All My Life, I've Lived for Loving You - Some Things Are Meant to Be, Pt. 2, R
Title: All My Life, I've Lived for Loving You...
Series: Some Things Are Meant to Be
Author: thelonejuliet
Character/Pairing: Sam, Dean
Word Count: 4, 102
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence, language, mentions of incest
Disclaimer: I don't own them...they totally own me.
Spoilers: Maybe a slight one for In My Time of Dying, and Hunted.
Summary: After a fight, Dean gets into a dangerous situation.
Author's Notes: Thanks to my darling tempestquill beta-ing this for me! You are 500 kinds of awesome!
Also!! This is turning into an AU. John is still alive and kicking - but he doesn't really come into play yet.
The title of this story/series comes from the song "Some Things are Meant to Be" from the musical, Little Women. Lyrics found here.
This is the second story in this series, the first being Tide Turning Endlessly.
All My Life, I've Lived for Loving You
Twenty minutes after Dean walked out the door, Sam was already climbing the walls. He was in a random motel room - completely bored, thoroughly confused, and insanely lonely. He flopped back onto the bed nearest the door and tried to figure out how the night had turned out so wrong. After scouring out the area and talking to a few locals to get their take on the missing girls, the brothers had decided to hit the bar. The plan was to have a few beers, maybe earn some money at the pool table, then tuck in for the night. Together. But, Sam had single-handedly, it seemed, managed to mess that all up.
He couldn’t even recall what exactly had set him off about the girl. Yeah, there was no mistaking what she wanted. She’d had a look in her eyes that could only be seen elsewhere from an African lioness stalking her prey. And, yes, Dean was flirting. But, his brother had made a very valid point - he flirted with everyone. It was just part of the charm. He couldn’t readily see anything different about the situation.
Though, he had to admit to himself that - maybe - that wasn’t the entire truth. There was a key difference. When the girl, in all of her bottle-blonde glory, leaned over and offered Dean the “blow job of his life,” or whatever the hell it was, he declined. He stood back, smiled at her with a quick wink to Sam and passed on the offer.
Racking his brain, Sam couldn’t think of one instance where his brother had passed up a chance for sex unless there was a job to be done immediately and people to save. And, with this girl, he didn’t look remorseful; there wasn’t even enough time for him to consider - seriously consider - what she was suggesting.
Knowing that, he suddenly felt ridiculous. Why had he never seen that before? Was he just not paying attention? He realized now that Dean had been faithful to him, even without having been asked. His brother, the womanizing Dean Winchester who had at least one girl in every town across America who would remember him in a heartbeat and countless others who would drop what they were doing at a wink from the man, was being monogamous. Well, as far as Sam could tell. But then that begged the question: Why the hell did he just suggest that we end this?
They had danced around each other for years, each not knowing how the other would respond to the subject. And, then one night, a couple months after Jessica’s death, he had leaned over in the Impala and kissed Dean. There was no reason behind it, other than the fact that he wanted to - and he’d wanted to for so long. There wasn’t even a prompt for it. They had just been sitting at a rest stop, discussing where to go next, when Sam just stopped and looked, really looked, at his older brother.
The sunlight was streaming in through the windshield and the driver’s-side window, illuminating Dean’s profile in a sort of angelic light. He studied the chiseled features - the strong jaw, the defined cheekbones, the plush lips - and suddenly Dean looked like something out of Greek drama, like the tragic hero. And, the beauty that he saw was just so breathtaking that he had to get closer to it. So, he’d reached out and turned Dean’s face towards his and, in mid sentence, placed a kiss on the older man’s lips.
At first, he’d felt resistance, but as Sam refused to stop, he eventually got the response he’d wanted. Everything and everyone else had disappeared at the initial contact. And the sensation was too good to let go. Then it hit him: Dean was kissing him back. The implications of that simple act were Earth-shattering.
The fact that Dean might actually want him too had never seemed like a real possibility to Sam, just a fantasy that he could store in the back of his mind and jerk off to when need-be. Of course, looking back after the knowledge had been gained, they were both pretty obvious about it. The lingering touches, the comfort that was always too-readily given, the length that either brother was willing to go to for the protection of the other.
After an admission was made on both parts, the dance continued. But now it more resembled an adults’ dance instead of the outstretched, locked arms of a 13-year-old. They took things slow, feeling their way into the relationship. It was almost a month before they’d even had sex, when making out and the subsequent petting wasn’t enough.
That fact right there was the reason that Sam knew this whole thing between them was more than just physical. It was, most likely, the most meaningful relationship he’d ever had. Oh, he’d loved Jess. But he couldn’t give his entire heart to her, not when a huge portion of it would always belong to Dean. But, Dean…Dean he could give it all to. He could give up his heart and soul to the man that had already given the same to him.
