Chapter 12 – The Last
Summary: What if Dean had not been chosen by Roy Le Grange?
A/N: Despite the chapter title, this is not the last instalment of this fic. We're getting close to the end but have a few more things to deal with and loose ends to tie up.
This chapter is unbetaed. All errors belong to me.
Many thanks to the readers, followers and especially the reviewers.
Somehow, I still don't own anything related to Supernatural.
Enjoy
SPN~SPN~SPN
Layla sat across from the Reverend. He had graciously accepted to meet with her on short notice and for this she was grateful. He was a man with a good heart and an unnatural ability, one that could spare her life but she wasn't here for herself. She took in his calm demeanor and used it to compose herself. "His name is Dean Winchester," she began, her hands clasped loosely on her lap while her voice gave no hint of unease or apprehension.
The preacher settled into his chair and waited patiently. This was her story to tell.
"He doesn't have much time," she whispered lowly as if speaking the words hurt.
The longing in her voice touched the older man but not wanting to interrupt, he merely nodded for her to go on.
"I've prayed…every day…but I'm afraid it's not enough…" her voice faltered with the knowledge that there were many more Sundays for her but not for Dean.
It pained the older man that she thought her pleas were ignored, they were what lead her to him. "No prayer goes unheard when it is heartfelt and true," he said to comfort.
Layla straightened. "He's a good man," she continued gravely, "and, I've never asked for anything."
That was true, the preacher reflected. He had met with many sick and dying individuals, he knew firsthand how suffering could make a person selfish, might rob them of their compassion. But not Layla, she felt others' pain as if it were her own but equally as important, she never begrudged those chosen, only shared in their immeasurable joy. The older man stilled, listening closely to the song of her heart. It crooned such tender and mournful notes. It was both hypnotic and heartbreaking, confirming to him how she felt about the young man.
"It's difficult to stand by and watch those we love suffer," Le Grange conceded.
Layla was not surprised by his statement. The Reverend had great insight into a person's heart and she was not ashamed by these feelings. "I wanted to know if there was something…anything more…I could do…" Her voice was soft yet hopeful.
The older man's head tilted up. His eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses, seemingly scrutinizing her. Unlike others who had come before, she did not come to request a miracle but to offer herself in service. It caused the older man to think, wondering whether she was the one.
"Tell me, what more could you do?" he asked. It was a question that troubled him, left him asking whether it was enough to heal a person's physical ailments when those who left unhealed held such bitterness in their hearts. It made him wonder whether it was fair to give so many people hope when so few could be saved. Whether it wouldn't be better to heal the spirit rather than the body? The Reverend had prayed to God for guidance but more importantly for forgiveness, for not being able to heal all those who came to him. Le Grange waited, hoping the young woman had come to deliver him a message.
Layla studied his face, reflecting on how her life had been transformed since she had witnessed her first healing. She recalled how she had felt the love of God flow through like a wildfire. It had fortified her, and allowed her faith to grow. She had resolved to help the sick and the dying and that was enough, until now. Until she met Dean.
He was a man of little faith, or so he said, but his actions defied that. He had surrendered his own life both figuratively and literally for the sake of others, for something greater than himself. Wasn't that what true faith was about? Layla contemplated all this then shrugged slightly, admitting defeat. "I feel like there's something more I should be doing, but I don't know what," she admitted uneasily.
Le Grange sensed her uncertainty. It was this inner doubt that caused a person not to act, believing they were incapable or not good enough to carry out something when in fact, they were. God didn't concern himself with our shortcomings only with what was possible. She had come to seek assistance and that he could grant her. He patted her hand in a comforting gesture.
"Each of us has a unique purpose," he started, "something we alone can carry out."
Once more, Layla thought about Dean and how he had been destined to care for his family and to save those children.
The preacher nodded as if hearing her thoughts then added, "Destiny is not random and it is not bestowed upon us. Destiny is a choice."
It was true, she realized. Dean had made his decisions and stuck by them. He chose his life not the other way around.
Le Grange sensed that she was putting the pieces together, seeing the bigger picture. He waited allowing her to take it all in before he continued. "Often, we allow ourselves to get bogged down by our circumstances, by the place where we live, who we know, the jobs we hold," the older man explained. "Certainly these have a bearing on our lives but destiny is not about how the world changes us but how we change the world."
Layla pulled in a sharp breath as the preacher's message resonated within her. She recalled contemplating destiny and fate, waiting for them to reveal themselves to her when in fact it was the other way around, it was she who had to reveal herself to them.
Le Grange paused until he was certain she was open and ready for more. "Life requires us to make choices, to decide how we will react to the situations we face. When someone causes us injury, do we lash out in anger and hurt them or do we show them a better way? When a stranger asks for help, do we turn away indifferently or extend a helping hand? For what good is having all the goodness in your heart and none in your actions?" he posed as he leaned in closer.
