Fic: Third Wheel Keeps It Upright (4/4)

[i_speak_tongue]

TITLE: Third Wheel Keeps It Upright (complete)
AUTHOR: i_speak_tongue
FANDOMS/CHAR/PAIR: Supernatural/My So-Called Life x-over--Angela Chase, Rayanne Graff, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester--Dean/Rayanne(mild)
RATING: R--swearing?
SPOILERS: story is set circa 1996, but no specific spoilers for either show, besides general premise stuff.
DISC: I don't own, I just hoard.
A/N: So I lied. There are 4 parts. Go ahead, sue me. Also, I owe a huge thanks to sailorhathor, who beta'd this puppy, helped me smooth out the rough spots, and has been generally an awesome cheerleader. Thanks, hon!

SUMMARY:

At the third stoplight, there's this like old lady with blue hair who stares at me from behind the wheel of a Cadillac. Like she knows I'm like, personally responsible for the downfall of society. Driving around in an old black car on a school day, listening to Satan's music or whatever. She looks over at Sam and shakes her head. Corrupting younger kids, on top of everything. I'm obviously going to hell. She probably thinks Dean's going down on Rayanne in the back seat. If she even knows what that means.

I drive through a stop sign three blocks before we hit the hospital. Sam opens his mouth to say something, but doesn't. "We're almost there," I say.

I drop Rayanne, Dean and Sam off as close to the emergency room entrance as I can, and when I'm back from parking the car, I find Sam talking to the bald guy at the front desk and Rayanne and Dean sitting in the plastic waiting room chairs. Dean's bent over his lap, his fingers locked at the back of his neck, and Rayanne's rubbing his back in smooth little circles.

"I'm sorry. We don't have any free beds right now. He's just going to have to wait like everyone else," the bald guy says to Sam. I look around the ER. There are like, 3 everyone elses.

"But he's in pain!"

"We're all in pain, kid."

"Screw you," Sam mutters.

This isn't going so well. And like, I know Sam's supposed to do the talking or whatever? But right now, despite what he might think, he could obviously use some help.

"Sir? I'm sorry about this. But we're just very worried about… Rick. See, we're pretty sure he has a couple of broken ribs. And well, isn't that like, dangerous? I mean, he could be bleeding internally right now. He could like, die before we even get a bed, couldn't he? I mean, it's a possibility, right?" In my head, it's like it's a game or something. Manipulate the receptionist to get the doctor. So like, in addition to being kind of necessary, it's the only thing I can think of to keep myself from freaking out.

The guy looks over at Dean, who's not even close to faking how much pain he's in, and gets a vaguely worried look on his face.

"Hold on," he says, and picks up the phone.

"God," Sam says, the clipboard of insurance forms clutched tight to his chest, "you don't really think… I mean he's not gonna…" He looks over at his brother, and he's on the verge of tears. And he's very much, in like that exact moment, a 13-year-old kid. He believed everything I said, and now he's scared out of his mind. I like, can’t win.

"No! No. I just, you know, had to say that stuff, you know? He's gonna be okay. Okay?"

Sam nods his head really slowly, like he's trying to compose himself. "Oh. Yeah. Right. I'm sorry. I'm just…"

"Come on. You can fill those out over here," I say, and push on Sam's back a little, edging him towards his brother.

"How's he doing?" I ask Rayanne, crouching down in front of Dean, his face hidden in his knees. Rayanne shakes her head like she really has no idea, and Dean raises a hand in the air and gives us, considering the circumstances, a pretty enthusiastic thumbs-up.

Sam looks up from his clipboard and laughs bitterly. "Yeah, right."

Two minutes later, a nurse and an orderly are coaxing a resistant Dean into a wheelchair, holding him steady by his elbows, and Rayanne and I just sit there. Watching. Being uncomfortable and speechless. Dean's only allowed to bring one person along, and it's Sam without question. I can't help but feel bad for Rayanne, 'cause like, even though it's totally understandable that Dean would rather have his brother with him than his girlfriend of one week, it still has to sting. She doesn't look at him like she's only known him a week. Rayanne doesn't take time into account like that anyway. She either connects with you, or she doesn't. And if she does, it's like you might as well have known her your whole life. Or like, in another life.

As the orderly pushes Dean around the corner, I hear Sam say, "We gotta call Dad..." like that’s the most tragic thing about this whole day.

"He'll be okay. I mean… he will. He will, right?" Rayanne asks me, bouncing her knee, chewing on one of her braids.

