they stayed towards the back, squeezing past the canes and walkers of an elderly couple seated in the second to last row. They sat and Sam scanned the congregation, noting they were practically the only ones under 45. Most people were already deep in prayer, their fingers rolling over beads and their lips moving wordlessly. Despite the cold air outside, the tent was warm and humid with some folks fanning themselves to move the stagnant air. The rustling and the whispers hushed when a blind man was lead up on the stage. It was only when he began to speak, Sam realized this was not someone looking for a miracle but the preacher himself.

"Can't be much...of a healer..." Dean snorted.

"Maybe it doesn't work that way," Sam whispered, hoping with every fiber of his being it was the truth.

Dean gave Sam a weary shake of his head.

The preacher grasped the podium and smiled gently. His white hair was combed back and his shirt sleeves were rolled up. He had come ready to work and immediately put everyone at ease with his soothing voice and kind words. He wasn't a fire and brimstone type of preacher, but more of the grandfatherly type. He led the congregation in prayer while an older man was wheeled onto the stage. A quiet hush fell over the worshipers and the Reverend raised his arms, supplicating some higher power for intercession. There were gasps of 'amen' when the withered man rose from his wheelchair and took a few unsteady steps. The crowd rose, arms high overhead, singing their praise. Sam wanted to rise too, to get a better view. But his brother couldn't and he remained seated with Dean leaning against him until it was all over.

The preacher and the previously paralyzed man exited at the back of the stage and although Sam hadn't quite seen how the healing was done, the buzz in the crowd made his hope grow. The only problem was Dean wasn't buying it.

"Really, Sammy?" He wheezed, hanging on to each and every chair as he moved towards the exit. "Don't tell me…you fell for that. The old man was in on it…there was no healing."

"We don't know that," Sam rebutted, following his brother closely.

"The preacher's a fake," Dean huffed when he accidentally bumped into a petite blonde.

"Well, I would beg to differ," the young woman replied.

She was not much older than they were and the first thing Sam noted was her serene smile and the warmth of her blue eyes.

"Reverend Le Grange is a true healer," she continued, "And all that's needed is a little faith."

Dean kept shuffling forward. "Yeah, well… I'm all outta faith," he spat out with indignation.

Sam cringed knowing full well these words were meant for him but to her credit, the young lady didn't take offense at Dean's angry reply. She gave him a measured look and stuck out her hand.

"I'm Layla," she returned, her blonde hair swinging lightly.

Sam gave her a half smile of apology and took her hand when Dean ignored it. "I'm Sam and this is my brother Dean." He gestured.

"Nice to meet you." She gazed from one brother to the other then stopped on Dean. "If you stick around, you might change your mind about Reverend Le Grange."

"Not likely," Dean muttered, eyes drifting away.

"Well, I hope to see you again," she said to Sam and nodded her goodbye to the both of them.

"Yeah, see you," Sam responded.

Layla's conviction gave Sam a sense of vindication. It gave credence to what he'd witnessed; the old man's legs were atrophied, unused and useless until Roy Le Grange placed his hand on the man's head and prayed. But, it was the look of pure joy in the man's eyes that stayed with Sam and gave him hope. It was enough to convince him there was something to this. He was poised to give chase, to find the old man but one look at his washed-out brother and that idea got pushed away by more pressing needs. He shepherded his disbelieving brother towards the Impala then drove towards the nearby town.

Dean rubbed his chest with jerky strokes while he slouched deeper into his seat.

"Do you want to pick up some supper before getting a room?" Sam asked his waning brother.

Dean grimaced, straightening up while his fingers continued to clutch the front of his shirt. "Not hungry," he mumbled thinly.

Sam hated that Dean hardly ate anymore. It reminded Sam of a term he had heard many years ago and had almost forgotten - failure to thrive. He understood that eating was difficult for his brother, but he sensed that Dean didn't have the will to care for himself and that scared him more than anything else.

Sam chewed the inside of his cheek. "You should really eat something before you take your meds."

Dean frowned deeply, "Sammy, cut it out."

Sam heard how those words were said in that bone-weary way that a parent speaks to a child.

"I'm just trying to help," he mumbled in apology.

"Well, this is not helping," Dean waved his hand to the fields outside the window.

Sam was surprised at the bite in his brother's tone and made him feel responsible for being the reason Dean was completely pissed and exhausted at being dragged around all day.

"Listen, I spoke to a friend of dad's and he thinks this guy might be the real deal," he explained.

"Sammy, stop," Dean whispered, refusing to look at his brother. "This... is it."

And for the first time since this whole mess started, Sam heard the finality echoed in his brother's voice and how the words Dean spoke sounded hollow and empty, like he was speaking from the bottom of a tomb. Sam felt the surge of fear and panic rise from the pit of his stomach and into his throat. He was watching as his brother literally bled out. Except, there was no bullet wound Sam could tend to and press down on to keep Dean whole. There was only a brother getting paler, skinnier and weaker and occupying less space by the minute. It was getting harder and harder to find his Dean inside the imposter wearing his brother's clothes and sitting next to him in the Impala, refusing to eat, or fight, or live.

Sam swallowed hard against the feel of knives caught in his chest. "I'm not giving up," he stated in defiance.

Dean sighed. "Sammy...enough with this... this... faith healing crap," he motioned dismissively. "Please," he uttered softly rubbing his chest. "I'm okay with this...I'm okay..."

And Sam understood; Dean was okay with letting go, was okay with dying, was okay with leaving him behind and alone. Sam felt his stomach clench violently at how easily his brother had given up.

"So, that's it?" he asked, voice choked, and eyes filled with emotion.

"Sammy, I can't…not now...it's not fair..." Dean sighed wearily.

Sam felt the ache in his chest at how fragile his brother sounded. He had never heard Dean plead so earnestly and realized his brother's 'I laugh in the face of death' routine was not meant to hide his fear of dying but to convince himself not to hope, not too expect something good or miraculous and most importantly, not to want something he couldn't have. Sam couldn't help but feel the heaviness of the burden thrust upon him - he was Dean's last hope.

"Yeah, it's not fair," Sam repeated unsure if he meant it for Dean or himself.

Dean's gaze dropped away and with it his remaining strength. He eased back on the seat, curling in on himself, head resting against the window and his eyes awash in resignation.

Sam stared at his brother, stared at the sunken cheeks, the bruised eyes and the too pallid skin. He wondered how Dean could look so young and so old at the same time and he swiped at the despair brimming from his eyes. He looked ahead at the darkening road before him. He contemplated what the future would look like if he failed and like the signposts that rushed by marking his passage, Sam saw the endless row of tomorrows clearly laid out. He saw a future without a brother, a future without Jess, a future with an absent father and no other family to speak of. It was a future that held no promise and all Sam could do was pray for a miracle of his own.

TBC...