Designated Driver
Author: Cheryl W.
Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.
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Chapter 10: Hit and Run
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But when Barton's look swung solely to Dean, only hatred burned in the ghost's eyes. "But it's too late for second chances…for me…and now for you."
Instantly reacting to the threat to Dean, Sam raised his shotgun but, when he pulled the trigger, the gun misfired. The small explosive flash burned his hands and his retinas, had him dropping the gun, stumbling back as he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands, tried to see, to make the burning stop.
Dean's finger was on his own shotgun's trigger when Sam's gun literally blew up in his face. Realizing that Barton had exchanged his fetish for exploding car engines to exploding gunpowder, Dean, with a growl of outrage at the attack on Sam, gripped his shotgun like a base ball bat and swung it through Barton. Unable to withstand the presence of the rocksalt even in the shotgun cartridges, the ghost disappeared. But a moment later Dean's own gun emitted a small flare of discharged gunpowder. Throwing the now useless weapon to the ground, Dean quickly moved to Sam, who was bent over, the back of his hands pressed into his eyes. He reached a hand out to encircle Sam's bicep, determined to help Sam, to protect him, to reassure his brother that he was there.
Burning eyes clamped tightly shut leaving him trapped in the void of sightlessness, Sam straightened and staggered back in surprised fear when a hand fell upon his arm. But a millisecond later, he stilled, felt himself flush with shame. He didn't need his sight to know it was Dean beside him, to sense his brother's presence, to know that the strong callused hand that had slid around his arm was his big brother's sure, gentle grip. Instinctively, amid his personal darkness he reached blindly for his brother like he had done a hundred times before… when he had a nightmare as a kid, on his first hunt…on so many recent hunts that it had become a reflex, that need for connection, for reassurance that they were still together, whole. His hands connecting with his brother's shoulders then trailing down to his chest, Sam wrapped his fingers in the familiar leather of Dean's jacket, held on.
"Whoa, easy. It's just me, Sam," Dean soothingly said even as Sam's retreat halted, as his brother reached out for him, claimed a seemingly unbreakable purchase on his jacket. Gently slipping his fingers under Sam's jaw, he tilted his brother's face up. By the moonlight he could just barely see the black soot on Sam's nose and under his tightly closed eyes. "Can you see anything?"
At his brother's question, Sam forced his eyes open but could only manage a squint. Then he was quickly clamping them shut again. "Yeah but it burns. Where's Barton?"
"I don't know," Dean tersely replied, sending a quick glance around the deeply shadowed track before focusing again on Sam. His touch was tender as he used his fingers to wipe away some of the residual soot around his brother's eyes.
His trust allowing him to remain immobile under Dean's ministrations, Sam implored, "Dean, don't worry about me, watch out for Barton," afraid that Dean's inattention would cost his brother his life. But it was another moment before he could force himself to release his desperate hold on Dean's jacket, back up his words with action.
"He's doing the whole invisible routine right now, Sammy, so watching out for him is a little hard. And I'm getting the vibe he's not going to just let us leave tonight, try again tomorrow," Dean returned, his focus on Sam's face. With some of the soot gone, he tried to determine if Sam had sustained a burn around his eyes. Running his fingers lightly under his brother's eyes, he felt surprised and heartened that Sam didn't flinch away from his touch. "Your skin doesn't feel burned, Sammy. It's probably just the flash and the powder that went into the air that's hurting your eyes. Hold on," he ordered but his tone was all reassurance, comfort, conveyed the unspoken promise that was always between them: that Dean took care of Sammy. Always. Sliding his hands free of Sam, Dean pulled his silver flask from his pocket and unscrewed the lid to the holy water. Then stepping closer to Sam, wrapping his hand around the side of Sam's neck to steady Sam, to link them, he instructed, "Tilt your head back and I'll pour some water over your eyes."
But fear was hitching in Sam's chest, not for himself but for Dean. For Dean who was stubbornly worrying about him instead of the ghost who had practically vowed to kill him. "Barton…" he began in protest.
