Sanctuary

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay! I just couldn't get this chapter shaped up in time to post earlier than this.

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Chapter 7: Moving Violations

No matter how futile his search was proving to be, Sam couldn't go back to their motel room, not without Dean. To do so would seem an action of defeat, of acceptance, of suicide. For he had finally come to understand the truth: that his life hung in the balance as much as Dean's. If his brother didn't survive the day…he could hardly even think about that without feeling a sob crawl up his throat, without his legs threatening to give out on him, without his heart skipping a beat. But against his best efforts at Stanford to eradicate components of his soul, Sam Winchester was still a realist deep down, where innocence had been sandblasted away by the undisputable proof that evil existed.

And it was that grain of his soul that accepted the possible outcome of the day even as his heart wailed at the betrayal of even the thought: Dean could die. It was the thought he had refused to acknowledge, outwardly, after Dean's electrocution, on the way to the faith healer, as Dean climbed onto Roy's stage. But it had burned in his soul, corroded away the light, strangled his every breath so it nearly matched Dean's struggling gasps in the middle of the night. Just as it was doing again today.

Each minute away from Dean was a minute Sam felt closer to the end of his endurance. Each whisper of his soul of, Dean could already be dead, took him another step along the path, his tread alighting in the footprints of the one navigating the trail ahead of him, just out of sight. It seemed right, to blindly follow, he had done it a thousand times before, in a hundred towns across the United States. Letting Dean take the lead came naturally to him, gave him comfort in a world where such luxuries were few and far between.

'You're my brother and I would die for you,' he had said, but now Sam understood the full extent of his bond with Dean. He would unflinchingly die to save his brother, he had known that truth after his first hunt. But only today did he admit even to himself that he would willing die with Dean. And even if he should continue to draw breath after Dean had ceased to do so, an indispensable part of him would have died with his brother, a part that would leave him no longer Sammy and significantly less Sam. For all of his bluster and bravado, Sam didn't think he could survive not being Sammy, didn't want to contemplate living each day shackled to being just Sam. His past, his present, his future, Dean was the glue that kept it all together, kept him all together.

Unbidden, Dean's voice echoed in his head, 'Guess you'll be leaving town without me.' Clenching his jaw, Sam rebelled at that suggestion fervently, hating the image that flickered in his mind of Dean, pale, bruised, accepting as he lay in the hospital bed. With renewed fury, he cursed his brother for not knowing, for not understanding, for never acknowledging that Sam would not be OK without him. That Sam would come undone without his strength to shelter and support him. That he would morph into a villain darker than Max because Max's hatred had been bred out of never knowing love but Sam's hatred would spring from the bitterness of having known love and helplessly watching as it was brutally taken away.

Coming to a halt amid the stream of people on the sidewalk, Sam darkly vowed, "No way, Dean." His brother was forbidden to submit to a tragic hero's quiet honorable fate. "We're leaving town together," his oath uttered aloud did not even faze the people on the sidewalk. Here in the city, he was just another freak who talked to himself, too common a trait to single him out.

With reinforced determination, Sam took up a post leaning against a private health club, his eyes discriminatingly scanning the four lanes of traffic. When sunlight glinted off the gleaming black paint of the Impala as it cruised down the street in the far lane, Sam jolted away from the wall as if he had come into contact with an electric current. God had heard his prayer after all! Setting off down the sidewalk at a full out run, pushing and dodging the crowds, Sam hungrily kept the Impala in sight. Sparing his glance to look what waited in the Impala's path, he realized that the next traffic light was green. Sam cursed. 'No! I'm not going to be this close only to lose Dean again!'

In a turn of good luck, the light quickly went yellow to red, causing the Chevy's tires to squeal as the vehicle came to a halt toeing the white line. Sam felt lightheaded with relief. Giving no thought to the three lanes of traffic that separated him from his brother, he bolted out onto the street. The honking of a horn brought his surrounding into focus, right before a bumper took his leg out from under him, the momentum sending him flying onto the hood of the car.

His concentration barely derailed, Sam, still sprawled out on the car's hood, sought out the sight of the Impala, now only 200 yards away in the next lane. Too desperate to register any pain, he slid from the car, dodged another car before making it to the other sidewalk. Breaking out into a wild dash down the sidewalk toward the Impala, he was nearly close enough for his fingers to touch the glistening black trunk when the Impala surged forward.