Layla was enthralled by his words, she held her breath and waited for him to continue.
"What we do, what we say reflects our deepest convictions and sets us upon a path, a destiny of our own making," the preacher reflected. "Our actions shape the future, one that does not yet exist, one where nothing is impossible."
At these last words, the preacher heard the soaring melody of Layla's hope fluttering tremulously overhead. He felt the moment the dream blossomed in her heart and took hold of her.
"If God has another purpose, he will reveal it to you. Trust in yourself. Put your faith in God, he will place the answer in your heart," he said simply.
Layla squeezed his hand and although Le Grange's physical sight was darkened, the young woman's light shone through. He recalled how he had sensed it from the very first time she entered that tent and every time since. Her soul was an open book for all to see and the preacher was awed by the purity and strength of her essence. He gripped her hand back trying to gather his courage from hers.
"There is much to do," he sighed tiredly as he thought about his time coming to an end.
Layla saw how he suddenly looked older, weary. She tightened her grip. "You've done so much already," she said encouragingly. "And I'll do whatever I can to help," she offered.
He reached out to touch her cheek, to feel the strands of her hair between his fingers. She was worthy he believed. "Will you pray for me?" he asked humbly.
"Of course," she replied without hesitation.
Le Grange felted lifted. He bowed his head, his lips moving in a silent prayer of gratitude and in the hopes that this Sunday, she would be the one, she would be the last.
SPN~SPN~SPN
After Layla left, Sam sat on the coffee table and watched Dean. He interlaced his fingers, pressed his indexes against his lips and tried not to make a sound. Sam studied his brother without blinking, or moving, gazing at the faded freckles across the bridge of Dean's nose. It was something he had done when he was a kid and the recollection made him smile.
As a little brother he had been fascinated by anything Dean related, wanting nothing more than to be exactly like his brother going as far as using a marker to draw the same constellation of dots on his face. Dean had scowled at him, explaining other kids would make fun of him then practically scrubbed the skin off Sam's nose to get the ink off before dad got home because somehow, he would end up taking the heat for his little brother. Sam had cried, not understanding that even in that instance Dean was trying to shield him from the harsh realities of the world.
Sam realized that Dean had always stood between him and whatever he needed protecting from whether it was school bullies, a vengeful monster or, even dad. Dean was always the one by his side, always the one stuck in the middle, all because of him. Sam closed his eyes remorsefully having practically put his brother in the same position, but this time with Layla. He had done it because of jealously and because he hated the idea that Dean was only half his.
Of course it was stupid and selfish, childish even, but it was born of a deep seated reason, one he now fully understood.
Dean was like a beacon, a guiding light, Sam's North Star. He was the compass steering Sam in the right direction, guiding him back home. Home wasn't a lousy motel room, or Pastor Jim's place or even the Impala. Not for Sam. Home was wherever Dean's heart was. It was where he found unconditional love even when his feet insisted on taking him far away to follow his dream, even when he wanted a different home, one of his own making. When Sam's life had burned down, Dean was there to save him and take him back, to bring him home.
Dean stirred, his eyes shifting behind closed lids, a grimace taking form as a small moan escaped his lips. Sam allowed his brother time to wake then smiled at the sight of gold and green trying to focus in on him.
Even though her name was the first word out of his brother's mouth, Sam was okay with it because Dean was looking at him.
"She had to run some errands. She'll be back later," Sam explained.
Dean huffed then tried to lever himself up to a sitting position. Sam stood by at the ready but letting Dean do this on his own. When he finally got himself up, Dean peered at his little brother with that look that said, 'see, knew I could do it'.
Sam handed his brother the remote then went about preparing a round of meds while Dean channel surfed restlessly. A few minutes later Sam placed the meds and the water on the coffee table and returned to the kitchen, ignoring his brother while doing some research on his laptop.
Dean stared at the pills hating the fact there was no nagging about eating then to add insult to injury, Sam pretended not to listen as he grumbled loudly when he took his meds.
Dean jabbed at the remote, never settling on a show for more than 3 seconds. He hated this distance between him and Sam, a distance he created with every shove and stink eye because he was too proud to accept help. But he didn't want to seem overly weak or Sam might just fall apart. Why couldn't they just be together like they used to, he pondered.
He peered over at that stubborn mop of hair, but his little brother wouldn't bite, just stared at that laptop like he was watching porn, or in Sam's case, his idea of porn which was some analytical essay on the mating rituals of porcupines. Dean snickered at the thought then scowled when he realized he'd have to make the first move. He took a quick look out the window; it was still drizzling and the day was fading fast. He fished the car keys from his pocket and made his way over to the kitchen before dropping them on the table beside his brother.
Sam tried to play it cool, faking that he was still reading when his eyes cut to the clock on the screen. It read 3:13, too early for supper, not that Dean really ate much anymore.