"Pfft. Oh, yeah," I say, like she's clearly overreacting. "He probably just needs some painkillers or whatever. You know…"

"Yeah," Rayanne laughs nervously "Like, what a moron, right? Who would pass up a legitimate excuse for a Vicodin prescription?"

"Yeah. Pretty stupid," I nod in agreement, glancing around the waiting room casually, rubbing the tension out of my cheeks. So yeah, this is when the old lady shows up. The one from the stoplight? She's talking to the guy at reception. And for a minute, I'm like really happy she's here. So she can like, see us, and see that her preconceived notions about the degeneration of America's youth is, like, totally unfounded. Then again, her husband probably just had a stroke or something, so it's likely she doesn't give a shit. And is it like, totally evil that that makes me kind of angry or something too?

"Rayanne?" It's Amber. I snap out of my one-sided staring contest and up at Rayanne’s mom, who’s walking fast towards us, twisting her hair up in a scrunchie at the same time.

"Mom!"

"What the hell are you doing here? Did you take something? Don't lie to me!" she says, pointing a finger sternly at Rayanne's face, like she expects the worst from her on a regular basis.

Rayanne doesn’t answer, just crashes into her mom's arms, and waits to be pulled in. See, these are the moments that really make me feel uncomfortably young. 'Cause when you're with your friends it's like you exist in this alternate reality where everyone can see each other's true selves. Fine, you aren't adults, but you definitely aren't children either. So when something happens to like, sever that reality, something usually involving someone's parents rudely interrupting, or not getting it, or being totally overprotective and lame, it's just like... jarring. Sometimes though, it happens the other way around too, when you forget you aren't a little kid anymore.

"Rainy?"

"It's not her, Amber. It's Dean," I say.

"Oh, baby," Amber sighs, petting Rayanne's hair, "tell Mama what happened."

Like I said. Uncomfortable.

Considering the amount of holes that Dean's story--combined with our story of his story--has, it's like a miracle Amber agrees not to narc Dean out about the fake heath insurance.

"If anyone asks, I never met the kid before today. You got that, both of you?"

Rayanne and I nod enthusiastically, keenly aware of how lucky we are that Amber is this cool.

"I'll go find out how he's doin', okay? Sit tight." Amber winks, pats us on the head like she's playing duck-duck-goose or something, and disappears down the hallway in her white sneakers and lab coat.

Rayanne and I occupy ourselves in the waiting room by trying to come up with the best lie to tell my parents. It's like second nature, really. Both the urge to lie and the lies themselves. So it takes me a while to realize that I might actually be better off telling them the truth. Really. It's that unheard of.

After almost an hour, Amber reappears with Sam in tow, who looks even more worn out, but a little less freaked. And that's reassuring at least.

"He's back from X-ray. You want to see him?" Amber asks gently.

Rayanne nods and stands. I don't at first, not really sure of my place, but Rayanne grabs my arm and pulls me along. And I don't know who's doing who a favor. There's a doctor lingering outside Dean's room, a middle-aged guy with spiky red hair and a goofy smile. He and Amber exchange nods and she leaves us there with him, grumbling about being paged to Obstetrics or Ob-something something.

"Playin' hooky, huh?" the doctor says, like he's trying to reconnect with his childhood. Rayanne and I just look at him like he's wasting our time. "Well I guess you've got a pretty good excuse. Although I don't see why you couldn't get-"

"Doc," Rayanne barks, "cut the crap and tell us how our boy is." I really envy her bluntness sometimes.

"He's pretty banged up," he explains, leading us into Dean's room, "but he'll be fine."

Sam's already taken sentry at the foot of his bed, having sneaked in ahead of us without me noticing, and he's glancing back and forth nervously between the doctor and his brother. Sure, Dean doesn't look horrible. But he doesn't meet the requirements for what normal people, including Sam, consider "fine" either. Dean's still in some amount of pain, from the look of it. His bed is angled so that he's sitting up a little, and it's clear that he's had some help getting there, the way the pillows are jammed behind his head and neck kind of crooked and haphazardly. But he smiles at Rayanne and arches his eyebrows up towards the IV in satisfaction. Whatever's in there, it's like obviously taken the edge off.

"So, Rick. Your X-rays showed three cracked ribs," the doctor continues, "and some inflammation was putting pressure--"

"Son?"