* * *
Walking in from the chilly fall air, Dean plopped himself down on one of the stools at the bar and ordered himself a beer. His mind jumping from one subject to the next, he played with the label and tried to keep his mind from wandering to the thought of Sam alone in the hotel room, dealing with what was said. He hated himself for the way he acted and all he wanted to do was run back to the hotel room, gather the younger man in his arms and kiss him until neither one of them could breathe. But, he knew that it would most likely just end up starting another fight - or worse, a heartfelt conversation that would fulfill his chick-flick quota for the next millennium.
By the time he was halfway through his second beer, he heard a vaguely familiar voice call out to him, though not by name. He turned around on the barstool and noticed one of the guys that he’d been hustling earlier in the evening, at the previous bar; if memory served him right, he’d managed to get an easy hundred out of him. And, he didn’t look happy.
And, he had friends.
“Excuse me?” Dean asked, not quite catching what the guy had said before.
“I said,” the guy repeated, slowly, with a menacing smirk, “Did you leave the little housewife at home?’”
The guy’s buddies, seven of them in all, cackled around him. As they moved forward, Dean had to suppress the laugh that was trying so hard to escape him. The men were pounding their fists of one hand in to the palm of the other, looking like a 50s B movie.
He instinctively sized them up, even though he knew there was no way he could take them all. The leader looked to be in his mid-30s, sandy blond hair, angled face, cold blue eyes, tall enough and looked strong, but the little beer gut threw off the badass look he was going for.
The others were around the same age, and none of them looked too strong. But, he knew better than to underestimate people. Especially townies who had nothing better to do than pick on those who were unfortunate enough to pass through - and he had the scars to remind him.
He backed up against the counter, trying to keep all of them in his sight. It’d be just his luck for one of them to detach and sneak around behind him. He was scared. But, there was no way he was admitting that to these hicks.
So, he calmly replied, “Housewife? Oh, you mean the big guy? He’s a lightweight, turned in early. Did you want to make him an offer, though? He is a little girly. And in desperate need of a hard-working husband.”
The men just leered at him.
In his peripheral vision, he scoped out the bar, hoping against hope that someone would stop this before it began. To his dismay, the only other people in the building were a couple hidden in the corner, playing tonsil hockey, and the bartender, who was Godknowswhere. He realized then that he was screwed. Anything more than two on one was an unfair fight and even with all of his training, there was no way he would be able to get out of this one without serious damage.
There was no hope of making a run for it. These yahoos would just block his way to the exit. Or they would just chase after him, in the unlikely event that he made it out the door. He’d had enough alcohol that he was pretty sure he wouldn’t make it back to the room in time to lock these guys out. Besides, if he tried to run, he would just lead them to Sammy. And that was out of the question.
Belatedly, one in the group came up with a comeback, albeit not a clever one. “Aw, look Simon,” he said to the man who’d spoken first, obviously the ringleader, “he’s a smartass.”
Dean just rolled his eyes and tried to stop his hands from trembling. He knew that his eyes were getting wider with every second that passed, and he could practically feel his face getting paler. He prayed that these guys were too drunk or too stupid to notice and realize what it meant. What’s the first rule with dealing with animals? Don’t show fear.
After too many beats of silence, Simon leaned over to put his beer bottle on the bar, his mouth right next to Dean’s ear. “We don’t stand for faggots around here, boy. And that goes double for cheaters.”
With that, he stood up straight and grabbed Dean’s leather jacket, and started to pull him outside. The other six followed behind quickly, as if to hide what they were doing from the bar. Dean could hear the laughter and cringed inwardly at how cliché the whole situation was. Man gets hustled out of a few dollars, gets friends to kick his ass. Nice. The jerk couldn’t even fight his own battles.
The first punch to the stomach caught Dean unawares and he doubled over, gasping for the air that was so unceremoniously ripped from him. When a second hit didn’t come immediately, he took the opportunity to slide his hand in his jacket packet, where his cell phone was concealed. He knew that he was going to need medical attention after this was all over. He automatically hit the speed dial for Sam’s cell, hoping that they were in synch enough for his brother to find him.
As soon as he felt the slight vibration of the phone, indicating that it was ringing, a foot landed against the small of his back, causing him to stumble forward onto his hands and knees. Next came a foot from either side, right into his ribcage. He fell onto his left side and curled in on himself, trying to protect his midsection.
Simon pulled him up off the ground and growled out, “You’re not getting out of this so easy. You think you’re so tough, fight back.”
As he stood up, still struggling to breathe, he was surprised to find that the other six guys had stepped back, forming a misshapen circle - leaving him alone with Simon. He was sizing each of them up again, trying to figure out the weakest link, which one he could take out and break the loop. Just then, he faintly heard Sam’s voice on the phone, saying his name, and he flew into action - even if just to cover up the sounds of his brother’s voice. He straightened up as much as he could and threw a hard right hook, getting a grim satisfaction from the sickening sound of Simon’s jaw cracking.
