Chapter 3 – Time is a cruel illusion
Summary: What if Dean had not been chosen by Roy Le Grange?
A/N: Yes, it's been a long time but my muse is back to the SPN fandom and I always vowed to finish any fic I start so here I am. Thanks to all those who are still hanging in and reading, reviewing and favouriting (is that even a word?) this story. Don't be shy…let me know what you think. Feedback is always greatly appreciated.
¹ This is a modified quote from Psalm 91
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
Layla dropped Dean off at his motel room then stepped out to retrieve something she'd forgotten at the diner. Dean settled on the couch and despite his best efforts to remain awake, he couldn't. Worse still, he couldn't even recall sliding into sleep. Could hardly recall when his eyes fell shut and consciousness disappeared quickly and completely like a light bulb being switched off. He couldn't recall the moment his head tipped down to his chest, couldn't recall a thing until he was jerked awake, his heart hammering painfully at the sudden return of awareness. He was shaken at how effortless it was to go from wakefulness to nothing and he thought morbidly that he could have been dead and never have known it. But his body was intent on betraying him once again and before he could move on to the next thought he felt the darkness pulling him under again as effortlessly as a stone slipping underwater.
Moments later, he was jerked awake by familiar yet distant sounds; a door opening, the wind howling, a woman's high pitched shriek and a final, heavy thud.
Layla practically tumbled into the motel room aided by the wind and rain. The petite woman pushed the door closed with a triumphant squeal then slumped against it, her hair and clothes dripping moisture onto the carpet.
Dean was finally able to open his eyes. He turned, peering over the back of the couch, catching the exasperated look emanating from Layla. She huffed forcibly, spraying water in all directions then shook her head like a dog, somehow managing to make a bigger mess of her hair than it already was.
"Looks like… someone… got caught… in the rain," Dean wheezed. A smile tugged at his mouth, reaching his eyes at the sight of this wind whipped and water logged woman who was enjoying every second of her inglorious situation.
The young hunter pulled himself up using the back of the couch then slowly made his way to the bathroom to fetch a towel. Layla waited at the threshold, pulled her coat off and held it at arm's length.
"I didn't want to get the carpet and furniture all wet," she explained while she pushed her sopping hair away from her face.
"Really?" Dean questioned disbelievingly as he walked towards her holding on to each piece of furniture along the way. He took in her exaggerated misery as he reached for her coat and handed her the towel. He carefully draped the coat over a chair while the young woman wiped her face.
"Let's sit," Layla said, motioning towards the couch. She lowered her head, towel drying her hair thus giving Dean time to get to the couch first. He eased himself to a sitting position then Layla followed and sat next to him.
Dean smiled at the mess she was making with her hair. He reached up and took the towel from her hand while Layla smiled back shyly. She sensed this was something he wanted to do for her so she allowed him to take over.
Dean slowly ran the towel over her hair, smoothing and straightening the strands that were out of place then stopped. Layla peered up from under a wet clump of hair staring at a pensive Dean.
"Do you think…I could borrow…your notepad?" he asked awkwardly.
Layla studied him for a second, unsure what he was getting at. "Of course," she agreed then opened her purse and searched for it. "There you go," she offered.
Dean reached out, laid it on his lap before searching for the page with her bucket list. "I think…I need to have…a list of my own," he breathed.
"You want your own bucket list?" Layla asked surprised.
Dean shrugged his shoulders lightly. "Well…not exactly…more like a reverse…bucket list…"
She looked at him quizzically. "A reverse bucket list?" Layla asked not understanding.
"I'll start…with a blank page…and add to it…"
Layla gave him a radiant smile. "Sounds like a great idea."
She motioned for him to hand her the notepad. Half way down her page she scrawled 'Dean's Reverse Bucket List' then handed it back to him.
Dean stared at it for a moment, his lips quirking into a grin. He set the pad on his lap before gathering the towel and continuing to dry Layla's hair.
"I don't…have…a brush," Dean said lowly.
Layla dared not turn to look at him, not wanting to embarrass the man knowing this was something he wanted for himself. She grabbed her purse, pulled out a small brown brush and held it over her shoulder. Dean's movements stopped causing the towel to slide down her back as he reached for it. A few moments later he repositioned the towel and began to carefully untangle her hair, running the brush through the strands then following with his fingers. She ignored the way the strokes were jerky and his hands unsteady.
"Look…this way…" he requested.
Layla turned her body so she was facing the young man. He brushed out the bangs, lips pinched in concentration and eyebrows knitted together in an effort to keep his hands steady. Layla sat as still as possible, watching his expression and glancing away when he looked at her. Dean's hand swept Layla's hair to the side in a final gesture and he looked at her expectantly.
"Thank you. I'm sure it looks great."
It was all Dean needed to hear and he sat back pleased with his effort. Layla returned the brush in her purse and watched as Dean stared reflectively at his empty list.
"I used to…brush my brother's hair…" he recalled wistfully. "He wasn't always…so big…there was a time…he needed me…" Dean sighed before letting his eyes settle on her. "Never… brushed… a woman's hair," he confided as he motioned to the notepad.