Enter Dad Winchester. A rough-looking, dark-haired man who looks like a mix between a lumberjack and a Russian U-Boat captain. So like, outdoorsy, and intimidating. Even the doctor can't help but back away from the scene a little, respect the man's extra-large personal bubble.

Dean looks like shit lying there with an IV in his arm and pale as a ghost, and his dad strides up to him and takes his head in both his hands, like the only way he can convince himself that Dean's in one piece is to like, feel that he is.

"Mr. Savage, I presume?" says the doctor, trying to draw attention to himself.

"What's the story, Doc?" Mr. Winchester asks without breaking eye contact with his kid.

"Seems like Rick here was in a pretty serious fight. Cracked three ribs. Although this was yesterday at some point. You must have known about it. Why didn't you bring him in?" It's not really an accusatory tone. The way Dean's dad touches his face and just... everything about his body language says... God, that this man probably cares more about his sons' well being than anything on the planet. I look over at Rayanne a little shamefully. I like, know she knows what I must have been thinking back at school, the thoughts I dared entertain regarding the reasoning behind Dean's lies, behind his pristine, ivory knuckles. And now, I'm not at all surprised that the way the doctor asks why Mr. Winchester didn't bring Dean in has nothing to do with suspicion, and more to do with a vague sense of self-righteous disappointment with non-medically trained laypeople. Or whatever.

"Kid's tough. I... I didn't think it was that bad. Told him to...." Mr. Winchester trails off, realizes he's looking down at Dean, but not actually addressing him. "I told you to stay home, kiddo... Christ...." he says, his eyes dancing worriedly all over Dean's body, his voice sad, confused, and only slightly angry.

"I know," Dean sighs.

"He's lucky there was no internal bleeding. I've seen punctured lungs from drunken fights at keggers put kids on ventilators. No fun spending Prom night in the ICU."

"Actually, it'd be a close tie between the two," Dean scoffs. Rayanne laughs and Mr. Winchester rolls his eyes, clearly used to his son's disgruntled attitude towards clichéd high school rituals. And I can like, totally imagine myself saying the same thing, my dad rolling his eyes the same way too.

"I'm not saying you're out of the woods completely here, Rick. I'd like to keep you overnight, just to be safe. There is some inflammation near your left lung that we should keep an eye on until it goes down. And you'll need to stay off your feet for a few more days after that..."

"So no spelunking, but deep sea diving is cool?"

"Only if it's through the magic of the Discovery Channel, dude," Mr. Winchester says, tracing his fingers along the edge of the stitches on the side of Dean's forehead.

"Anyway, you folks let Rick here get some rest. I expect him to be asleep, or at least counting sheep when I come back around in an hour, okay?"

He glares at Rayanne and me in particular, both of us having receded into the background since Mr. Winchester’s grand entrance, leaning on the wall next to the door. We both nod silently as the doctor brushes past us.

"So what the hell were you thinking?" Mr. Winchester asks, like he's been holding the question in since he got here.

"I just... I wanted to say goodbye is all...." Dean's eyes dart quickly over to Rayanne, and Mr. Winchester squints his eyes at her and smirks.

"So... you must be that girl Sammy was teasin' his big brother about all weekend."

Rayanne glances over at Sam, who shrugs and smiles crookedly.

"Rayanne Graff," she says, and sticks out her hand for a shake, twisting a strand of hair playfully with the other, like she's suddenly got it in her head that Dean's dad is pretty hot too, and flirting with him in front of his son--her boyfriend--could be pretty hilarious. She so has issues.

He takes her up on her offer, though, and shakes her hand. "John Winchester. I guess I should thank you for dragging Dean's sorry ass to the ER," he says, lightheartedly.

"Actually, Angela's the one who did the dragging. I was in charge of hand-holding," Rayanne says. And of course, Dean frowns at the hand-holding bit, which makes me laugh a little.

"Well thanks. Both of you. I hope you didn't miss some real important pop quiz or something..." The way he says it, you'd think he'd only read about high school in books or something.

"God. I hope so!" Rayanne nearly shouts.

"Right. You're Dean's friends," Mr. Winchester says, shaking his head, like that explains everything. And I guess it does. "Listen, you girls didn't... I mean... the fake name..."

"They're cool, Dad," Sam says, taking a moment from picking at the paint peeling off the metal bed frame. And it's so casually claimed that Mr. Winchester seems pretty convinced.

"It's none of our business, Sir," I say. He seems like the kind of Dad that's reassured by 'sir's. "We haven't said a word."

