Chapter 14 – The Things We Love
Summary: What if Dean had not been chosen by Roy Le Grange?
A/N: I've kept you beautiful people waiting long enough. Here's the next chapter with a little more action to move the plot forward.
I don't own anything related to Supernatural.
This chapter is unbetaed. All errors belong to me.
A HUGE thank you to all the reviewers who inspire my muse to work faster.
Enjoy
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Sam drew in a breath, turned the engine off then waited for his own motor to rev down. Despite doing two loads of laundry, he didn't feel any cleaner. His thoughts had spun round and round same as those clothes in the dryer, replaying each of his stupid mistakes. Mostly the last one when he tried to make Layla look bad. Had he succeeded, the only one hurt by it would have been his brother. Sam clenched the steering wheel, his shame deepening knowing he couldn't save Dean but he didn't have to hurt him either.
Dean never realized what he'd had done and the thought of how defenseless his brother was had jarred Sam. He couldn't do that to Dean. He needed to grow up, to put Dean first no matter what. He knew he could do it. Hell, Dean had done it his whole life, had done it when he had been a kid himself. Sam hung onto that before he let out one last breath, grabbed the duffle and marched resolutely to the door. He peered through the window; there was no movement, no shadows, only the soft light behind the curtains. He pushed the key into the lock turning it slowly before cracking the door open and easing in.
A golden silence greeted him, calming his guilty conscience. He could do this, he thought. He peered over at the couch where Dean and Layla were both asleep; their ear buds in place, their hands clutched together like children. A fierce protectiveness welled up in him at how unguarded they looked and he didn't move until he was satisfied they wouldn't wake. He placed the duffle on the bed, carefully opened the dresser and sorted Dean's clothes. He lined up the socks then the underwear before piling up the tee-shirts.
The top one was Metallica, Dean's favourite. Sam wasn't always so convinced of his brother's tastes. There was a time he believed Dean emulated his dad blindly, loving everything dad loved; the same music, the same clothes, the same cars and of course, hunting. On more than one occasion Sam had confronted Dean, accusing him of not thinking for himself, of taking everything dad dished out and never questioning the old man. It had aggravated Sam to no end knowing his brother did all that to get dad's approval and yet got it so sparingly. But Dean would have none of what Sam was selling and he kept listening to the same old, stupid cassettes, wore dad's clothes and finally inherited the Impala. Sam had never understood it and now it didn't really matter. Those things had become as much a part of Dean as anything else.
He picked up the tee-shirt, running his fingers over the lettering. It had seen better days; the collar was frayed and the decal had started to peel. He was about to put it away when the morbid idea that he'd be the one to empty the drawer dawned on him. Sam would be the one to pack up Dean's things when the time came to leave. The thought of taking them but not his brother was like a fist being rammed down his throat.
Sam swallowed hard. He couldn't do that, couldn't take these things without Dean. He'd leave them behind, right here in the drawer because what good would they do him? He looked at the tee-shirt. It was old and too small for him to wear. Anyways, he didn't even like Metallica. There was no real reason to keep it, none at all except his fingers refused to let go. They wouldn't let go. He brought the fabric closer, smelling it. It was fresh and clean like he'd wanted except everything of Dean's was gone.
Sam's vision blurred and he buried his face in the black cotton, breathing through it, trying to find Dean in it. He couldn't. He tried to convince himself Dean wasn't in this ratty, old tee-shirt but his hands didn't care and he just clung to it tighter. None of that mattered, none of his arguments mattered because in that moment, he knew he'd take it with him; he just wouldn't wash it out.
Sam wiped his eyes before putting away the rest of their things. He headed for the washroom, needing to keep busy, to keep his mind focused on a task. He tidied up the towels, rinsed out the sink and readied Dean's toiletries. When he was satisfied everything was in place, he returned to the kitchen to prepare the pills. These menial tasks made him feel somewhat useful but once he was done it was too quiet once more. He checked his watch wondering whether he had time for a nap but it was past supper time and he couldn't wait much longer if he wanted to get some food into his brother.
He sighed and made his way over to the couch. Layla was tucked into Dean's side and his brother was turned into her as if to smell her hair. A strange feeling overtook him at the sight of Dean looking so serene and at peace, and he didn't have the heart to wake him. Instead he reached for the comforter, about to drape it over his brother when he noticed how Dean and Layla's hands and arms were looped together. It reminded Sam of the strands of a rope and brought him back to the day his dad taught him how to make a cord from dead plant fibers. He was six and they had gone camping, or so he thought, but it was probably one of dad's training sessions only he was too young to know it. He did recall his amazement at how the fragile strands they'd collected could become indestructible, able to withstand a huge weight when spun together.
