Fic: Sacrifice (1/3) (Dean/Layla)
Title: Sacrifice
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It’s been a while since he’s heard from her. She’s been having new tests done at the hospital, and he’s been working, so there hasn’t been much time. They’ve spoken a handful of times since he first discovered her number stuffed between the pages of one of Sam’s books. But she’s never sounded so…upset.
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. A girl can dream, but, alas, that's all it is.
Author's Note: Follow up to I'm Reaching for the Phone. Used for philosophy_20, prompt #19: Caught in the form of limitation.
5:15 a.m. and Sam doesn’t wake up when the phone rings. Figures. Dean reaches blindly over to the end table, face still buried in his pillow, prepared to curse out Bobby, or whatever dumbass is on the other end of the line.
“What?” he says, gruffly. He’s sure his voice is muffled, but for the life of him, he can’t find the energy to even lift up his head.
“Dean?”
That gets him up. “Layla?”
It’s been a while since he’s heard from her. She’s been having new tests done at the hospital, and he’s been working, so there hasn’t been much time. They’ve spoken a handful of times since he first discovered her number stuffed between the pages of one of Sam’s books. But she’s never sounded so…upset.
She sniffles, and he knows she must be crying. He’d never admit it to anyone, ever, but he starts to panic just a little bit. “Layla, what’s wrong? What’s going on?”
“Something happened,” she manages to get out, before choking on a sob. Dean hears rustling and looks to his left to see Sam sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “It’s my Mom.”
His eyes closed. Shit. “What happened?”
“I have no idea,” she cries. Sam turns the light on and looks at Dean expectantly.
“Is she okay?” Sam whispers ‘who is it’, and Dean waves him off, annoyed. One thing at a freaking time. Layla takes a long time to calm herself down, sniffling and crying and all that Dean can do is wait. He suspects he knows the answer to his question already.
“She’s dead,” Layla finally answers. “And I don’t know how…” She’s rambling, and she probably knows she’s rambling, but she’s to worked up and to heartbroken to care. He’s not exactly a patient guy, but in her case, he can make an exception. “She was healthy one minute, and the next…she wasn’t.”
“Where are you?” Dean asks, throwing aside the blanket and beginning to shove his clothes into his bag. Sam watches him, confused, climbing out of his own bed and checking the time. He looks at Dean like he’s gone crazy, but Dean just rolls his eyes and keeps packing up his stuff.
“At home, in Nebraska, why?” she asks. Clearly, she had just called him as a shoulder to cry on. She hadn’t expected him to actually come to see her. Well, she’d expected wrong.
“Because I’m on my way,” he tells her.
“Dean, you don’t have to-”
“I know.” He zips up his bag. “But I am. Just…try to hold it together until we get there. We’ll help you figure this out. I promise.”
“Dean…” She trails off.
“Layla?” he prompts. He sees Sam’s eyes go wide.
“Thank you,” she whispers. Her words are soft, but her breathing is ragged, raw from crying. He closes his eyes and nods, mostly to himself. God, he freaking hates how wrecked she sounds.
“I’ll see you soon,” he says, then hangs up. He turns to Sam then, clearing his throat. “Pack your stuff, we’re going to Nebraska.” He heads to the door as Sam struggles to catch up, packing and grabbing his laptop in a rush. He jogs behind Dean, who stares ahead with single-minded determination.
“What the hell happened?” he asks. The sun is just barely rising over the horizon.
“I’ll tell you on the way,” Dean replies, pulling the door of the Impala open and swiftly climbing inside.
*
Layla seems to have calmed down a bit, her voice a bit more even but no less haunted, as she gives him directions to her house. It’s a nice neighborhood. It kind of reminds him of home, actually. Sam sits silently in the passenger seat, staring out the window and thinking so loudly Dean can almost hear him.
“Okay, we’re here,” Dean tells her as they pull into the driveway. Layla doesn’t reply and Dean hangs up his phone.
“Dean, wait,” Sam says, once again trying to catch up to Dean as he all but bolts from the car. Dean turns around and looks at him, annoyed and questioning. Sam sighs and runs his hand over the back of his neck.