"Yeah. Good. Now why don't you girls go down to the gift shop," he says, handing Rayanne twenty bucks, "and get my boy here some flowers and chocolates and maybe one of those big deformed-looking stuffed giraffes."

Dean groans.

"His favorite is tulips!" Sam adds.

"You are so dead!" Dean points at Sam and squints bitterly.

"No problem, Boss," Rayanne says to Mr.Winchester, winking at the mildly amused older guy.

Dean calls after us as we head into the hallway, "Seriously... just chocolates..."

Once we're out of earshot, Rayanne pockets the cash and stops.

"What?" I ask, 'cause I can tell by the look on her face that her plans don't involve a visit to the gift shop.

"There's only one way to find out what the hell is up with this family, Angela," she says, inching back towards Dean's room. Right. Eavesdrop. Clearly. "Be vewy vewy quiet..." she whispers, like this is the most appropriate time and place for a bad Elmer Fudd impression like, ever. As opposed to, you know, never.

The door is still open, and Rayanne slides up against the wall and onto the floor, as close as she can sit without her green Doc Martens being seen sticking out from inside the room. She tucks her legs up close to her body, and I sit beside her in the same way, if somewhat reluctantly.

We can hear them.

"I've already packed the truck, Dean," Mr. Winchester says. It's the answer to a question we missed.

"Yes sir."

"There's nothing left for us here. And if we don't get up to Connecticut by Wednesday morning, I'll miss my chance with this thing. One day of research is already cutting it close."

"I know."

"But Dad! Why can't someone else go?" It's Sam now, his voice cracking and desperate. "Caleb or someone..."

"Because, Sam. This isn't his job. It's mine. So you need to say goodbye tonight. We leave first thing in the morning."

It's silent for a moment, and I look over at Rayanne, the fact that we likely won't see Dean again after tonight starting to sink in. Her face becomes pinched, and her hands twist fiercely at her thick black tights.

"And Dean?"

"What Dad?" Dean asks, and he sounds so tired that Rayanne flinches in sympathy.

"You can't do this again. You know that, right? That girl... you... she cares about you. And now you're leavin'. It's not fair to her. You understand?"

"Yes sir."

"I'm sorry, Dean."

"Yeah."

"This is how it has to be."

I don't know what it is, but something about those words measure up to the last of what Rayanne can take, and she darts down the hall, and shoves her way through a crowd of nurses into an empty stairwell.

"Rayanne?"

The heavy door shuts behind us with a loud click-thump, and she grunts and kicks the wall. Spins on her heels, and pulls at her hair. "That bastard!" she growls. "I'm gonna rip his fucking head off!" She's pacing frantically now, and all I can do is like, watch. I feel like she might explode or something if I make the wrong move.

"Rayanne, stop."

"It's just so typical," she says with a crazed little laugh. "He thinks he can control Dean’s life like that? What an ego! Ha!"

"Rayanne, what are you..."

She stops, looks past me to the door back into the hallway.

"I can't just... It's too fucking unfair, Angela. I can't."

She pushes past me and dashes back towards Dean's room. By the time I catch up with her, she's already sunk her claws into John Winchester.

"You think you can just drag your kids through the mud with you?" she asks, pointing at Dean, but staring deep and hard up into Mr. Winchester's stone steady eyes.

"You've got no right. You know that, don't you?" he says calmly.

"What?" Rayanne hisses. "You think you're like, genetically entitled to fuck them up like that? You can't just make these huge life-altering decisions for him and expect him to accept it as the biblical truth or something! Because YOU decided that this is what's best for him. If you think he buys that load of crap for one minute, you're dreaming, man. Dreaming!"

"Rayanne..." Dean sighs, twisting uncomfortably in his hospital bed. He looks sad more than anything. Not scared of what his Dad might do, not angry at Rayanne for bitching him out. Just tired and miserable. Sam huddles close to him, a scrawny hand clutching the corner of Dean's pillow like he's ready to stand between his big brother and anything that might hurt him more.

And Rayanne just keeps at it. "No, Dean. I have to... He needs to... Look at you! You can't let him decide that... he doesn't know what you need! You need to stay. You need to stay here..."

"I'm sorry, kid. I am. But you're wrong," Mr. Winchester sighs, his arms folded across his chest. He shakes his head a little, and it's like he actually does feel sorry for her. Rayanne takes a step back, shakes her head like she can't bring herself to understand or accept any of it.