* * *
Just as he opened up his laptop to check back over the information they had acquired on the missing girls, Sam heard his cell phone ring. He jumped a little too quickly, trying to answer it, and ended up stumbling. More or less unfazed, he crawled over to his jacket and fished the phone - with the offending ring tone, result of another prank war - out of the pocket. He made a mental note to change that later.
Lifting the phone to his ear, he asked tiredly, “Hello? Dean?”
The only thing he got in response was a low growl and then the sound of bone hitting bone. His heart immediately started racing as he wondered who was hitting who. Dean had been a little steamed when he’d walked out; it was entirely possible that he had gone and picked a fight with some poor Joe just to vent a little.
But, when he heard the sound of several men laughing along with the resounding thud of a body hitting the concrete, he knew that his brother had gotten the raw end of the deal. He wouldn’t have deliberately picked a fight with more than one person, and definitely not more than two. He’d had a couple shots at the bar they’d been at before and had most likely had more alcohol since. He’d have known that he couldn’t take on more than two guys sober, nevertheless in an inhibited state.
Keeping his phone to his ear, Sam scrambled about the room, pulling his shoes on and trying to tie them up one-handed. He could hear Dean groaning now and yelling obscenities. Those sounds were mixed in with the sounds of punches being thrown and kicks hitting their mark, in too fast of a succession to be from the same person. The laughter of the group assaulting Dean was cutting in and out of the action, adding a surreal soundtrack that only made Sam want to bash some heads in.
As he pulled on his jacket and reached for the door, he suddenly realized that he had no idea where to go. There were several bars within walking distance and if he started the wrong direction, he might be too late to help his brother escape serious injury. He wasn’t sure how pissed off these guys were, or what Dean had done to anger them in the first place. There was no telling how far this would go before it was over.
That’s when he heard someone shout “Billy, give me your knife.”
* * *
“Billy, give me your knife,” Simon yelled at one of tagalongs.
Dean attempted to maneuver himself around enough to look up. He quickly tried to memorize what these guys looked like. He’d need to identify them for the police. Or Sam. Whoever was going to provide more justice.
He glanced up in enough time to see Billy hand over the knife. He catalogued it - short, chubby, brown hair, scruffy, big nose, close-set eyes. Check.
As Simon moved towards him again, he instinctively curled up into the fetal position. He already knew that a few ribs were broken; there were bruises quickly forming up and down his torso, front and back. He could feel blood trickling down from his nose, mixing with that coming out of his mouth. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he felt the warmth of blood on the back of his head from that beer bottle that one of them - the others had called him Scotty: tall, scrawny, big ears, freckled face, blond hair - had busted open on his shin, another place from which blood was oozing.
He could also feel the five bruises forming around his neck from where Chris - average height, black hair, chubby face, big ears - had attempted to make him pass out. His left shoulder was dislocated from where Johnny - red hair, freckles, gap in his front teeth, thin lips, big chin - had caught one of the punches coming for him and twisted it behind his back. He decided that a knife was most definitely the last thing he needed.
Simon pulled him up by his left arm, ripping a scream from Dean’s throat. Dean tried to muffle the sound, by biting into his right shoulder, but enough got through to get the hillbillies cackling again. He couldn’t help but pray, to whatever god was listening, for this to be over. He was beyond caring how it ended; he just wanted the pain to stop. He knew he was on the verge of tears and he tightly shut his eyes, not wanting to give the assholes the satisfaction.
“Boy, you sure have caused a lot of trouble in this town. It’s not nice to steal from the locals. And, then you’ve got the nerve to go prancing around with your faggot boyfriend. It’s disgusting. There are upstanding citizens in this town. You’ve got no right to force your good-for-nothing lifestyle on us,” Simon spat out.
Dean opened his eyes, tears be damned. He put on the smirk and stared at the older man defiantly. He ignored the pain in his shoulder, by which he was being held up. He ignored the pain everywhere else. This bastard thought he was doing society a favor? Oh, Hell no.
“Upstanding citizens, eh? Wouldn’t happen to be talking about those like yourself, now are ya? ‘Cause you see, where I come from, you have to be human to be considered a citizen. All I see is a bunch of dogs. I bet you lot even greet each other the standard way too, don’t ya? Sniffing each others’ asses and all. And…well, as for upstanding? It seems to me that you’ve set the bar nice and low for the neighboring communities.”
The sudden pain in his gut took a moment to register, even though he felt the odd sensation of the knife being pushed in. He was rocked up onto the tips of his toes, half from a natural attempt to separate his body from the offending object, half from the sheer force of the action. He felt like his stomach was on fire, as the muscles clung to the blade, in an effort to close the wound and stop the flow of blood.