"Well, there's a first time for everything," Layla announced brightly, handing him a pen.
Dean positioned it directly under the header Layla had written out for him. He hesitated as he rolled the pen between his fingers then bit at his lower lip before writing. 'Brushed a woman's hair.'
He stared at the crooked letters and felt something clench in his chest at the thought it might be both the first and last time. His thoughts meandered to some of the women he had known and the long list of regrets…like Cassie. It wouldn't do any good to wonder what might have been because there was nothing that could be now. Dean swallowed compulsively at the bitterness in his soul and the thought of his time running out so damn quickly.
Layla opened her purse and rummaged through her belongings. "Medication gives me dry mouth too," she said knowingly. "I think I have something that will help," she added, offering him a candy.
Dean looked down at her hand and felt a stabbing pain at the irony of the situation. He wasn't one for signs and omens but it was like the universe was confirming his time was up. He shook his head no, closing his eyes.
Layla understood he wanted to be alone. "I'll leave them in case you change your mind," she said, leaving the roll on the coffee table by the notepad. The young woman gathered her things and moved towards the door. "Call me if you need anything." She waited, but Dean remained silent. "I'll see you around Dean," she said then left the room.
Dean opened his eyes and fingered his chest. He leaned forward and picked up the brightly covered package, turning it over until the lettering faced him – Lifesavers. Dean shook his head because he knew without a doubt there was no such thing. At least not for him, and he would rather spend what little time he had left with his brother and father than trying to chase some miracle that didn't exist. Dean sighed then looked at his watch. He knew what he needed to do.
SPN~SPN~SPN
Time is a funny thing. It moves quickly when you don't have enough of it and excruciatingly slowly when you're waiting on something.
Sam knew this all too well. When he was six, he was certain Santa Claus wouldn't be able to track him down in that run down motel in Ohio. To begin with, it didn't have a chimney and secondly, he had mailed his letter from Indiana. He must have asked Dean a thousand times whether Santa would know where to find him and despite his brother's assurances, it had felt like the longest night of his young life.
Later, when he received his acceptance letter from Stanford, he decided to wait until the last possible moment to break the news to his brother and father. Those weeks that counted down the end to his nomadic lifestyle crawled by so slowly that Sam thought he should be flipping the calendar backwards instead of forwards.
Now, ever since the doctor informed him of Dean's prognosis, every day raced by at break neck speed and whole mornings disappeared before he could accomplish anything meaningful. Every minute was not a promise or an opportunity but an end, something lost that he could never gain back. It filled him with an anxiety he didn't think possible, worse than any deadline he had ever encountered at school. He snorted at the thought that University never prepared him for this, for what was truly important. He turned his thoughts back to the task at hand.
Sam had met Mr. Miles. He found the older man to be completely honest and forthcoming even allowing Sam access to his medical records and his doctor because after all, he was here on behalf of the Vatican to validate whether this was a true miracle.
Sam checked his watch; he had been waiting 25 minutes in the doctor's office and was getting impatient being away from Dean for so long. He picked up his phone and called his brother - right to voice mail. Sam ran his fingers through his hair and flipped through his contacts until he found Layla's number, pressed dial and waited; voice mail as well. He muttered under his breath and tried to convince himself that reception in this area was bad and trusted Layla to get a hold of him if there was a problem. But then again, he wouldn't have put it past Dean to have ditched the poor woman. He weighed his options and was about to get up when the secretary called his name and motioned for him to go in to the doctor's office. Sam stared at his phone, torn between checking on his brother and checking out this miracle. He put his phone away as he tried to push his worry aside. He got up and Sam Wilson, special attaché to the Vatican, went to meet the good doctor.
SPN~SPN~SPN
Dean finally managed to change before heading out to put this ridiculous faith healing business to bed once and for all. Who better than a doubting Thomas like himself to grill Roy Le Grange and expose him as a fraud? The hunter got himself to the preacher's house and was greeted by Sue-Ann, Roy's wife. She noticed the tentative hold the young man had on remaining upright and ushered him into the living room and onto the sofa. Roy was not expecting anyone but when Sue-Ann told him of the visitor, he quietly acquiesced to meet with the young man. The blind preacher was escorted by his wife to the threshold of the room. Roy thanked her and waited until she left before making his way in.
Dean grimaced as he struggled to get up to greet the preacher. His arms and legs were not cooperating and he was grateful the preacher could not see his weak attempt. Roy's face turned towards the young man's direction and although his eyes were unseeing, he smiled deeply, recognition flickering over his features. "You attended Sunday service," the preacher stated as if speaking to a long, lost friend.
Dean looked at him suspiciously, thinking this guy was some piece of work.
"Yes, I remember you," Roy declared then nodded deliberately. The preacher moved tentatively towards Dean who finally gave up trying to stand and sat back down.
"And, how do you remember me?" Dean asked sceptically.
Roy's head turned as if searching his memory before sitting across from Dean. "You sat in the second row."
Dean's expression was guarded not wanting to give anything away. He leaned towards the preacher, eyed him intensely then waved his hand inches from the older man's face in an attempt to prove he was not sightless.
