Author's Note: Well, I promised to post in 5 days,and I made it in 6. Sorry! Also, my apologies for the curse words that slipped in during this chapter. I usually try to keep the nasty words away, but sometimes it just can't be helped!
The Last Mile
"What really happened that night, George?" Sam asked softly. This was the part of the job he truly loathed. Everyone had skeletons in their closet. Hell, his own family had enough to headline every Vegas show in existence. But instead of letting secrets stay buried, it was his duty to uncover them, tearing open barely sealed wounds and dousing them with salt. He tried to tell himself he was doing this for a noble cause. Reliving his painful past was obviously tearing George up inside, but it would be nothing compared to the agony he'd feel if someone died because he insisted on living a lie.
George said nothing as he sat still as a statue, the only movement was the tightening of the already intense grip he had on his nephew's hand. If Sean minded, he didn't show it. He endured the painful grip, flames of fury dancing in his eyes as he stared at Sam and Dean.
"I've had about enough of you two." Sean snarled. He walked in front of his uncle, kneeling before him. "You don't owe these jerks anything, Uncle George. Let me call security, toss them out of here."
George chuckled wryly. "It's ok, boy. I don't need you to be my protector." he said fondly. "What I do need is for you to get me a beer."
Sam waited patiently for the older man to begin his story, while Dean tried his best to follow his brother's example. His fingers drummed against his thigh as he watched George take a long swig of beer. Dean's irritation seemed to grow in contrast to the emptying bottle. He was able to compose himself through the first bottle, but when Sean handed his uncle a second, Dean had enough.
"You gonna sit there and drink all day, or are you going to get on with it?" Dean blurted out.
"Dean!" Sam hissed.
"Sam, there's only a couple hours left til sundown. If there's more to this scenario, we need to know it before we head out there." Before Sam could answer, Dean spoke to George. "So, what was it? Did you tamper with his brake lines? Mess with his steering?"
"No!" George shook his head vehemently. "It was a fair run…happened just like I told you. The fight led to the game of chicken, which neither of us was willin' to lose."
"So what…?" Sam broke off, his brow furrowed in confusion.
"After the crash. I honestly wish I had been knocked cold, but somehow I stayed awake for the whole thing. I saw Marc crash into me, so hard the cars almost seemed to bounce off each other. The noise was deafening, and then everything was really quiet." George rubbed the back of his hand underneath his bristly chin. "My head hurt so bad I could barely stand it, but the rest of my body was numb. I tried getting' out, but I couldn't move my arms." George took a deep breath. "That's when I heard him scream."
"Him?" Dean had been watching the events unfold in his imagination, the scenes as vivid as a movie. He'd seen the cars collide, heard the terrifying screams of the girls as they saw George's frantic eyes begging for help inside his Firebird while Marc sat lifeless in the burning Mustang.
"Marc." George said simply.
Dean held up his hand as the scene paused in his mind. "Hold on. I thought Marc died on impact?"
"No." George whispered. "Blood was pouring out of his nose; he musta hit his head on the steerin' wheel. But he was alive." George looked down as he choked out his next words. "And awake."
Sean continued to kneel at his George's side, one hand braced against his stomach while the other still held his uncle's hand. "Oh god. The fire."
A tear slipped down George's cheek as he struggled to continue his confession. "It started right after the crash, the flames shootin' out from under the hood. Marc tried his damndest to get out, but he couldn't get the door open. He yelled at everyone for help, but they all just stood there. The higher the flames got, the louder Marc screamed."
Tears streamed down George's face as he covered his mouth with a shaky hand. Sam began to move towards the aggrieved man, but was stopped by Dean. Pulling Sam back to his side, Dean shook his head somberly. They both knew where the story was going, and a large part of Dean wanted to end it there to spare George from finishing the tale. But they'd come this far, they owed it to the victims of the ghost car to continue.
"I remember yellin' at them to move, to do somethin'. But it was like they were just as paralyzed as I was. One of Marc's buddies finally made a move towards the car, but Timmy held him back, said it was too late to save him. All of the sudden there was this loud explosion, and the fire just leapt up the car to where Marc was sittin'. He just kept screamin' and screamin'. God, I thought he'd never stop." George had covered his ears as he relived the terrible moment, his voice crescendoed with every syllable. Lowering his hands, he took a few deep breaths before continuing.
"I could see Marc through the fire, the flames wrappin' around him like a fur coat. Then, all of a sudden, he stopped. Stopped movin', stopped screamin'. Just stopped. Then he was gone."