"Is going to do what he's going to do," Dean curtly dismissed but his next words were gentle, were for Sam. "And personally, when he makes his move, I would like you to have my back. So unless you can see with your eyes closed, I think it's in my best interest to help you right now, Sam."
Touched by his brother's need for him and fueled by a determination to not let Dean down when he was counting on him to protect him, to be his partner, to be his brother, Sam found himself agreeing. "Sounds good." Obediently, he tilted his head back but couldn't help but throw out a taunt. "Can you reach or should I get on my knees?"
"Bite me!" Dean groused as he began to pour a little water over Sam's eyes. Obstinately he refused to admit that he had to practically stand on his tip toes to manage the task, that his hand on Sam's neck had become more about keeping his own balance than connecting Sam. "This helping?"
"Yeah," Sam said, rubbing at his eyes, blinking.
"I think you missed a spot," Barton whispered by Dean's ear, materializing even as he shoved Dean forward.
The shove sent Dean plowing into Sam, sent both brothers to the ground, knocked the air out of them. Sprawled half on top of Sam, Dean quietly ordered, "Go for the car. I'll distract him," before he began to pushing himself off Sam.
Sam reached out to catch Dean, tried to stop whatever risky tactic Dean had in mind, but his brother's leather jacket slipped through his fingers. Through half lidded, burning eyes, Sam saw Dean gain his feet and purposefully turn his back to him, turn, instead, to face Barton. Internally cursing their vulnerability and Dean's willingness to make himself a willing target, Sam rolled over, slid his hands under himself, was gearing up to follow Dean's orders. Using his left shoulder to wipe at his eye, he fought to keep his eyes open, to ignore the burning sensation, to blink back the holy water and tears alike that made his vision swim, made the sight of the Impala sitting fifty yards away seem like a shimmering mirage in the darkness. His muscles coiled for action, he waited for the opening Dean would provide for him to make his break to the Impala. Already he was deciding what weapons to get from the Impala's trunk, the defenses they could mount against Barton's attacks, the salt he would douse himself and Dean in if nothing else worked to ward off Barton.
Stepping toward the now visible Barton, putting Sam safely at his back, Dean derisively drawled, "So I'm supposed to feel sorry for you because you did some dumb-behind motorcycle stunt and blew your shot at the pros? And now you're pissed that, for you, there is no second chance for fame and fortune? You killed people, dude!" he accused as he began to slowly circle around Barton.
Turning to track Dean, Barton growled, a grimace of resentment tightened his youthful features, "You don't know what it's like, being stuck here, being so close to getting everything you want and having that opportunity gone. Forever."
Stopping as he gained his objective of maneuvering Barton around so his back was to Sam, Dean drew closer to the ghost and lowly condemned, "I know about murder. I know about you taking the lives of men like you, men who wanted nothing more than to race. You had an accident, Barton. Someone didn't murder you, didn't intentionally kill you, didn't steal your future from you. No one did to you what you did to Troy Nichols, to Rook, to the others," Dean challenged as he stood toe to toe with Barton, all the while hoping the spirit didn't sense Sam's slow departure.
Barton shook his head, pointed his finger at Dean, "I didn't want to kill Troy. I thought he would stop competing once someone was killed, would see that his dream to go pro wasn't worth his life."
"But he didn't leave or stop racing, wouldn't abandon the idea of getting picked by NASCAR. None of them did," Dean pointed out, determined to keep Barton's attention on him, to give Sam whatever lead time he could.
Beginning to pace in front of Dean, Barton accused, "Why couldn't they just be content here…like I was for awhile. I watched out for them, kept them safe, for years! It was me who made sure no more lives were lost on this track. I helped put of the fires, kept them off the walls and stopped their cars from rolling. Me, I did that."
"Until NASCAR came knocking, until you realized one of them was going to go off to live your dream, have the life you never will," Dean baited, knew that Barton's emotional range was a pendulum now, was without restraint, could erupt without warning…against him or against Sam. And Dean preferred it be against him, was ensuring that it was.