“Do you think…do you think what happened to Layla’s mom…” Sam doesn’t finish, but Dean knows what he means. He’s asking if this is a job, or not. Dean knows it’s been on his mind since they started driving, but he hasn’t said it until know. When they’re mere feet away from Layla’s front door. His sense of timing royally blows, that’s for sure.
“I don’t know,” he replied simply, turning back around and heading for the door. And I don’t really care. He heard Sam sigh, but he ignored it and kept walking. Eventually, he heard footsteps falling behind him.
Layla opens the door before Dean can knock. Her face is puffy and pink. She looks like she’s been crying. “I’m so sorry, Layla,” Sam says. Dean hates that he can’t make himself say anything. He wants to, he tries, but his mind just goes blank. Sam’s always been better at this kind of thing than he has. But this is Layla. He wants to say something, for her. He just can’t seem to find the words.
“Thank you,” Layla says, solemnly, sniffling a little and wiping her eyes before tears can fall. She makes her face strong, tries to smile through the pain, just like Dean remembers. But when her eyes make their way to Dean, her face changes in such a way that his chest tightens. She meets his eyes, and he may not be able to say anything, but this, he can do. For her.
He pulls her into his arms. She didn’t see it coming, he can tell, because she freezes for half a second, as if she doesn’t know what to do, before she wraps her arms around his back and holds his shoulders in her tight grip, like a lifeline. He rests his cheek on top of her head as she molds her body against his. She just…fits there. Like nobody has before her.
“Thank you for coming,” she whispers, so softly he almost misses it. He shakes his head, rocking her a little bit, and she starts crying again. Long and hard, sobbing and shaking in his arms. It comes out of her like a flood, and he knows she’s been holding it in for way too long.
“Maybe you should sit down,” Sam suggests. Dean pretty much refuses to let go of her, navigating around her house, toward the living room and sitting her down. She wipes her eyes and her nose and tries to put on a brave face.
Sam sits down in a chair across from her. “What happened?”
Layla shakes her head and picks at imaginary lint on her jeans. “I don’t know,” she says. “She was healthy…and then she wasn’t. She just…” Layla closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “I couldn’t wake her up.”
Dean puts his hand on Layla’s back and looks over her shoulder at Sam.
“Do the doctors know what happened?” Sam asks.
“They said something about doing some tests…an autopsy…” She stops and her head keeps shaking. The more Dean looks at her, the more he starts to notice. Her skin has much more color than it did the last time he had seen her. She looks, sounds, stronger.
When Dean looks over at his brother again he can tell he’s thinking, taking in everything that she’s saying and trying to make sense of it all. Good thing, because all Dean’s thinking about is Layla.
“I have to plan a funeral.” Her voice sounds so disconnected, and she looks so lost. “I have to call our family, get things organized.” She tries to stand, but Dean grabs hold of her arm, as gently as possible, and sits her back down. She looks at him with wide, wet eyes.
“That can wait,” he tells her. “Just…one thing at a time.”
“He’s right,” Sam says. “You need to take things slowly, just for a little while.”
“I don’t…” Layla looks away from Dean, staring out into space, as if searching for the right words. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
Dean closes his eyes. He doesn’t know what to say to her. What is she supposed to do? What is anyone supposed to do? It’s been over twenty years since his Mom died and he still doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do?
What is there to be done?
“We can stay the night with you,” Sam offers. Dean nods, hand back on her back. He doesn’t know if it’s doing anything, but contact…it can’t be bad. Layla looks over at him, her expression soft, vulnerable. “Unless you feel like being alone.” No matter what anyone says, no one ever really wants to be alone. Especially at times like these.
“I…” She takes a deep breath. “Thank you.” She turns to Dean. “Thank you.”
He shakes his head, lost in the pain on her face, in her voice. She’s not ashamed of it, and there’s something damn amazing about that. She doesn’t try to hide it, and yet, somehow, she’s strong in spite of it.