Sam choked back his panicked call of his brother's name, knowing that there was no guaranty that Dean would welcome him with open arms. More than likely, Dean would cut through the traffic and disappear back into the urban landscape. Sam put everything he had, everything he was into his legs, into making his strides longer, into making him quicker, into closing the distance between he and Dean. He couldn't spare the time or effort for moral compunctions as he knocked down at least two pedestrians. Thanks to the heavy traffic impeding his brother's usual attempt to break the sound barrier, Sam came up to be neck and neck with the Impala. He was reaching for the back door handle, when he heard it: the Rap music. Rap music pulsating out of the four open windows. 'Rap music coming out of the Impala's sacred speakers! What the heck! Dean's listening to rap music!' This revelation sent a chill down Sam's spine. Was Dean so traumatized by the day's events that he was abandoning what he knew, what he loved!

When the Impala came to a halt for another light, Sam nearly ran by it. Stifling his momentum, Sam stumbled to the passenger side door, intending to drop into the car without giving Dean a chance to object. But his yank on the door proved in vain. It was locked. Changing tactics, Sam gripped the bottom of the window frame and stuck his head in the window. "Dean.." the rest of his words died in his throat.

It was a toss up who was more surprised by the current situation, the gangleader in the driver's seat or Sam. Sam recovered first, his eyes blazing with retribution and fear. "What have you done with my brother! Where is he!" Sam accused, his knuckles going white with his increased grip on the Impala.

"Get your hands off my ride," the gangbanger railed, pulling his gun from his waist band and aiming it at Sam's face. "Now step off, dude."

Fear made Sam's blood run cold and it had nothing to do with the gun barrel pointed at his head or the thought of dying. No, it was the look in the man's eyes, as if committing murder was something he was comfortable with, had maybe done before, even that day. Dean! Sam's mind screamed, conjuring up mental pictures of Dean lying somewhere shot, bleeding, dying.

When the Impala moved forward, Sam didn't even hesitate. He leaped head first into the window of the Impala. His legs dangling outside of the car, Sam seized onto the man's hand that held the gun and shoved it upward, turning the aim of the gun to the ceiling of the Impala. Liberated from being the focus of the gun, Sam climbed the whole way into the car. With his left hand busy grappling for the gun, Sam sent his right hand chopping into the man's larynx.

Abandoning his hold of the gun into Sam's steely grip, the thief wrapped his hand around his throat, panicking as breath refused to travel through his air passageways. It barely registered with him when the steering wheel under his left hand was yanked to the right, sending the car down an alley.

Achieving the privacy of the alley, Sam slammed the Impala into park. Turning his full attention on the thief, he cocked the gun and violently rammed it into the thief's neck. "Where. Is. My. Brother! This is his car," Sam snarled, his rage the only thing keeping his panic from slipping its reign.

His voice raspy from abuse, the gangleader wheezed, "I found the car…hood was up…no one was.."

Without warning, Sam's left hand shot out, crushing the man's throat, halting the lying words. Leaning menacingly closer, Sam hissed, "You tell me where my brother is, NOW, or I swear …" and his eyes lost all their light as he pressed the gun barrel harder against the man's neck as he continued, "I'll make you wish I would just pull the trigger."

The gangbanger had seen eyes like Sam's before…usually right before someone died. His answer was a croak from his constricted throat, "Tucker and 4th Street. That's where I left the dude."

Instead of earning a reprieve from the strangulation, Sam's grip intensified. A fire kindled in Sam's dark eyes. "What do you mean left!" he lowly demanded, his heart pounding louder than the sounds of the city.

"I didn't.." the man choked, gasping, "he's not dead," his right hand coming up to grip Sam's wrist for mercy.

A tidal wave of relief swept through Sam, making him uncertain if a laugh or a sob was caught in his throat. Dropping his crushing hold on the man's throat, he ordered, "Give me your wallet." Though confusion shone in his eyes, the thief complied. Snatching the wallet from the man's trembling grasp, Sam flipped it open to the man's driver's license. Then, his deadly eyes lancing into the man's, he venomously promised, "Todd, if my brother is hurt, I'm going to show up at your house on 392 Filmont Street and the last thing you're ever going to see is me. You got that!"