George's words hung in the air as the three younger men stood transfixed. Dean looked to his younger brother. Sam always knew the right thing to say. But Sam remained silent, his expressive hazel eyes glistening with emotion. Dean searched for the right words that would absolve George of his guilt, but found none.
Sean had gotten to his feet, looking like he'd just been punched in the stomach. Again. "But, Uncle George, you said yourself Marc couldn't get out. I've seen pictures of the Mustang. It was so bent and twisted that even if your friends had gotten to the car, they couldn't have gotten Marc out."
George laughed bitterly, taking another swipe at his eyes. "That's where you're wrong. After they put the flames out, the rescue workers went to recover what they could of Marc's body. The driver's door opened as easy as you please."
Sam's throat unlocked long enough for him to attempt one question. "But you said Marc tried to get out."
Fresh tears welled in George's eyes, and Sam struggled to keep his own emotions in check. He envied his brother's ability to remain detached, although judging from the pinched expression on Dean's face, it was a battle they were both losing.
"The coroner said Marc had shattered his arm. There was no way he could've gotten out on his own. If only someone had made the effort, if only I'd done something..." George's words trailed off as each man finished the thought in his own mind.
"You were paralyzed! You couldn't even save yourself, let alone do anything for Marc." Sean tried reasoning with his uncle, but his words had no effect.
"Try tellin' that to his ghost, or to the people he's hurt because of us. Because of me." George corrected himself.
Sam cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence. "You can't blame yourself for what your friends didn't do. There was nothing you could've done."
"I could've told the truth, instead of coverin' for those cowards. Maybe then Marc wouldn't have spent the last thirty years in limbo, or whatever the hell you call it." George spat back hotly.
Dean put his business face back on. He was officially calling this pity party to a close. "Maybe you're right. But you know what? That doesn't matter. What does matter is getting the hood ornament so Sam and I can send his invisible ass where he can't hurt anyone else."
Dean's words put a bit of life back in George's eyes, but it also sparked Sean's ire. "You son of a bitch." Sean growled as he took a menacing step forward.
George expertly rolled in the path of his overprotective nephew, holding an arm out. "Easy there, kiddo. He's got a point." He shifted his gaze to Dean. "You gotta respect a man who doesn't toss around a lot of manure."
Sam couldn't help but laugh at the irony of that comment. Dean held an honorary degree in the art of bullshit. The dirty look he received from Dean coupled with the pent up emotions that had been building during George's emotional confession sent him a bit over the edge as he continued to laugh uncontrollably. Rubbing his hand against his sore jaw, he tried getting himself under control.
"Sorry. It's been a really long, strange day." Sam offered in explanation. Hell, it's been a strange life, he thought to himself as the last chuckle died away.
"Anyway," Dean shot a few leftover daggers his brother's way before continuing. "Do you have it?"
George rolled over to his desk and removed a small object from behind the computer. The shiny silver lightening bolt looked far less worn than the man holding it. "So this little thing will be enough to send back Marc's spirit? And get rid of the Mustang?"
"That's the theory. Once Marc's spirit is at rest, the Mustang should be gone as well." Dean answered.
George turned the hood ornament around and around in his hands. "Excuse me for bein' a bit slow, but I just want to make sure I understand what exactly you'll be doin'. So you're plannin' on strappin' this to your car, then reenactin' the events of the crash?" His tone held a doubting quality that the Winchesters unwittingly absorbed.
Sam and Dean gave each other questioning looks. Sam shrugged while Dean slowly answered. "Well, we definitely won't be using the Impala. She's been through enough. But other than that, yeah, I guess."
The truth was, they hadn't actually worked out the fine details of their plan. The Mustang was corporeal; it had already inflicted serious damage to several cars. There was very little hope of a car, let alone it's driver, surviving a head-on collision. Even if by some miracle he did come out with his life intact, his body would certainly be broken. Dean had a horrid flash of himself in a coma, tubes and wires engulfing him like a fly caught in a web.
"We'll wait for the Mustang to make an appearance. Hopefully the hood ornament will be enough to lure it out. Then I'll drive straight at it, just like you did, with the hood ornament attached. At the last second I'll bail out and hope it was enough to vanquish Marc for good." Sam sounded confident, considering he was probably making it up as he went along. Dean had pretty much reached the same conclusion, although he definitely wasn't looking forward to leaping from a car onto the hard pavement. Not a bad plan, although Sam had erred in one minor detail.