Dean looked into the other man’s blue eyes, hatred burning bright, and knew that utter bewilderment was showing in his own green ones. All of this because they thought he was gay? Of course, it had never occurred to him to simply explain that Sam was his brother. He wasn’t sure if it was on principle alone or because…well…he was sleeping with the guy. Maybe it was a little of both. Either way, it shouldn’t matter.
The Winchesters would have been gone in a couple days and the townsfolk, whether they were offended or not, wouldn’t even remember them after an hour. They weren’t harming anyone by just being, dammit.
Simon pulled the knife out, cutting the sinews once again on the way out, and Dean only managed to stay on his feet for a few seconds. He reached down with his right hand, and felt the blood pulsing out between his fingers. He looked up once more at the men around him before collapsing to the ground. He knew that if he didn’t get help soon, he was going to lose too much blood. He’d go into shock, and then he’d die.
Oh God…who was going to look after Sammy?
He reached into his jacket pocket for his cell phone, hoping that Sam had left the connection open; because there was no way he was going to be able to dial a number. As he fumbled with the object, he heard voices around him.
“Simon!”
“What the fuck have you done, man?!”
“We gotta get outta here!”
“What if someone saw us?!”
Dean finally managed to lift the phone to his ear and brokenly whispered, “Sammy?”
Sam’s thin voice came over the line. He sounded terrified and Dean knew that he’d heard everything. “Dean? Oh, God. Where are you?! Are you okay?”
He heard the sound of the Impala’s engine starting on the phone, and he imagined that he faintly heard it in the distance as well. He felt like time was running out. He needed to say so much. He needed to tell Sam that he loved him, tell Sam to find Dad again and tell him that he was sorry, and that he’d had to be the one to save Sam. He regretted letting Dad walk out of the hospital after the car crash. They should have all been together, as a family. Then maybe the end of his life, which was so near, wouldn’t seem so tragic.
In the end, all he could muster up the strength to say was “I’ve always loved you, Sammy. Never forget that.”
Dean coughed, nearly choking on the blood in his mouth. He tried to say goodbye, but that just resulted in more coughing, more sputtering.
Then everything went dark.
* * *
Sam could hear his brother on the other end of the line, obviously hurt. But, he refused to believe that he was dying. Not his brother goddammit; not Dean. Not. Dean. Dean Winchester was not going to die at the age of 27, and not in a bar fight. Dean Winchester was either going to go down in a blaze of glory or die an old man, too senile to remember his own name. Sam Winchester was going make sure of that.
He sat in the idling car for a split second before he picked a direction. Call it intuition; call it a premonition; call it just knowing your older brother too goddamned well. It didn’t matter how he suddenly knew where Dean was, it just mattered that he knew.
As he rounded the corner into the bar’s parking lot, he could see a group of about six or seven men start at the sound of squealing tires. Sam threw the car in park and jumped out, leaving the engine running. He yelled at the men to leave - or, rather, to get the fuck out of his way.
The gang scattered at the sight of their prey’s six-foot-four sibling, all strong muscles and fury. They ran to their cars, three climbing into a red Ford pick-up, and the other four cramming into a white sedan. Sam stored those facts into the back of his brain.
Dean was lying on his back, left arm in an awkward position, right arm clutching his abdomen. Even from 15 feet away, where he’d parked Dean’s baby, he could see the tiny pool of blood underneath his brother’s left side. He ran to the older man, and automatically checked his pulse, just to be sure. He noticed the fingerprint-shaped bruises on Dean’s neck and tried not to push too hard on the vein.
Having confirmation that Dean was, in fact, still alive, he ripped off his jacket, followed by his flannel shirt. He used the latter to put pressure on the wound in Dean’s stomach, the obvious source of the majority of the blood. Gently, but firmly, pulling his brother into his arms, Sam stood up and carried his brother into the passenger seat of the car. He ran back to quickly grab his jacket and his brother’s cell phone.
He then climbed into the driver’s seat and laid his jacket over Dean, knowing that blood loss and the cold weren’t going to mix well. He unceremoniously threw the Impala into drive and tore out of the parking lot, heading for the nearest emergency room.
He tried to keep his hands from shaking, knowing that it would do neither of them any good to get in a car wreck. He reached over and grabbed his brother’s limp left hand, in desperate need of reassurance that he was there with him. Even with the contact, he couldn’t erase the picture of Dean lying in the bar’s parking lot. His skin had been so pale that his freckles looked like some sort of cheap Halloween make-up. His hair was matted with blood, his mouth and chin covered in it. The cheap luminescent lighting of the street lamps only served to grotesquely distort the scene, making everything look worse.
Making it look like he was already dead.
Sam shook his head, hard, and concentrated on the task at hand: get Dean to the hospital. Dean may have said his goodbyes, but Sam wasn’t ready yet. Dean had been there his entire life. The immediate future was not going to be an exception.
3rd Story - ...Let Me Go Now
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