“No problem,” he answers. And it isn’t. Not in the least.
TBC...
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It’s been a while since he’s heard from her. She’s been having new tests done at the hospital, and he’s been working, so there hasn’t been much time. They’ve spoken a handful of times since he first discovered her number stuffed between the pages of one of Sam’s books. But she’s never sounded so…upset.
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. A girl can dream, but, alas, that's all it is.
Author's Note: Follow up to I'm Reaching for the Phone. Used for philosophy_20, prompt #19: Caught in the form of limitation.
5:15 a.m. and Sam doesn’t wake up when the phone rings. Figures. Dean reaches blindly over to the end table, face still buried in his pillow, prepared to curse out Bobby, or whatever dumbass is on the other end of the line.
“What?” he says, gruffly. He’s sure his voice is muffled, but for the life of him, he can’t find the energy to even lift up his head.
“Dean?”
That gets him up. “Layla?”
It’s been a while since he’s heard from her. She’s been having new tests done at the hospital, and he’s been working, so there hasn’t been much time. They’ve spoken a handful of times since he first discovered her number stuffed between the pages of one of Sam’s books. But she’s never sounded so…upset.
She sniffles, and he knows she must be crying. He’d never admit it to anyone, ever, but he starts to panic just a little bit. “Layla, what’s wrong? What’s going on?”
“Something happened,” she manages to get out, before choking on a sob. Dean hears rustling and looks to his left to see Sam sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “It’s my Mom.”
His eyes closed. Shit. “What happened?”
“I have no idea,” she cries. Sam turns the light on and looks at Dean expectantly.
“Is she okay?” Sam whispers ‘who is it’, and Dean waves him off, annoyed. One thing at a freaking time. Layla takes a long time to calm herself down, sniffling and crying and all that Dean can do is wait. He suspects he knows the answer to his question already.
“She’s dead,” Layla finally answers. “And I don’t know how…” She’s rambling, and she probably knows she’s rambling, but she’s to worked up and to heartbroken to care. He’s not exactly a patient guy, but in her case, he can make an exception. “She was healthy one minute, and the next…she wasn’t.”
“Where are you?” Dean asks, throwing aside the blanket and beginning to shove his clothes into his bag. Sam watches him, confused, climbing out of his own bed and checking the time. He looks at Dean like he’s gone crazy, but Dean just rolls his eyes and keeps packing up his stuff.
“At home, in Nebraska, why?” she asks. Clearly, she had just called him as a shoulder to cry on. She hadn’t expected him to actually come to see her. Well, she’d expected wrong.
“Because I’m on my way,” he tells her.
“Dean, you don’t have to-”
“I know.” He zips up his bag. “But I am. Just…try to hold it together until we get there. We’ll help you figure this out. I promise.”
“Dean…” She trails off.
“Layla?” he prompts. He sees Sam’s eyes go wide.
“Thank you,” she whispers. Her words are soft, but her breathing is ragged, raw from crying. He closes his eyes and nods, mostly to himself. God, he freaking hates how wrecked she sounds.
“I’ll see you soon,” he says, then hangs up. He turns to Sam then, clearing his throat. “Pack your stuff, we’re going to Nebraska.” He heads to the door as Sam struggles to catch up, packing and grabbing his laptop in a rush. He jogs behind Dean, who stares ahead with single-minded determination.
“What the hell happened?” he asks. The sun is just barely rising over the horizon.
“I’ll tell you on the way,” Dean replies, pulling the door of the Impala open and swiftly climbing inside.
*
Layla seems to have calmed down a bit, her voice a bit more even but no less haunted, as she gives him directions to her house. It’s a nice neighborhood. It kind of reminds him of home, actually. Sam sits silently in the passenger seat, staring out the window and thinking so loudly Dean can almost hear him.
“Okay, we’re here,” Dean tells her as they pull into the driveway. Layla doesn’t reply and Dean hangs up his phone.
“Dean, wait,” Sam says, once again trying to catch up to Dean as he all but bolts from the car. Dean turns around and looks at him, annoyed and questioning. Sam sighs and runs his hand over the back of his neck.