A nod was the only response the pale man could manage. He had danced with death often enough in his young life but this, this man looked like he knew the reaper personally and would happily set up a meeting for him.

"Get out!" Sam commanded. Reaching across the man, he opened the driver's door and shoved the stunned man out of the car. The thief landed on the pavement but almost instantly he scrambled to his feet and ran out of the alley.

Sliding behind the steering wheel, Sam slammed the driver's door shut, put the car in reverse and barreled from the alley backwards. The car didn't even slow down as it obeyed Sam's demand to leap forward, it's engine rumbling as it streaked down the street. The next moment, it slid sideways as Sam punched on the breaks to bring the car to a halt in a diagonal position across two lanes of the highway, effectively blocking the path of a taxi. His eyes piercing across the interior of the Impala to the taxi driver's stunned expression, Sam yelled, "How do I get to Tucker and 4th Street?"

An enraged scowl erupted on the taxi driver's face as he threw open his door and menacingly approached the Impala. "What do I look like, Map Quest! Now move your car!"

Withdrawing a fifty dollar bill from the gangbanger's wallet, Sam banished the Franklin. "Tell me how to get to Tucker and 4th street!"

Instantly the driver leaned in the Impala, snatching the bill as he readily provided, "Five blocks back that way," his hand pointing over his shoulder, "take Perry Avenue until you come to 4th street and then go three blocks until it intersects with Tucker." The taxi driver had barely cleared himself from the Impala's interior before Sam set the classic car into motion. Like a stunt driver, Sam swung the Impala into an impossibly tight U turn, uncaring that two cars barely managed to slam on their breaks to avoid a collision. Heading in the right direction, Sam put the Impala through its paces, his speed rivaling his brother's at his most reckless.

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Dean wasn't sure what pissed him off more, the fact that the Impala instantly rumbled to life for the gangbanger or the sight of his car streaking down the street, leaving him lying on the pavement. He knew enough to be grateful at being alive to watch the car disappear around the block. It had been a near thing. The gangbanger had been willing to take him out, he had seen it in his eyes. Only the well timed drive by of a rival gang had stayed the gangleader's pressure on the trigger.

With his followers squawking in his ear to split before the other gang took a run at them, the leader found himself suddenly pressed for time. Getting into Dean's personal space, the man quirked, his breath stirring Dean's hair, "Guess your day's looking up," right before he slammed the gun barrel against Dean's temple, sending the hunter crashing to the ground. Turning to his troops, the leader ordered, "Take off," his words barely out of his mouth before the four men made a run for it. Swaggering to the Impala, the gangleader sank into the seat with a smile and turned the key that Dean hadn't bothered to remove.

Lying in the street, his elbows propping him up, Dean couldn't help but smirk as he watched the would-be thief leap into the dead car. 'Sorry about your luck, dude.' However, the gangleader was rewarded with the growling purr of the car's engine. Instantly Dean hurled a string of low curses at his usually loyal Impala. Then, for the second time that day, a vehicle's front grillwork headed his way. With a growl, Dean rolled toward the sidewalk. His back impacted with the sidewalk right before he was blasted with the whoosh of air as the Impala streaked by him.

He lay there a moment, his breath knocked out of him and the pain throbbing in every nerve ending. Then, using the sidewalk as a lever, he pulled himself up to sit on the curb. Pressing the heel of his hand against his throbbing head, he wished his vision would snap back into focus.

For a fleeting moment, he thought about calling Sam but just as quickly he shut that idea down. Sam was safe, he wasn't going to put him back in jeopardy just because he was suddenly feeling utterly lost. 'You are pathetic!' he chided.

Insisting that his body cooperate even as his mind was determined to betray him, he used his hands to shove off of the sidewalk, providing the momentum to propel himself to his feet. But he found his body to be as rebellious as his mind.

When his world spun, Dean bowed his head and clamped his eyes shut, stumbling to the left a moment before he locked his legs, willed his feet to stay under him, for the cement to not come up and meet him. Even as his body obeyed him, his mind continued to play with the very welcome idea of reuniting with Sam. 'I've been without Sam before, and I've been without Dad. I am a survivor," he told himself, again and again.