Dean and Layla were like that rope. Together they were stronger and it was because of her Sam realized. Layla made Dean better in a way he couldn't. She put his happiness first, above all else. No one else ever had, not him, and not dad. The thought filled him with shame and he vowed to do better.
He took the bedspread laid half of it over Dean and tucked the other half around Layla. He stepped back, taking them in when a thought surfaced in the back of his mind. It was the preacher's question, the one that had haunted him, the one he had asked himself over and over again since that day. Could he love Dean more?
Sam hadn't known the answer back then but now everything started to weave itself into a singular idea. He would have said the room grew brighter, more in focus but instead he realized it was something inside of him that illuminated and the pieces began to fall into place in a way they never had before.
The answer, Sam reflected was something Dean had understood early on in life. It was why his brother cheered him on at every one of his soccer games, or helped him practice his lines for his drama class even as he teased him mercilessly. It was why Dean loved what dad loved.
He stared at his brother and Layla, blinking at the feeling that something was growing inside of him.
The answer was so simple, so clear and it was staring him in the face.
Could he love Dean more? Of course he could.
He could love what Dean loved.
SPN~SPN~SPN
Dean gasped awake, his heart pounding, his body jerkingd forward. He had a fleeting sensation of the same fiery pain as the electrocution except there wasn't anything entering into him; this time something was being ripped out. Before he could attempt to suck in a proper breath Sam was there, taking hold of his face, tapping his cheek lightly.
Dean's eyes clenched shut. He had no idea how pain that wasn't his could hurt so much.
"Dean. Look at me. Please…" Sam pleaded, looking him over and assessing him. "Was it a nightmare?" he tried, hoping against all hope that this was what it was because he wasn't ready for the alternative. Not yet. Not ever.
Dean couldn't answer, couldn't breathe and Sam felt his own terror ratcheting up. He moved to get to his phone, to call for help but Dean hung on to him. Sam wanted to yell that this wasn't the time to be all macho and avoid hospitals. But then he looked into Dean's eyes and it stopped him cold. His brother was scared, terrified and Sam couldn't leave him like that.
"Okay, I'm right here," he huffed. "I'm right here," Sam soothed but it did nothing to calm his racing heart. "It's okay," he repeated, gripping Dean, making sure his brother was listening before he pointed to his phone. "I need to call for help. Okay?"
Dean shook his head, eyes begging Sam to understand. "Lay…" he wheezed.
That's when Sam noticed how Layla hadn't moved during this entire commotion. He turned to her; she was pasty and her brow was furrowed. He let go of his brother and tried to wake her; she moaned but her eyes remained closed.
Sam quickly got to his phone, hands shaking as he punched in the numbers. He gave the dispatcher their location, rattling off as much as information as he could about Layla's condition. His eyes swung between Layla and his brother. Dean had sunk gracelessly into the couch; one hand holding tight to his chest and the other feebly trying but not quite able to reach Layla's. His wheezy breaths were too rapid and Sam was afraid Dean was going hyperventilate and then he'd need two ambulances, not one. He told the dispatcher to hold then put the phone down.
He checked Layla first; pulse, respiration and temperature. Then turned to Dean and placed his hand on the back of his brother's neck to steady him. Dean's hands twitched shakily as his pain filled eyes turned to Sam. It was the dependence in them that Sam didn't recognize. Dean was always the one tending to injuries, taking care of him and dad, always remaining calm and collected, never letting his own fear and worry take over. It was Sam's turn to be all that.
"Hey," he murmured, trying to keep his brother focused on him. "She's got a good heart rate, even respiration and there's no fever," he reported. "Help's on the way, but I need to get back on the phone."
Dean swallowed, eyes holding on to Sam like a lifeline.
Sam wanted to tell him everything was going to be okay but his brother wouldn't believe him until it was so. Instead, he did what Dean had always done when Sam was the one was freaking out; he gave him a job, something to do.
Sam took Layla's hand and placed it in Dean's. "Hold her hand, let her know you're here, keep her calm. Can you do that?"
Dean swallowed down his pain, nodding once.
"Hold on," Sam repeated but he didn't need to, Dean wasn't about to let go.
