PART I: The Boys Winchester

The race was barely nine minutes old when Dean Winchester lost his steering rudder.

At 690 kilometres an hour.

Cursing, he was forced to slow down to a near stop, swinging past the racer who'd blown out his tail fin and steering rudder, and less than a second later two other hover cars had roared past him. The rock formations and forest at the base of the Rockies in the north-west corner of Montana made for a dangerous racing territory, but nowhere near as dangerous as many of the other regional races they'd participated in. This guy was just an amateur with a junkyard car; but nonetheless, an amateur who may have just cost Dean the race.

He thumped the steering wheel. "Son of a bitch!" he yelled. Gritting his teeth, he pulled the car up to a complete stop, hovering three feet above the jutting rock piles and twisted in his seat. "What do we do now?" he ground out.

Sam, his little brother and navigator, was frantically recalculating their course based on their new disadvantage. "Hold on, hold on…" he muttered, pencil scribbling.

"We don't have time, Sam!"

"Got it!" he cried a second later, voice breaking. "Head north, Dean, we gotta head north!"

"I'm on it," Dean replied, and jammed his feet to the thrusters.

Off they shot, without steering, relying solely on Dean's almost supernatural skill at the wheel of a hover car to keep them in the air. But that was nothing new.

Hover technology had changed the world in a lot of ways.

Specifically, the inventor's decision release the technology for free to the public had changed the world. Not only had it completely revolutionized transport, but it had solved the oil crisis – hover technology made use of the Earth's magnetic waves, and thus had no need for fuel. Makers of cars, buses, even boats and aeroplanes seized the technology and churned out new products for the rapidly changing world. Soon every wheeled car on Earth was considered outdated, vintage, useless.

And, of course, there came the hover car racers.

The first models had been simply refitted, reformulated F1 cars, already built for insane land speeds. With new fittings, they became capable of flight speed up to 900 kilometres an hour; only the insane or foolhardy would dare try it.

Hover car racers were a special breed, but were becoming more numerous in the world. Kids as young as eleven were building, tinkering, driving the cars and all were striving for the same goal; get into the International Race School, get into a pro team, win the Grand Slam races, become Race Champion of the World.

The world of hover car racing was loud, brutal, and very, very fast.

Looking back, Dean knew he should have seen it coming.

The day was bad luck from the start. They'd pulled up to the race track that morning with blood pumping, adrenaline rushing through them at the sight of the track and the crowd gathering around it. They'd been racing brats their whole lives, and by this point, the sound of racing engines revving was like caffeine injected directly to the bloodstream. The lived and breathed it. Bobby had helped them transfer their car from the trailer attached to his hover pick-up truck, walked with them into the prep area and gruffly wished them luck, clapping them both on their shoulders before heading to the grandstand. Then it was time to prep.

Prep was mostly done by Dean, who, at 17, had four years on his little brother. Most likely Sam was the youngest one in the prep area, Dean thought, and at the moment he looked it. He was sitting on the bench opposite Dean, swinging his legs and greedily taking in the sight of all the other teams, occasionally tossing his overgrown bangs out of his eyes. Should've cut his hair before the race, Dean thought, but lately Sam had been resisting the efforts to shorten his mop of hair and Dean couldn't help but give in to whatever his brother wanted. As always.

In fact, it was probably only through Sam's puppy dog eyes that Dean even let him race, and even then he would only let him if Dean was the one driving. It didn't hurt that even at 13, Sam was a tactical genius and a complete math whiz. Still, there was a reason most regional qualifying races only accepted drivers above the age of sixteen. Hurtling through the air at speeds of up to 700 kilometres an hour was no place for a kid.

But if he could have chosen any race to qualify on, it would be a Gate Race. The racers had three hours to fly around the course area (there was no track, of course) and go through as many of the enormous arches as they could, gathering points. Gates further from the start line are worth more than gates closer; the furthest gates were 100 points, the closest worth 10. In a Gate Race, a navigator really got to show their stuff, as they were responsible for plotting the optimum course that would both get them as many points as possible, and also get them back to the starting line on time.

And getting back to the starting line on time was paramount; for every second over three hours that you failed to cross the start line, you would have one point taken away from you. Crossing the line even one minute late would cost you a whopping 60 points. Every second counts in a hover car race, but none more so than the Gate Race.

"Dean!" Sam's excited yelp broke Dean out of his thoughts. "Oh my god, Dean, it's him, it's Chuck Shurley!"