Shaking his head in disgust, Dean laughed tauntingly, "Dude, you're a joke, you know that. Your time for glory, it's over. The race cars today, the race car drivers today…you would never make the cut. And that hunk of junk car you used to drive.." Dean snorted, "it's rivets would litter the track before you made one lap." His voice turning fierce, Dean leveled his coldest look onto Barton. "You are a second rate driver, Barton. Then and now. I looked at your contract, and man, they were stiffing you," Dean scoffed with a low derogatory laugh, "They weren't hiring you to be a winner, they were hiring you to be a backdoor for their primary driver. To hold back the hounds, that was all you were going to be good for, Barton. The sacrificial lamb, the hick they pulled from a 'no-where' track that they never planned to give the best car to. You would have gotten scraps, Barton. Like Garner does to Kentworth, keeps him on only to counter the whispers that he's monopolizing the track with his ringers. A good press release article, that was you, Barton. Well, until you wiped out on your bike, right here," Dean announced, spreading his arms wide, encompassing not only the turn but the track. "Did the whole Leader of the Pack gig." Dean dropped his voice to a mock whisper, met Barton's eyes leveling, "Admit it, you choked right? Knew you couldn't handle the big times so you offed yourself, went up in a memorable ball of flames on the track because you didn't have the guts to leave." Dean stepped closer, goaded further, "And you still don't have the guts to leave."
Yelling in fury, Barton charged forward, threw off a force of energy that slammed into Dean, sent him flying backwards through the air. When Dean impacted onto the infield grass, he rolled a few times with the momentum until he came to a halt, face down onto the grass.
"Got his attention now.." Dean wheezed, spitting grass from his mouth. Sliding his hands under his chest, he began pushing himself to his feet, wanted to accomplish the feat before Barton's next attack. But Barton delivered a metaphysical kick to his ribs, sent him flipping backwards into the grass. Hand bracing his chest which was screaming in pain, Dean wished he had the breath to verbally scream, had the breath to even breathe. 'I hate the aftereffects of smoke inhalation and pissed off dead guys. And, crap, I hope Sam's at the Impala by now 'cause I can't stall this guy much longer…not and live.'
Fighting against every need in him to turn around to make sure Dean was alright, to make sure that the sickening sound of flesh and bones connecting with the ground hadn't heralded Dean's death, Sam, eyes burning but open, ran for the Impala, knew that any seconds which he lost could mean the difference between survival and defeat, could make Dean's efforts, his pain be all in vain. He was seven strides away from the Impala when the black Chevy's engine came to life. Skidding to a stop on the track's macadam, Sam watched as the Impala surged backward and then lurched to a stop, caught him in her headlight beams like a deer.
"Oh crap!" Sam cursed as the Impala barreled forward. Diving out of the way of the Impala's grill, he felt the whoosh of the vehicle as it passed by him even as he gracelessly landed on his stomach on the race track macadam. Dreading that the Impala's true target hadn't been him, Sam rolled over to see the Impala's taillights streaking away from him as the car picked up speed. Eyes flying ahead of the Impala, Sam screamed, "Dean!" because his brother was literally lying in the Impala's path.
Hearing Sam's scream, Dean looked toward Sam, saw the Impala heading his way…saw Sam coming to his feet. Though it was too dark and too far to read his brother's expression, the panic and fear in Sam's shout told Dean everything he needed to know. Sam didn't want to see him splattered along the infield grass, didn't want to see the car that he loved kill him, didn't want him to give up, to go away, not like their father had, understood sharply that Sam raged against that happening as if his life depended on it.
Sam's need for him gave Dean the energy to stagger to his feet. Hand bracing against his chest, he stood there, in the headlight beams, waiting. He heard Sam scream his name again but he remained still, biding his time. No one knew his car better than he did, certainly not some whiny race car driving ghost. He knew how sharp she could turn, how much pressure on the wheel it took to have her do a 180, knew her maneuverability at the any given speed.