Sam got back on the phone, listening to the dispatcher but not hearing. His brain tried to understand how Dean had known Layla was in trouble even while asleep. He couldn't figure that out, but what he did know was that this bond that made Dean and Layla stronger was also pulling his brother under. If he wanted to help Dean, he'd have to save Layla first.
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Two hours. That's how long they'd been waiting.
Two hours of sitting on these hard, unforgiving emergency room chairs. Sam was certain he had lost all feeling from the waist down but still he refused to move and jostle Dean who was sagged into his side.
"Dean?" Sam asked as he listened to the strained breaths.
As if on cue, Dean tightened his grip on his brother's arm. Sam turned the knob on the tank and lifted the mask to Dean's face.
The oxygen was provided by the admitting nurse along with a pillow and blanket shortly after they arrived. She had taken pity on Dean who was worse off than most of the patients in the hospital.
She tried to get him admitted but his brother would have none of it. Dean wasn't about to give up his post and Sam had long given up on the idea of dragging him back to the motel afraid of what would happen if he pulled him away from here. He also knew that fighting Dean on this would have only made things worse. His brother was way more pliant if Sam worked with him instead of against him. So, when the oxygen tank appeared, Sam made a deal that they could stay as long as Dean used it.
Sam shifted, repositioned the mask and looked over at his brother. There were deepening layers of darkness lining Dean's eyes and his brother had barely said a word since they got here. Speaking was an obvious effort, the words so thin and weightless that Sam had wondered whether they had actually been spoken. His brother was utterly dependent on him and Sam couldn't let him down.
"You can rest. I'll wake you if there's any news," Sam said to reassure.
Just then, Mrs. Rourke appeared. Her face was drawn and lined with worry but she came straight away to them. Dean stiffened, pushing the mask away.
"How is she?" Sam asked, winding his arm over Dean's shoulder and propping him up.
Mrs. Rourke looked like she'd aged in the last few hours and Sam would have offered his seat had he not been holding Dean.
"She's a little better now that they've got her on pain killers," she sighed with weariness. "These are the headaches she was telling you about, migraines. They can come on suddenly, without warning, even in her sleep. They've gotten so severe that she loses consciousness." Mrs. Rourke's eyes welled up. "I'm glad she was with you," she whispered, her hand clutching at her throat.
Sam heard the fatigue in her voice that alluded to the idea that this was just a temporary respite that she'd be in this same situation again and again. He thought about what this family had gone through during the last year. How Mrs. Rourke was dying this slow death along with her daughter. Her face reflected a patchwork of fading hope, endless worries and overwhelming fear. He was certain he wore the same expression given that he was dying right along with Dean.
They were no different, Dean, Layla himself and Mrs. Rourke. They were all running, trying to keep ahead of this monster chasing after them.
"She's finally resting, but she was asking about you," Mrs. Rourke said, smiling wanly at Dean.
"Can we see her?" Sam requested. It was the one thing that would give his brother peace of mind and allow him to take Dean back to the motel afterwards.
Mrs. Rourke nodded. "Of course."
SPN~SPN~SPN
Dean's heart fluttered in fear. She was so pale and still. So lifeless. The idea that she might be the one leaving first had never crossed his mind. But seeing her like this, the possibility grew until the idea overtook him. He couldn't bear the thought of that, couldn't fathom the idea that he would have to watch her light being extinguished. Not that. Never.
Dean took her hand between his and thought about all the strangers he had saved, so many strangers, hell all of them really. What good was he if he could save everyone else but not the one he loved? What good was he? he thought bitterly knowing he couldn't stand by and watch her suffer. He resolved that she would be the one to stay and he would be the one to leave first. He didn't know why but he began to pray, not with words but with love; pure, unadulterated love. He opened his heart and offered up all his hopes and dreams for her, let them float high overhead hoping that someone was listening.
Across town, Le Grange stopped reading his Bible, got up from his chair and felt his way over to the window.
"What is it, dear? His wife asked then went to stand by his side. She looked out the window but saw no sign of a car.
Le Grange's head tilted as he heard the righteous man's prayers. He listened to the plea that could not be ignored then bowed his head in acceptance. The Reverend sighed, taking his wife's hand. "Do you know how much I love you?" he asked.
Sue-Anne blushed at the tenderness in those words. "As much as I love you," she returned.
He pulled her into a hug, holding her tight, feeling her heartbeat against his chest. The righteous man was right, the preacher thought. We should save the thing we love.
TBC…