"No," she says. "It doesn't have to be like this. You don't have to..."

"He does," Dean says.

"Why?"

"Damnit, Rayanne... there are things you don't understand, okay? It's complicated."

"Is that what he tells you? Is that the line he like, feeds you and Sam when he... every time he drags your ass out of town? 'It's complicated'? I've heard that line, man. It's bullshit," she says, glaring at Dean's dad. And like, so obviously looking at her own.

I can’t let her do this to herself anymore, because she’s lost any rational perspective. Not that I don’t think what Dean’s dad is doing is like, totally unfair. But what Rayanne’s pissed off about is so much more than that now. And it’s just like, painful. To watch her freak out about that shit, not even realizing that it’s her dad she’s really mad at, and not Dean’s. And maybe she’s mad at the universe too, for handing her such a raw deal. Handing them such a raw deal. Taking Dean away from her after just one measly week. I understand why she’s so angry. I honestly do. But I can’t stand it anymore, you know?

"Rayanne. Stop," I say, a hand on her shoulder. And she does. We all do. Dean lets out a quiet moan, and we all turn to him like suddenly everyone's remembering why we're here in the first place. Not for some emotional showdown between Rayanne and Dean's dad. For Dean. Because Dean's hurt.

His dad steps up to the edge of his bed and lays a hand on Dean's cheek. "You okay?" he asks carefully. Dean nods slightly, eyes swept down to the white cotton bedding. John glares up at Rayanne and me, like he's on the edge of calling security on us.

"Five minutes," is all he says, and he drags Sam with him out into the hall. I linger just outside the door, too nervous to stray any further. Plus I just feel like, too desperately wrapped up in Rayanne's emotions right now to leave her. So I provide them like, the illusion of privacy by hiding behind a wall.

Yes, I have no class. I’m aware.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"Don't be. That's probably the nicest thing a girl's ever done for me. Even if it was like, way misguided."

"So. This pretty much sucks," Rayanne sighs in her defeated voice.

"Tell me about it," Dean groans.

"Are you gonna be okay?"

"I've had worse." It doesn't really answer the question. "What about you? Think you'll ever get over me?"

"Please. I already have a make-out session with Andrew Pavina lined up for Friday night."

"Isn't he on the debate team?"

"No way. That's Andrew Risley. Andrew Pavina's captain of the swim team," Rayanne says, like she's pre-bragging or something.

"Hope you like 'em hairless..."

"Well, I do think shaving is a double standard. Better that guys do it too, as opposed to like girls, you know... not," Rayanne says, and I can just imagine the grossed out face she's making to go along with that.

"Wow, you’re a real feminist."

"Dean, I... "

"Suck at goodbyes?" Dean says plainly. There's a pause, then, "Yeah, me too."

So, my parents have told me like, next to nothing about what they did in high school. It's like they actually don't remember like, specific events or something. All I ever hear about are really vague references to my mom being super popular and my dad being some kind of geek-hippie hybrid. But there are never like, stories. Events. With like, details. Mom told me once that she kept a diary, but that she burned it in college after taking a Feminist Literature class or something, and realized all she'd ever written about was boys. But just because that's all she wrote about, does that really mean nothing else happened? Maybe she just didn't know what was important when it was actually happening. Like how people never really understand how a war started until years later when it's in history textbooks. Or maybe, like the really important stuff, the stuff that doesn't have anything to do with like, gossip and dating and talking behind your best friend's back, maybe that stuff is just too sacred to write about in your diary. Because putting it down on the page after the one about how that guy from summer camp kisses would just force you to recognize the extreme frivolity of the rest of your pathetic existence.

So I could write in my diary about driving Dean Winchester to the hospital in his Chevy Impala with no power steering, about dragging his little brother out of school, about how strange and mysterious their lives seemed to be, and that despite how wrapped up in them we'd become for this like, brief moment in time, Rayanne and I still don't really know who they are, and never really will. Because like, it doesn't really matter if you think you know about someone because you've been going to the same school for ten years, or if you think you know them because you've actually spent time with them and been through shit with them, or even because they're like, your parents. None of that really matters. Because really? All you know is what other people let you know. What they think is safe for you to know. And I guess you do the same, right? Like sometimes, it’s to keep someone else from getting hurt. And other times... well, that’s what you tell yourself when really it’s you you’re protecting.

That's why I don't keep a diary. It's one less person to lie to.