Dean's head snapped up so fast he almost gave himself whiplash. Chuck Shurley was the principal of the International Race School, and if he was at the Northern USA Regional Championships, then it could only be for one reason; to scope out racers for his school. Most likely he'd be handing out a ticket to the school to the winner; if so, the Winchester boys would have to race harder, faster and better than ever before.

"Wait, is that Ellen Harvelle with him? It is, right?" he asked, but he knew he was right. Standing next to Shurley was former Grand Slam Champion and current mentor at the International Race School, Ellen Harvelle. Whereas Shurley was nervously chatting with a group of journalists, Harvelle was overseeing the teams prepping their cars with a steely eye, arms crossed. Suddenly her eyes cut to Dean's and he stared back for a moment before looking away.

"She must be here scoping out students with him," he said heavily.

"Dean, we need to win this race," Sam gasped. Obviously his thoughts had mirrored his brother's. "We have to get into that school, Dean, we have to." He sounded close to tears. Dean quickly abandoned the car and walked over to him, pulling him into a hug.

"Don't you worry, little brother," he said lightly, running a hand through his shaggy hair. Sam pressed closer. "With your brains, my driving and the Impala's guts, how can we lose?"

Apparently, this was how.

Dean's flying was, as usual, incredible. He handled the thrusters so well it was almost as if they'd never lost the steering, alternating left and right with ease. But, as faithful as the old Impala was, she couldn't handle almost three hours of her thrusters being used in place of steering; certainly they were never intended to be used as such. Even Sam's frantically recalculated course, brilliant as it was, couldn't save them. As the clock ticked over to three hours, cars shot over the line, the Impala rocketing past not a second too late. They pulled into their prep bay, exhausted and defeated, and looked at the score board.

Out of five contestants, Dean and Sam had come in last place, losing to fourth place by ten points, and still 180 points behind the leader.

The climbed out of the Impala slowly, moving stiffly with their heads hanging low. They'd had one chance, one chance to make it to get on the road towards their dreams, and they'd blown it.

"Good race today, boys!" a familiar voice called out across the bay. Narrowing his eyes, Dean pulled Sam to his side and looked into the face of Terrance Azazel. "Too bad about that crash. Maybe you'll get in next time. Or maybe," he continued with a leer at Sam, "you should wait until you're a little older, more experienced, perhaps?"

Dean gritted his teeth and tightened his arm around Sam. Azazel was from Lawrence, Kansas just like them, and even went to the same high school as Dean; the one he'd dropped out of after tenth grade. Years of hatred towards the bully in front of him welled up in Dean. It was one thing when Azazel picked on Dean: he could handle it. But since Azazel had taken advantage of Dean leaving the school just as Sam entered it, Dean had been just itching for an excuse to punch his smug, smirking face in.

"Why don't you beat it, Terrance," he said instead. "Wouldn't want to risk your Race School ticket on a brawl in the pits, would you?"

Smirk still firmly in place, Azazel turned and walked away, but couldn't resist calling over his shoulder, "See you on the podium, Winchester – or not."

Dean watched him walk away with clenched fists.

"Dean, you can let go of me now," Sam said quietly. Dean released him and ran a hand over his face. "Should we go find Bobby?"

Dean hesitated, looking at the Impala. She was quiet now, metal cooled down in the shaded prep bay, tail fin half missing. He ran a hand over a scratch in her gleaming black paint. "Sorry, baby," he murmured. "Guess I let us both down today." He straightened and turned. "Let's go find Bobby and go home."

They reached Bobby in the grandstand just as the presentation of prizes began.

Dean could only stand frozen to the spot as Azazel held up the Championship trophy in triumph, letting out a harsh bark of laughter as the crowd went wild. It carried on for only a few seconds, however; a hush fell over the spectators as Chuck Shurley approached the podium. He held a microphone in one hand, and as he stepped up next to Azazel, he flicked it on then coughed nervously into it.

"Is this on? Is this-? Okay, uh. Well, as you all know, this was the last regional race of the season, and with that in mind, I'd like to make an announcement." He stopped for a moment to fiddle with his collar and cough again. "Well, uh, the winner today has not only won himself a place at the top of his local racing circuit – he has also won himself…" Here he fumbled with his other hand, and produced a slightly curled envelope from his jacket pocket. Dean's heart sank to his feet. Beside him Sam made a dismayed noise. "… Won himself an invitation to join the International Race School!"

The crowd went ballistic. Azazel's grin was blinding even at this distance. He held up the envelope in one hand and the trophy in the other, shaking them both to the crowd's delight.