"Except I'll be the one driving." Dean said resolutely. No way was he going to let the Mustang have another shot at his baby brother.
Sam actually had the nerve to look surprised at the correction. "What are you talking about? There's no way I'm letting you do it. I have to finish what I started."
"Sam, don't be an ass! I'm the better driver. Not to mention the fact that I'm faster than you, especially given how many times you've bounced your thick head around these last few days." Dean argued back.
"Dammit, Dean, I told you, I'm fine! We can't screw this up again; we've gotta make sure we do this right!" Sam had the astrological advantage in the argument; the stubborn Taurus usually made mince meat out of the strong-willed Aquarius. But Dean was determined to have his way on this. Just as it was Sam's cosmic right to be a bullheaded stubborn ass, it was Dean's right as a big brother to make sure no further harm would come Sam's way, even if it meant further injury to himself.
"I have an even better idea." George broke in. "Neither one of you will be driving." He paused, raising his chin boldly. "I will."
Sam's eyebrows shot up. "You'll what?"
Dean turned around, his arms out to the side. "Oh yeah. Here we go."
"What…what are you talking about?" Sean was half sitting, half leaning against the small desk in the corner of the room. "Ok, suppose this ghost stuff is real and the Mustang needs to relive the crash. How do you plan on accelerating? Remote control? You're in a friggin' wheelchair!" Sean shouted, his hands flailing in frustration.
"All I need is for one of you to drive me out there. Then when Marc shows up, I'll use a stick to hold down the gas pedal."
"And then what? We tie a rope around your waist and pull you free at the last second? Come on, Uncle George, don't be stupid."
George's pale face began to turn red, his eyes narrowing furiously. Dean quickly spoke up. "He's right. You have no idea how much that pisses me off, but he's got a point. You can't do it, George."
George slammed his fist onto the arm of his wheelchair. "Don't you dare tell me what I can or can't do! You came to me, remember? It's my fault all of this crap has happened. I have to be a part of this!"
Sam moved over to the irate man, crouching next to him so they were eye level. "You are a part of this. You told the truth, you brought us the hood ornament. You've given Dean and me the tools we need to set Marc free, to stop him from hurting anyone else. Now you have to let us take over." Sam put his hand on the arm of the wheelchair, not quite touching George's fist. "We know what we're doing, George. We've been doing this stuff our whole lives. Trust us. I promise you, we can do this!"
Dean held his breath, waiting to see if Sam's impassioned words would sway George to relent. It really didn't matter either way; if George refused to hand over the hood ornament Dean would take it from him, handicapped or not. It would also present him another opportunity to take a few more swings at Sean. However, it would be nice to go into the final stages of the hunt with George's blessing instead of having to take the hood ornament from him like some schoolyard bully.
George and Sam held each other's gaze for several long moments before the older man finally broke, looking down with a heavy sigh. He picked up the unopened beer bottle from the floor, looking at in sorrowfully.
"Pick up some beer on your way back. This here's my last bottle, and I plan on gettin' completely shit-faced before the night is through."
Sam gave him a grim smile while gently resting his hand on George's arm. "I think we can manage that. I'm sure my brother will give you a run for your money."
Dean closed his eyes in relief. Once again Sensitive Sam swooped in and saved the day. He gave his brother an approving nod as he watched him start to take the hood ornament. Unfortunately George moved his hand just as Sam reached for it, and the two men bumped into each other, sending the lightening bolt tumbling to the floor.
Dean smiled at his brother's clumsy antics as the younger man bent to reach for the hood ornament. The kid had never really grown into his lanky limbs. He checked his watch, calculating how much time they had to procure a car before nightfall.
A sharp cry snapped Dean's attention back to the center of the room, where Sam lay sprawled facedown on the carpet. Large pieces of glass surrounded his head; a few slivers glinted in his dark hair. George looked at Dean with a hint of fear in his eyes, the broken neck of the beer bottle still in his hand.
Dean was shocked by the sudden turn of events; for a moment he could only stare at his brother's prone body. The light reflected off the broken glass, snapping him out of his stupor.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" he shouted as he moved towards Sam. He'd only taken one step when he felt something hard smash into the back of his skull. His forward momentum took him one step further before his legs gave out. Falling to the ground, Dean landed a few inches from his unconscious brother. George's sad apology was the last thing he heard before the darkness claimed him.