Now on his feet, Sam watched Dean freeze, stand like a martyr in front of the fast approaching car. "DEAN!" he screamed, began running as if could somehow stop what was about to happen. "NO!" exploded from him when the Impala was only a few feet away from Dean, watched in horror and awe and disbelief, as Dean dove right, seemingly at the last second, like a bored matador that knew a particular bull's tendencies too well. Still running forward, Sam saw Dean land with an almost graceful roll as the Impala streaked by. Saw the Impala try to turn around mid charge, watched as the black Chevy slid up the track until its driver's side impacted with the track wall. 'Crazy, brilliant, reckless idiot,' Sam grumbled at Dean, knew that Dean's actions had been all calculated, that his brother had planned for the car to miss him, to end up in the wall.
Pushing his complaining body to his feet, Dean saw Sam running for him. Giving a quick look to the Impala as it worked to disengage herself from the wall, Dean shouted to Sam. "No Sam! Get inside Barton's car. I don't think he can get in her," he yelled across the track to Sam even as he hoped his theory proved right, that it was a revelation he was having and not just a shot in the dark. Prayed that he knew Barton as well as he thought he did, that Barton was like him. Because Dean knew, given a thousand cars to choose from, he himself would always pick the Impala. The fact that Barton had not deemed to inhabit his own '57 Chevy…it told Dean that the car was a threshold Barton couldn't cross, wanted to, oh but he wanted to, but he couldn't.
At Dean's shouted order, Sam slowed his steps, stopped. Chest heaving, eyes looking to Dean and then to the Impala that was backing off from the wall, indecision warred in him. He wanted to go to Dean, to help him, to have his brother's back but with bitterness, he realized that the distance between him and Dean was too great to traverse before the Impala made its next assault. With a growl of frustration, Sam swung around, began running full out for the '57 Chevy, knew in his gut that his life depended on him reaching the car before Barton stopped him, that Dean's life pended on that.
Attention torn between making sure Sam reached the old '57 Chevy and leery of his own '67 Chevy's sudden deadly affection, Dean took a few steps backwards, drew deeper into the infield. Eyes shifting from Sam as he ran for the older Chevy then back to the driverless Impala as it finally scraped its way free of the wall's contours. "What's the matter, it hurt too badly to actually sit behind the wheel of a car?" he yelled out his taunt, watched with grim satisfaction as Barton materialized in the Impala's driver's seat. 'There you are. Right where I can keep an eye on you.' However his fists clenched as hatred gathered in his gut. Barton was using his car against him, was forcing him to try and take out his own baby in order to survive. And now, adding insult to injury, the ghost was "sitting" behind the Impala's wheel.
Sliding to a stop at the '57 Chevy's driver's door, Sam yanked on the door, felt foolish and angry when it didn't give way to his wishes. Cursing, he spared a quick look to where Dean now stood, saw the Impala was free, was facing menacingly toward Dean, heard the roar as the Impala's engines were injected with gas even as the vehicle was purposefully held back, its tires spinning, scenting the air with burning rubber. Giving Dean's precarious situation a last worried glance, Sam smashed his elbow through the Chevy's driver's side window, the shattering of glass somehow loud amid the night shrouded track and single car engine's roar. Reaching inside the broken window, his fingers fumbled around trying to locate the lock, the hairs of his neck on end. He couldn't help anxiously wonder when Barton would arrive: before or after he got in the car?
Finally his fingers contacted with the lock. Unlocking the door, Sam jumped into the car, slammed the door in his wake but jerked in surprise when Barton suddenly was there, his face nearly pressed against the driver's window. The ghost shouted an enraged, "No!" that echoed through the night. Instantly he knew that Dean had been right, the car was their sanctuary, was off limits to Barton.
"Get out of my car! Get out of my car!!" Barton yelled as he began pacing back and forth along the car's length, reacting like a starved animal that was being made to watch something else eat his meal.