Opening his eyes, he felt relief as the world stilled even if it refused to sharpen. Putting one foot in front of the other, he hated the way his stomach flipped almost as much as he hated the brutally introspective inclination of his mind. Putting his hand against the wall of a liquor store, he eyed up his surrounding and fought hard to not flinch as an unsolicited revelation struck a blow he had no barriers against. 'But you've never been without the Impala before,' some voice taunted in his head. The Impala was home to him. It was the only home he had known for the past twenty two years, was the only home he cherished. And now it was gone, taken, a casualty to his curse. Silently Dean sent out an apology to the classic car for not protecting it better. He hated to think what his father would say when he learned Dean had just stood there while some punk stole the car he had given into his care. "Can't wait to hear that lecture," he grumbled, pushing off the wall and again moving down the block with more of a drunken shuffle than his usual swagger.

'That's if I'm alive for Dad to lecture,' he clarified, his body merrily reminding him of the abuse it had already endured. 'And dusk is still a little less than two hours away. A lot can happen between now and then. The old crone's curse is working overtime this year.' Just the few hours that he had been separated from Sam he had nearly been in two car accidents and then there was the Impala's betrayal. Dean tried not to hold the Impala to blame for its part in the curse, but sadly it hurt worse than all the other events in the day. The Impala was supposed to be on his side, was supposed to be his refuge. Even when his father and brother had left him high and dry, the Impala hadn't. Until now.

'Great. I'm gonna cry over a car! Wouldn't Sammy love to see that! He'd be so proud to know he's turned me into some chick!' Dean swallowed, hard, shoving all his emotions down to the corner of his soul where all unpleasant, unwelcome and unsought after truths were barricade. He wasn't going to get all choked up over the Impala, he wasn't going to throw himself a pity party and he most definitely wasn't going to let the curse be the end of him. He wouldn't let Marshall Hall's death be for nothing, or Layla's. He owed them a better return for their lives than that.

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With tires squealing, Sam made the turn onto Tucker Street, his breath loud in the car, his heart pounded in his chest, his eyes scanning the sidewalks on both sides of the street. Dean had to be here, somewhere, nearby. "Come on, Dean. Where are you?" his voice sounded desperate even to his own ears.

Forcing the Impala to crawl down the street, Sam felt doubt climb into his head. Maybe the gangbanger had lied, maybe Dean wasn't here, had never been here. Or maybe the thief had spoken only part of the truth, the part about "leaving" Dean here. Maybe the lie was in what condition in which he had "left" Dean. Swallowing convulsively, Sam contemplated parking the Impala and checking every alley…under the garbage, in the dumpsters.

His hands tightened onto the Chevy's steering wheel. 'No! Don't think like that! Dean's fine, Dean's not hurt.' But immediately he remembered how false that reassurance was. Truth was, Dean was hurt, his arm, his leg, his head, his ear, even his butt hadn't escape the curse's manipulations. 'Ok, alright, but he's not dead.' His devil's advocate again reared it's head, only too happy to let the realist Sam Winchester run free. 'Why! Because you don't want him to be? Because you think he's indestructible? Because you can't imagine living without him? People die. Like you told Dean, you can't save everyone. You couldn't save Jess. Maybe you're too late to save Dean.'

Shaking his head in denial at his own betraying thoughts, Sam locked his jaw, refusing to let the sob escape that was cutting off his airways. 'No. No! I know how this is going to play out. I'm going to find Dean and I'm going to save him, no matter what it takes.' With that resolve burning in his heart, Sam kept the Impala purring along, and purposefully refused to allow his eyes to drift to the now seemingly malevolent alleys.

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The sound of the rumbling car engine brought Dean's head swinging around to the street behind him. The too fast motion sent his vision back to blurry mode but even without 20/20 vision he recognized the car. His low curse rent the air. In hindsight, he wished he had thought to blend in with the neighborhood instead of striding along, open, easy to find.

'I should have thought of this! Should have seen it coming! Especially today!' Suddenly, his patience sputtered out. He was tired of running, of being a victim of the curse's machination, of fearing what fate had in store for him. Coming to a stop, he turned to watch the car's approach, a defiant look blazing in his eyes. 'I'm done running.'