"Come on, boys, we don't need to see this show-pony prance around," Bobby said in disgust. He put his hands on Dean and Sam's shoulders and left them off the grandstands, back to his car.

The pits were deserted when the truck pulled up. Half the lights had been shut off already; occupants of individual bays who'd already packed up and gone had obviously turned them off after them. The strip lighting over the Impala made her gleam and, from this angle, it looked like she'd never even been injured.

The sight was restful to Dean, until a figure stepped out from the shadows.

"Hey!" Dean yelled instinctively, not wanting any stranger near his baby. He went to storm forward and was abruptly stopped by Bobby's arm across his chest.

"Geez, Ellen, it's been nigh on eight years, and you still can't say hello like a normal person," Bobby grumbled. The figure laughed, low and throaty, and stepped into the light.

It was Ellen Harvelle. She and Bobby met each other in the middle and embraced, slapping each other's backs before separating. "It's good to see you, Bobby," she said before casting an eye over Dean. He felt Sam press closer to his side under her eagle-eyed stare.

"You boys raced mighty fine today," she said finally. "You should be real proud."

"Beggin' your pardon, Ms Harvelle," Dean replied, gruffly, "but we screwed up bad, and came dead last. Ain't nothin' to be proud about that."

"You kiddin' me boy?" she said incredulously. "I saw that crash out in the west quadrant. That was barely nine minutes in, and it looked like it did some major damage. Seems to me your steering got compromised, but you got right back in and finished damn near everyone else point-wise, and not a second over three hours."

"Still lost," Dean muttered. "And our steering wasn't just compromised, we lost it altogether."

Ellen stilled. "But you were driving for more than two hours after that crash!" she said, shocked. "How the hell did you do it? You didn't pit anywhere."

Sam was peeking out from behind Dean now, and finally found his voice. "He steered using the thrusters," he said, blushing. "Left to go right, right to go left…" he trailed off. "Y'know," he finished lamely. Ellen stared at him, then shifted her gaze back to Dean.

"Well, in that case, you better be extra proud. That's… I've never even heard anything like that," Ellen muttered, before seemingly shaking herself and fixing her gaze back on Sam. "Anyway, there's one other thing. Sam, isn't it?" Sam nodded mutely. "Mind if I take a look at your plotted course? Your original one, if you changed it after the crash."

Sam nodded and rummaged under the Impala's navigator seat for a moment, withdrawing their map. Ellen took it and, after studying it for a few seconds, pulled out a second map and compared the two. Dean started feeling sick. Were they going to be accused of cheating? The location and point value of the gates were only given to the racers three minutes before the race began, and computer technology was strictly prohibited to create a course, so that racers were forced to rely on their navigators (or, occasionally, their own) skills in plotting. Sam had a particular talent for Gate Races, but would Ellen believe that? Would the judges?

"Hmmm." Ellen snapped both maps shut and stuffed the second one back in her pocket. "Is it alright if I hang onto this one?" she asked Sam. He hesitated. "Because I think I'll drop in to yours tonight, Bobby, if that's alright with you."

"S'fine," Bobby said in surprise. He'd been watching the exchange in silence until now. "Always good to have you in, Ellen. Jo gonna be with you?"

"Yeah, I don't think she's met the boys, it'll do her good." At Dean and Sam's shared look, she elaborated, "Jo's my daughter. She's around your age, Dean; a year younger, I think. She's a Mech Chief," she added, and Dean relaxed the muscles he'd tensed when Ellen has started talking about a daughter. Behind him he could feel Sam do the same. A lot of people said that hover car racers were like soldiers: once they get into the life, it's hard for them to relate or even communicate with people who've only ever seen races on TV.

"I gotta go, but I'll see you around seven," Ellen said. Bobby briskly shook her hand and smiled.

"Lookin' forward to it," he replied. Ellen nodded, and looked at Dean and Sam again.

"You got two mighty fine boys here, Bobby. I always said you'd be a great dad," she said gently, then walked out of the bay. Bobby stared after her, obviously touched.

The bay was silent for another few moments before Dean elbowed Bobby. "You never said you were friends with Ellen Harvelle!" he hissed. Bobby elbowed him back and rolled his eyes.

"Never came up, brat," he snapped back, but he ruffled Dean's hair simultaneously to soften the insult. The three of them started to pack up the Impala for transport, moving in practiced synchronization with each other. "I was her Mech Chief, before I was your Dad's. But that was over twenty years ago now – we saw each other all the time, of course, we were on the same pro circuit after all. But I haven't talked to her since before her daughter was born. Wonder what she's up to?" he said shrewdly. Dean and Sam glanced at each other.