Reaching under the steering column, Sam set to work on hot wiring the car. "It's not your car anymore," he growled. Raising his eyes to Barton's, he smiled cruelly as he put two wires together and the beautiful sound of a Chevy engine coming to life was heard. Putting the car in gear, Sam felt the car's wheels spinning, tearing up the infield grass before they got their traction and then the classic car bound forward.
Having started to run toward Sam and the safety of the approaching '57 Chevy, Dean cursed when Barton vanished. Though he was certain that the Impala would once again be used against him, he still cursed when he heard the Impala's tires spinning on the track behind him as the car leaped forward. Legs pumping, lungs burning, Dean ran toward Sam and the '57 Chevy which was speeding toward him, trying not to calculate his odds. 'If one train leaves Chicago and another leaves Philadelphia…which one will hit you first.." he sardonically posed as he chanced a glance over his shoulder. He was greeted with the menacing sight of the Impala's grill intent on making him her new hood ornament.
Changing tactics, Dean spun around, dove forward toward the Impala's hood but when the Impala's front bumper clipped his leg, his dive turned into a crumbled fall. Landing bonelessly onto the hood, he slid forward, slammed his head against the windshield before he toppled off the car. Hitting the ground with a groan, he lay there unmoving as the Impala's rear wheel just missed running over his right hand.
Watching Dean brutally skitter across the Impala's hood, crumble onto the ground and lay still, Sam howled in worried outrage. Cursing and pleading with the '57 Chevy to go faster, to get to Dean before the Impala made another pass, before Dean was killed, he shouted, "Come on! Come on! You're supposed to be a friggin' winning ride!" his foot nearly putting the accelerator through the floorboards.
The right side of his face pressed into the infield grass, lungs painfully absent of air, body aflame with pain, head pounding so hard his stomach was threatening to revolt, Dean told himself to move, to get up, to not let Barton win. But his brain apparently wasn't getting through to his limbs, because they weren't moving, he wasn't moving. As if from some bystanders' perspective, he saw the Impala fishtail as Barton sought to bring the car around, to finish him off. It was a weird view, seeing the undercarriage of the Impala from a distance, seeing the tread of the tires at eye level, coming toward him.
For all the hours he had found sanctuary under the car's frame, it would be a cruel twist of fate if his last sight would be the undercarriage of the Impala. That what he loved would end up killing him…that the car would be used like his father intended to use him…to kill someone that loved him. That he would be used to kill someone he loved more than he would ever love himself…that he was supposed to kill Sam.
A ragged, weak but sharp, protest of "No," burst from him. A protest at the role his father expected him to play, at the role Sam expected him to play, at the thought of his love used as a weapon to kill, to murder. Pushing hands again under his chest, he pushed himself up, got on all fours, barely managed to half dive, half roll out of the tread of the Impala. Used the momentum of his roll to his advantage, to get his adrenaline flowing, to get his legs under him, he stood on shaking legs, saw that Barton was putting the Impala in reverse, was tired of the game already and was resorting to underhanded tactics. "Coward!" he railed even as he began to stumble backwards, his eyes fixed on the Impala's approaching taillights. When Barton generously applied the gas, Dean staggered as he spun around, caught his hand on the ground to steady himself before he began running, but he could practically feel the heat from the Impala's taillights at his back, knew that whatever hope he had clung to was about depleted.
Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw the '57 Chevy cutting through the infield, barreling toward him, destined to intersect his path, could just make out Sam's outline in the driver's seat. Knowing he had to buy some time for Sam to reach him, Dean zagged left then instantly dodged right, put all of his remaining energy into his legs, into running, into making it to Sam. Finally the '57 Chevy was in his path. Without breaking stride, Dean dove forward, slid over the older car's hood even as the '57 Chevy shook as the Impala's back bumper buried itself into its front panel. His slide taking him over and off the hood, Dean landed on his back, groaned as he mercilessly collided with the infield grass again.
Leaning across the interior of the '57 Chevy, Sam opened the passenger, ordered, "Get in Dean!"