But his breath caught in his throat as the rival gang's car seemed set to drive right by him, oblivious to his presence. At first, it didn't register with Dean. The two gang members were practically hanging out of the passenger side windows, their guns held in loose practiced hands. They were gunning for someone…just not him. His eyes flying up the sidewalk, Dean saw, for the first time, a young boy not more than fourteen making his way quickly down the sidewalk toward him, his head down, his stance tense, his gang colors embossed on his jacket like a uniform. The same colors Dean's earlier assailants had sported.

His gaze flickering from the car to the boy, Dean felt his stomach lurch. If he didn't do something the kid was going to get murdered right before his eyes. His feet were eating up the pavement toward the kid even as he yelled, "Get down!" 'Don't let me be too late! Please, God, don't let me be too late!' screaming through his head.

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It all happened so fast, almost too fast for Sam to comprehend, certainly too fast to endure the myriad of emotions that assailed him. Joy, confusion, dread, fear and despair, they crashed against him one after the other, threatening to sweep away his very soul. The only sound that he could make, the only coherent word he could form was "Dean!", the sound a yell, a cry, a scream.

Only seconds prior, Sam had urged the Impala down another block, his throat constricting tighter with each empty block, every search for his brother that came up empty. His eyes scanned his lane's sidewalk before flickering over to inspect the opposite lane's sidewalk. And that's when joy, the level of which he had never known, washed over him. Dean! Dean was walking down the other sidewalk toward him, an alive Dean, a Dean who was unharmed, or at least able to stay on his feet, to walk down the sidewalk, albeit more slowly than his usual determined pace. Tears of immense joy and relief nearly overflowed Sam's eyes.

Sending the Impala lurching forward, his eyes fixed possessively on his brother, Sam watched in confusion as Dean stopped and looked behind him. Even from the distance that still divided he and Dean, Sam could read his brother's tension, could feel Dean gearing up to face a threat. It was enough of a reaction to pry Sam's gaze from Dean to search for the peril his brother sensed. The 1980 Chevy Camaro coming up behind Dean was a moving advertisement for a gang, its colors and decals covering every inch of the classic car. And it was slowing down.

With a curse, Sam stomped his foot flat on the gas pedal. Barreling toward Dean, Sam intended to do whatever it took to intercede in the gang's plans for his brother, whether that meant leaping out of the car and getting into a fist fight, his back against Dean's, or if it meant cutting off the other car before it reached his brother. Then he heard Dean's yell but the words didn't register with him, not until Dean began to run for all he was worth, not until Sam saw the fourteen year old kid, not until he realized Dean was not the gang's target, the boy was.

Suddenly, Dean's words when they were surrounded by a forest with a Wendigo in its dark depths, came back to Sam sharply. 'I think Dad wants us to pick up where he left off, saving people...the family business.' If speech would have been possible for Sam he would have bellowed 'NO!' as he realized Dean's intentions. Saving people, the family business, it was all Dean knew, was a part of him, an interwoven piece of his heart and soul. And it was the part of his brother that terrified Sam the most.

Recognizing with dread that Dean would reach the kid in a few more strides, maybe even before the gang made their more, Sam despised his brother's compassion. Too far away to intervene in time, Sam planned to sound the car's horn, hoping to distract the gang's focus. But before his fingers could come to rest on the horn, another sound erupted in the nearly deserted streets. Gun fire. "Dean!" Sam screamed, horrified as Dean's body jerked forward as bullets slammed into his back seconds after he had stepped purposefully into the line of fire. The impact of the bullets and his previous momentum sent Dean crashing into the boy, sending them both down to the pavement. Neither boy nor man moved as the Camaro roared past them.

TBC

Thank you for reading and as always, I would love to hear from you!

PS. I really am wrapping this story up…I have the next chapter done (with a little overhaul required) and then it's either a big finale chapter or 2 smaller chapters in which I pretty much know what I want to happen. However, I am undecided about how emotional I want to take the story, and what the conversations should be include: anger, fear, reconciliation (You're getting some kinda of sappy brotherly mush of some degree for certain…that's just the kinda writer I am.). So I would appreciate any opinions on what is realistic or what your preferences would be. (In other words…HELP!)

Cheryl W.