"Why'd you think she's up to something?" Sam asked. He reached into the cockpit and flicked the controls until the car rumbled to life, then scrambled to hang onto the edge to help Dean and Bobby guide it back to the trailer.

"When's she not?" Bobby grumbled. "Besides, taking your map and then asking herself to dinner? No way she's not cooking something up. But it can only be a good thing, mind you," he said sharply, seeing Dean and Sam's wary looks.

"It better be, because this day just can't get any worse," Dean muttered.

From north-west Montana to Sioux Falls, South Dakota was only around three hours by hover car. Sam, exhausted by the sheer amount of adrenaline his body had pumped out over the day, had fallen asleep ten minutes in, head tilted awkwardly against the window until Dean had rolled his eyes and pulled Sam's head into his lap. Sam had woken and flailed for a while, protesting about being "too old for this" and about how he was "not a baby, Dean!". Of course, he'd fallen asleep again the minute Dean started stroking his hair. Dean was staring out the window now, absently petting Sam, watching the landscape rush past.

"He's growing up, isn't he?" Bobby said suddenly, voice gruffer than usual. Dan looked at him and saw him watching the two of them in the review mirror.

"Yeah," he said, tucking a strand of Sam's stupidly long hair behind his ear. "Gonna be taller than me, soon." The thought settled in his stomach and sat there unpleasantly, as if he'd swallowed a stone that was going to be all grown up and ready to leave home in only a few years, leaving Dean behind forever. Or something.

"He takes after your daddy," Bobby said quietly. He hesitated, then plowed on, "He'd be real proud of you boys after today. He'd be as proud as I am."

Dean didn't respond. He was looking out the window again, with his head now tilted up to try and rid his eyes of the sudden tears. He buried his fingers in Sam's hair and stared resolutely at the sky.

"Thanks, Bobby," he said five minutes later, voice a little unsteady.

The rest of the trip passed in silence.

Dinner was quiet, but a comfortable sort of quiet.

Although both Winchester boys protested against any sort of celebration, Bobby insisted on cooking their favourite meal ("On account of you managing not to kill yourself and your brother," he snapped at Dean while flipping the patties). They were eating burgers at the table, Dean's dripping with meat juices and Sam's stuffed full of salad, when the dog outside started barking, just as the familiar thrum of a hover car came into hearing. Sam dropped his burger and ran to the door, shyness apparently forgotten. Dean listened for the creak of the door opening, then heard Sam's excited, high-pitched chatter, answered by Ellen's low voice, obviously amused, although Dean couldn't make out the words. Sam came back in seconds, followed by a pleased looking Ellen and a teenage girl who had to be Jo.

"I was told there were burgers," she said. Bobby nodded and jerked his head to the stove.

"Patties in the fry pan, everything else on the bench," he replied thickly, mouth half full. Ellen smacked the back of his head as she walked past.

"Ain't nobody ever teach you any manners, Bobby Singer?" she scowled. "This is why I don't ever bring Jo over, you're a bad influence," she added, but Dean could see the smile in her expression. Jo was at her mother's side, but not in the way Sam was so often at Dean's; she made herself a burger and came to sit next to Dean with a confidence he almost admired. She set down her plate and held out a hand to shake.

"Jo Harvelle, but you probably already guessed that," she said, smiling sweetly. Dean shook her hand, already liking her when he grabbed her strong and calloused hand, liking her even more when she offered the same hand for Sam to shake.

"Dean and Sam Winchester," Dean said, grinning. "But you probably already knew that."

"Having famous parents'll do that to you," she said drily, before digging into her burger with a gusto Dean could barely match.

Ellen and Bobby chatted during dinner whilst the three teenagers stayed quiet, choosing rather to demolish their food. After they'd finished, Jo sat fidgeting in her seat, glancing between her mother and Dean and back again until Dean finally burst out, "What?"

"Mom has something she wants to ask you!" she said immediately.

"Joanna Beth, I told you not to say a word!" Ellen snapped back. Jo shrugged, eyes innocent. "I might as well now," Ellen grumbled, sounding eerily like Bobby, before turning to face Dean and Sam. "Like I said back in the pits, you boys were mighty fine today. Dean's driving was inspired, and you, Sam Winchester!" Sam looked briefly terrified, but Ellen ploughed on, "I ran your plotted course through the race calc back at HQ, it showed up 98% efficiency. You had three minutes to take the course in and figure out a plan, and you come up with that? You got some serious brains kid – almost as much brains as your brother has crazy."