"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, responding to Sam's order without thought, regardless of his body's complaints. Half crawling and half stumbling he reached the open door, felt Sam's arm wrapped around his left forearm and knew it was more his brother's strength than his own that got him into the car's interior.
Using his long arms, Sam reached across Dean and pulled the passenger door shut. Then with concern pouring off him, he turned his full focus on Dean, who was slumped against the seat, the wheezing harshness of his breathing effecting Sam more than the screeching of the metal as the Impala yanked itself free of the '57 Chevy. Resting his hand gently on Dean's chest Sam asked with worried, breathlessness, "Dean, are you alright?"
Instead of answering Sam's inquiry, Dean rasped out, "I really hate this guy, Sammy," as he turned his head against the seat so his eyes met his brother's. Before Sam could reply, the car rocked as the Impala slammed into the driver's side door. Motivated into action, Sam put the car into reverse, watched as the Impala's third assault harmlessly missed them as it invaded the space where the car was seconds before. Spinning the car around into a 180, Sam pressed the gas, sent the car onto the track, looked in the rearview mirror and saw the Impala's headlights gaining on them. "Any ideas?" he asked, shooting Dean a quick look but then the Impala slammed into the rear of the car, nearly giving the brother's whiplash.
When Sam gave the '57 more gas, the classic car tore off the infield grass, hit the track's blacktop and lurched forward but the Impala's grill remained inches from its rear bumper. Abandoning caution, Sam pressed the gas pedal to the floor as the car raced along the track's straight stretch but the Impala sped up to, bound forward, slammed her right fender into the '57's rear panel, causing the '57 to jerk right. Gritting his teeth, Sam steered the car right just in time to avoid the Impala's next vicious nudge. But then the Impala was neck and neck with them and Sam spared a glance over, saw the look of exhilaration on Barton's face as he swung the Impala right for another attack.
Skittering
again away at the last second, Sam missed the blow even as he got
closer to the wall. "Crap Dean! I can't pull away from her! You just had to tune up the engine, had to make sure she could bury
the speedometer needle."
"Excuse me for trying to make sure
we could outrun cops and bad guys," Dean lowly growled.
"Well, Dean, Barton appreciates your dedication to the car that he's using to kill us," Sam shot back, hating that Barton was grinning ear to ear as he sped the Impala up and left off the gas, easily edging forward and falling back to prove Sam's point.
"We're not dead yet," Dean railed back, sitting up further, eyes swinging forward, taking in the track ahead and shifting to Barton who flanked them.
Sam gave a sarcastically bark of laughter. "Yet. Glad you tacked that on…makes me feel so much better."
But instead of a comeback, Dean ordered, "Slam on the brakes! Now Sam!" as he saw they were heading into the turn, knew Barton's next move…because it would have been his own.
Instinctively, Sam obeyed his brother's commands, did it without the misgivings he always had with his father's orders. Slamming on the brakes, Sam felt the '57 shudder as it tried to slow down. Then, suddenly the Impala was in front of them, in the exact spot where they had been. Sam watched with grim satisfaction as the Impala's passenger side, unexpectedly not meeting the molded metal of the '57 Chevy, collided with the wall, sending sparks flying at the friction of machine and wall.
Hitting the gas, Sam took the turn low, sought to make a break away from the Impala's heavier chassis, faster engine. But the Impala came off the wall like it was rebounding, hit the older vehicle broadside on the right rear wheel base. Hit it hard enough to dislodge the Impala's right side tires from the ground, left the car on two wheels, poised to roll over. "Dean!" Sam yelled for help, knew that he wasn't the expert driver that Dean was. That right now, he was out of his league, that he was most likely going to get himself and Dean killed. Knew without a doubt that the only person he had absolute faith in to save them was his brother. Because, whether he was four or twenty four years old, some things didn't change.
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TBC
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Ok, I admit a second cliff hanger in a row is cruel but I just didn't want the action to be a let down for anyone.
Thanks so much for still reading and reviewing!
Have a great day!
Cheryl W.