Roy chuckled lightly before his expression turned serious, "A doubting Thomas," he said knowingly.
Dean paled at the words and recoiled from the older man. It was just a stupid expression; Le Grange had no reason to know those were Dean's exact thoughts.
The preacher leaned forward and murmured reassuringly, "It's alright son," as he patted Dean's knee in a soothing gesture.
It was obvious the old man knew how to play people and Dean wasn't going to let this go on. "You may have everyone else fooled, but not me," he spat out thinly.
Roy was not put off by the younger man's hostility he had seen all kinds of reactions from those that came to be healed; anger, shame, guilt were in equal proportions to hope, joy and gratitude. It was not the preacher's place to judge only to be of assistance. "How can I help you son?" Roy smiled, waiting for the young man to play his hand.
"I didn't come here to be healed," Dean blurted vehemently.
It was exactly the type of attitude he knew to expect from this particular young man. He knew this because a messenger of the Lord had told him. Roy nodded and tried to put the young man at ease. "Well, that's a good thing, son because I don't heal people. God does."
"And what if I don't believe in God? Does he still heal non-believers?" Dean asked angrily.
Roy heard the indignation and bitterness in the young man's voice but continued undeterred; he had a message for the young man. "Son, all that matters is that God believes in you," Roy whispered compassionately.
Dean tensed at those words.
"God wants you to know something." Roy breathed gently.
"Yeah, what's that?" Dean scowled.
"Angels are watching over you."
Dean felt as if the bottom had dropped out of his world and he'd been split wide open. He closed his eyes against the tide of fear washing over him. These were the exact words his mother would whisper before putting him to bed every night.
Roy leaned closer to Dean, "Your mother was right, son."
Dean felt like those sightless eyes could see right through him. "Don't say that..." he huffed beseechingly while clutching at his chest, trying to calm his racing heart. The young hunter didn't believe in angels. How could he? In all his years he had encountered countless supernatural creatures but never once an angel. Denying their existence felt like he was betraying his mother and Dean had to will himself to breathe.
"God wants you to know something," Roy repeated.
Dean felt the tremors run through his body and the uneven beating of his heart. The room seemed to narrow and expand at the same time and the space around him filled with flashes of sparkling light, like some type of mystical fireworks. He wanted to stop the feeling that something was reaching into his body and grabbing onto his heart . He unconsciously pawed at his chest, his eyes widening and his mouth gaping as he struggled to suck air into his constricted lungs. He couldn't help it as his fingers twisted painfully into the front of his shirt.
The preacher's lips moved wordlessly and his hands hovered over Dean, palms down as if bestowing a blessing. "God wants you to know…." the older man said, tilting his head as if listening for instructions. "For he will command His angels to guard you and they will lift you up in their hands."¹ Roy's right hand searched for Dean and gently grasped his shoulder.
Dean flinched but just as quickly relaxed at the feeling of warmth flooding into him, chasing away the cold lodged deep in his body. The room was suddenly enveloped in a light brighter than the sun. A light that was soothing and comforting and all loving. Dean didn't understand what was happening; he fought to hang on to his anger, fought not to believe in this preacher, fought not to allow anything to touch him. "Christo," he eked out but it was a losing battle and he felt his fears and doubts evaporate into thin air.
The older man drawled out slowly. "Open your heart, son."
Dean gasped as he was hit with thousands of memories each related to the most profound emotions of love he had ever experienced. They flashed before him in a stream of unending snapshots; the pride in his father's eyes, the all-enveloping love and safety of his mother's embrace, the pure look of adoration from his little brother, the warmth of Pastor Jim's smile, the understanding gleam in Bobby's eyes and on and on it went. Dean believed that if his heart opened any more, it would explode.
The preacher sensed the fragile hold Dean had to consciousness and removed his grip from the young man's shoulder. Dean swayed forward, towards the preacher's outstretched hand, towards the touch he so desperately sought, towards this love which poured over him like molten lava and filled him to the point of bursting.
"It's alright now," Le Grange whispered as he reached up and palmed the young man's head.
Dean gulped down air as he leaned into this touch but it was too late, the spell was broken. The young man's eyes fluttered as he fell back into the sofa, panting and sweating. Instantly all those feelings slipped out of him like a puff of air.
Roy leaned back tiredly. "You okay, son?"
Dean felt elated, mystified and could have sworn his heart was singing. He kneaded his fist across his chest and nodded his head to the preacher who certainly couldn't see it but sensed Dean's answer nevertheless.
"Alright now." Roy patted Dean's knee, waiting until the young man recovered enough to control his breathing. "I'll see you Sunday, right?" he asked, although he knew the answer.
Dean nodded once, eyes glassy and body boneless. Eventually he found his feet, got up and stumbled out of the preacher's home. He leaned heavily onto the railing, his legs barely holding him. His vision started to swim at the familiar feeling of erratic heartbeats and aching chest. He slid down to a sitting position, dropping his head towards his knees as he longed for the warmth to fill him once again.
TBC…