“Do you think…do you think what happened to Layla’s mom…” Sam doesn’t finish, but Dean knows what he means. He’s asking if this is a job, or not. Dean knows it’s been on his mind since they started driving, but he hasn’t said it until know. When they’re mere feet away from Layla’s front door. His sense of timing royally blows, that’s for sure.
“I don’t know,” he replied simply, turning back around and heading for the door. And I don’t really care. He heard Sam sigh, but he ignored it and kept walking. Eventually, he heard footsteps falling behind him.
Layla opens the door before Dean can knock. Her face is puffy and pink. She looks like she’s been crying. “I’m so sorry, Layla,” Sam says. Dean hates that he can’t make himself say anything. He wants to, he tries, but his mind just goes blank. Sam’s always been better at this kind of thing than he has. But this is Layla. He wants to say something, for her. He just can’t seem to find the words.
“Thank you,” Layla says, solemnly, sniffling a little and wiping her eyes before tears can fall. She makes her face strong, tries to smile through the pain, just like Dean remembers. But when her eyes make their way to Dean, her face changes in such a way that his chest tightens. She meets his eyes, and he may not be able to say anything, but this, he can do. For her.
He pulls her into his arms. She didn’t see it coming, he can tell, because she freezes for half a second, as if she doesn’t know what to do, before she wraps her arms around his back and holds his shoulders in her tight grip, like a lifeline. He rests his cheek on top of her head as she molds her body against his. She just…fits there. Like nobody has before her.
“Thank you for coming,” she whispers, so softly he almost misses it. He shakes his head, rocking her a little bit, and she starts crying again. Long and hard, sobbing and shaking in his arms. It comes out of her like a flood, and he knows she’s been holding it in for way too long.
“Maybe you should sit down,” Sam suggests. Dean pretty much refuses to let go of her, navigating around her house, toward the living room and sitting her down. She wipes her eyes and her nose and tries to put on a brave face.
Sam sits down in a chair across from her. “What happened?”
Layla shakes her head and picks at imaginary lint on her jeans. “I don’t know,” she says. “She was healthy…and then she wasn’t. She just…” Layla closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “I couldn’t wake her up.”
Dean puts his hand on Layla’s back and looks over her shoulder at Sam.
“Do the doctors know what happened?” Sam asks.
“They said something about doing some tests…an autopsy…” She stops and her head keeps shaking. The more Dean looks at her, the more he starts to notice. Her skin has much more color than it did the last time he had seen her. She looks, sounds, stronger.
When Dean looks over at his brother again he can tell he’s thinking, taking in everything that she’s saying and trying to make sense of it all. Good thing, because all Dean’s thinking about is Layla.
“I have to plan a funeral.” Her voice sounds so disconnected, and she looks so lost. “I have to call our family, get things organized.” She tries to stand, but Dean grabs hold of her arm, as gently as possible, and sits her back down. She looks at him with wide, wet eyes.
“That can wait,” he tells her. “Just…one thing at a time.”
“He’s right,” Sam says. “You need to take things slowly, just for a little while.”
“I don’t…” Layla looks away from Dean, staring out into space, as if searching for the right words. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
Dean closes his eyes. He doesn’t know what to say to her. What is she supposed to do? What is anyone supposed to do? It’s been over twenty years since his Mom died and he still doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do?
What is there to be done?
“We can stay the night with you,” Sam offers. Dean nods, hand back on her back. He doesn’t know if it’s doing anything, but contact…it can’t be bad. Layla looks over at him, her expression soft, vulnerable. “Unless you feel like being alone.” No matter what anyone says, no one ever really wants to be alone. Especially at times like these.
“I…” She takes a deep breath. “Thank you.” She turns to Dean. “Thank you.”
He shakes his head, lost in the pain on her face, in her voice. She’s not ashamed of it, and there’s something damn amazing about that. She doesn’t try to hide it, and yet, somehow, she’s strong in spite of it.
“No problem,” he answers. And it isn’t. Not in the least.
TBC...