Sam was blushing wildly by the time she finished, and Dean reached out, grinning, to give him a quick noogie. "Always said so, haven't I, Sammy?"

"It's Sam!" he said hotly, twisting out of his brother's grip with ease, although he didn't object to Dean's arm staying across his shoulder.

"You see, I work as a mentor at the International Race School now, have for a couple years," she continued as if they hadn't interrupted. "Since I got a bit of cred there, seniority, you might say, I have the opportunity to bring in one or two racers each year of my own pick."

Dean's heart skipped a beat. "Rea- really?" Sam breathed.

"Yeah, kid, really. And seeing you boys today, the way you worked both separately and together…" Ellen trailed off and pulled an envelope from her jacket pocket. Dean felt his eyes go impossibly wide. "I was wonderin' of you boys would like a place at the International Race School?

Dean stopped breathing. Sam's hand crept up and grabbed Dean's from where it was still resting across his shoulder. "Sammy?" he said breathlessly, turning to face his little brother. "What do you think?"

"Yes!" Sam shouted. His voice cracked in his excitement.

Dean looked to Bobby, his surrogate father, the reason he was there. "Whaddaya lookin' at me for, boy?" Bobby scoffed, but his eyes seemed a little misty. "Of course you're goin', the both of you. Idjits."

The next few minutes were something of a blur; Sam was hugging Ellen and thanking her repeatedly, Ellen looking amused but also affectionate, patting his back. Dean had thrown his arms around Jo in a rush of happiness, then dragged Bobby over and hugged the both of them. He may have let a discrete tear slip down his cheek at one point, but no one noticed, so it never happened, in his books. Sam cried enough for both of them in those few minutes.

But after two hours, Ellen and Bobby were still talking arrangements and paper work, and Jo had long since fallen asleep on the couch. It was only through sheer force of will (and stolen soda from the fridge) that Sam was still awake, and he was yawning every thirty seconds. Finally Dean got up off the armchair and hauled Sam, who'd been sitting on the rug in front of the fire, to his feet.

"Come on, Sammy," he told his frantically blinking little brother. "Let's get you into bed."

"I'm not a baby, Dean," Sam protested softly, before yawning so big Dean could see his tonsils. "You don't have to put me to bed."

"Come on, Sammy, you'll always be a baby to me. It's a big brother thing," he said, half-dragging Sam up the stairs.

Despite there being more than enough space, Dean and Sam still shared a bedroom. In fact, they'd even shared a bed from the time Bobby had adopted them until Dean turned 13 and decided he was a big kids, and big kids had their own beds. They'd stayed that way ever since, except when Dean was 15, and he'd had a brief fit of needing to be independent. He'd moved his things into the room opposite his and Sam's bedroom, and after three sleepless nights for both brothers, he'd unceremoniously moved them back.

Now Dean pushed open their door and shoved Sam over to his side of the room. "I don't have to change you and dress you, do I?" he asked jokingly.

"NO," Sam shot back, turning red. "Go take a shower, you stink," he shot back. Dean laughed and grabbed his things, waving cheerfully to his brother as he left.

Twenty minutes later he walked back in, stepping quietly when he saw the lights off and Sam a lump under his covers. He got into his own bed and sighed.

Racing School. The only future he'd ever dreamed of was in reach. He allowed himself a moment to envision it; him and Sam standing on top of the Champion's podium, being handed the enormous trophy, declared winner of all four Grand Slam races.

He was still smiling over the image when there was a soft thump next to him, and then the padding of light feet, and then Sam was leaning over him and quietly asking, "Can I sleep here tonight?"

It wasn't uncommon for Sam to slip into Dean's bed, usually if he'd had a bad day or was having nightmares. Hell, sometimes Dean even went over to Sam's bed first, if he could hear him thrashing around (or, less often, if he himself had had an especially rough day). He figured it would be something Sam would become too embarrassed to do as he got older and started being more possessed by image and his own masculinity, but so far he showed no sign of it. (Dean was secretly glad that his semi-regular Sam-cuddling time was showing no sign of ending, and he would deny the hell out of that if ever asked.)

As it was, Dean simply lifted the cover up and Sam was instantly crawling in, burrowing himself into Dean's chest like he was magnetized. "You okay, Sammy?" Dean asked, just in case. Sam lifted his head off Dean's chest and grinned, teeth white in the darkness.

"Yeah," he said. "We're going to Race School, Dean."

"We sure are, Sammy," he said, his face breaking into its own smile, "We're going to Race School."