"You want me to go on a run?" he offered.
Dean fidgeted, looking at anything but Sam. "It's my birthday…" he breathed.
Sam felt a quick flash of guilt at how the day had gone.
"…and Baby wants…to plant a big old wet one on me." Dean grinned in that ridiculous way he did when he spoke about his car and that took the edge off of Sam who rolled his eyes.
"More like the other way around," he muttered in relief.
There was a pause while Dean shifted to brace himself against the table. "I wanna go for a ride." he said softly. It was as good as asking, no? Letting Sam be the hero and all that.
"Just the two of us?" Sam asked, feeling a small twinge of jealously rearing up in him.
"Three," Dean breathed. "Me, you and Baby."
Of course, Sam thought stupidly. "Where?"
Dean shrugged noncommittally.
His brother wanted to go for a ride, just the two of them, in the Impala, no set destination, just driving. What they had always done, what they wouldn't be able to do for much longer. Sam softened at the thought.
"Yeah, sure, " he agreed then shut the laptop while mentally calculating how many layers Dean was wearing and whether it was enough to keep his brother warm. Sam counted four without the jacket. It had to be good enough because he didn't think Dean could get anything else on. He offered to warm up the car before Dean got in and got a snort of derision but not much more.
Once outside, Sam cursed the stupid clouds and the freezing rain that clung to everything. He guided his brother to the passenger side, not caring for Dean's complaints because he didn't need to add a trip to the ER for broken bones to his to do list. He clambered around to the driver's side, shaking out the crystals in his hair before sliding in and cranking up the heater.
Dean nudged his brother. "Driver picks the music," he said, offering Sam the shoe box.
Sam shouldn't have been surprised because big brother made the rules and stuck by them no matter what. He smiled then chose Dean's favourite, Led Zeppelin.
They drove off, Dean humming along and Sam putting all of his focus on navigating the greasy roads, hardly noticing as Dean inched closer seeking warmth.
They rolled along easily, comfortably, each stretch of road looking so familiar, the same as the thousands of other miles they had traveled. Then Dean's voice dropped off and a loneliness crept into the car, one that Sam didn't recognize, one he hadn't felt before, one that wasn't even half as bad as what was coming, he realized. He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, maybe too tight because the car pitched and slid towards the shoulder and his big hands jerked, but before he could overcorrect Dean's hand was on his, easing the car straighter and levelling her out.
"Easy, Baby," Dean murmured reassuringly as if it was the car's fault.
The feel of Dean's hand on his, guiding him, protecting him was too much and he could only nod and hum out a few 'ahems' to Dean's pointers on how to handle Baby on icy roads. Sam continued to stare ahead for the longest time, watching the light fade and the dreariness descend until the cassette player clicked to a stop and the weight across his arm increased. Dean was not wakened by the dead air and Sam let out a breath before pulling over to side of the road.
He didn't dare look at his brother instead gazing at the sky and finding no stars. Why would there be? The sky wasn't his to command, it was no one's. No army, no air force, not even the birds could lay claim to it or conquer it. It was vast, immeasurable and infinite, everything he was not and everything Dean was to him.
Once upon a time, he believed the sky was the place where mom watched over them. He remembered staring at the white clouds for hours, wishing he could see her just once. But she was never there, neither was Jess, and Dean wouldn't be either.
Dean shifted, his head leaning on Sam's shoulder and his body sinking deeper into the seat. Sam looked over at a brother who was more ghost than man. He couldn't help thinking that whatever had done this to Dean had stolen everything away from him and yet, he felt like he was partly to blame. He had taken Dean for granted, thought he was invincible because that's what big brothers were. But Sam had been wrong because Dean was just a man and the sky was just an empty place.
But as Layla had reminded him, all they had was right now so Sam carefully extended his arm over his brother, pulling him closer. Maybe it was all the layers, but Sam could barely feel him as if Dean had already started to slip away. Regardless, Sam held on, sitting in silence until he realized that the darkness had softened. When he looked up he saw the reason why and as if on cue, Dean sighed and his eyes slit open.
"S'm," he croaked as he tried to situate himself.
"Right here," Sam said reassuringly, holding his big brother tighter.
It took Dean a few seconds to realize what was happening. He leaned forward, gripping the dash while he tried to get a better view. He turned to Sam, his eyes glistening like a six year old's. It had started to snow and legend had it that Dean Winchester was born during a raging snowstorm. Dad told that story every January 24, the only time Dean allowed anyone to speak about mom, the only day they all wished for snow.
Sam chose to ignore how things had come full circle, how it had snowed on Dean's very first birthday and now his last. "Happy Birthday, Dean," he breathed, dazzled by the smile that greeted him and for once, it didn't hurt to look at his brother.
TBC…