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.
Author's Note: As I've admitted to some of you, I'm struggling a little with being responsible to have the boys solve a mystery and keep the story interesting and the plot moving. I'm really hoping not to bore you with the investigation part. Cheers to all you writers who solve a mystery with every story you write, keep it riveting and make it seem so easy!!
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Chapter 2: Investigative Pitfalls
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Knowing that, whether he liked it or not, hunting was always the common ground between he and Dean, Sam nearly sighed as he begrudgingly set his focus on the job at hand. "So what's the plan?" he said loud enough to be heard over the music bouncing off the Impala's interior.
Turning down the music with a flick of his wrist, Dean began, his eyes purposefully fixed on the road, "Well there's the two drivers who survived their crashes." His thoughts, however, were still turning over Bruce Garner's insinuations. It had been a long time since his bravery had come under fire. Sure, his father had griped about his efficiency, Sam tended to disagree with his methods, but his bravery? It was the one thing he thought was unquestionable…in every one's eyes but his own. Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, he wished he knew what Garner had seen in him, where the hole in his fortifications needed to be plugged, where the truth was seeping through the cracks of his walls.
"Yeah, two drivers. One of which Garner won't let us talk to. Sounds suspicious to me," Sam insinuated, disappointed that he wasn't grabbing more of Dean's attention about the gig he insisted they do. At his brother's silence, he impatiently prodded, "Dean?!"
Shutting down the echo of Garner's insult pinging in his head, Dean swung his look to his little brother. "What he said, Sam, was it was no use trying to talk to Phillips," he corrected, tagging on a smug smile that was all for Sam's benefit. "Driver wasn't allowing anyone from the racetrack to see him. From the sounds of his injuries, I wouldn't be up for show and tell either if I had the extent of burns on my face he apparently does."
Not disputing Dean's clarification, Sam sighed, "Ok, fine. Then what about the other driver, Stapp? He's at home recovering, right?"
"Yup. Sounds like the perfect interview candidate for you tomorrow while I start my new job," Dean gloated, the spark again returning to his eyes at the prospect of even being around a racetrack.
Heart twisting at his brother's obvious enthusiasm for the normal job aspect of their con, Sam spoke, striving for lightness to match the small smile he directed at his brother. "Yeah, well, don't forget we're working a supernatural job, Dean."
"Don't get your Huggies in a bunch. I'll make sure I always have my super hero costume on under my work coveralls," Dean sallied back, touched that, though his brother's words mirrored something his father had said to him time and again, the tone was all gentle, worried, emo Sam. "Guess I better drop you off at the car rental place so Sammy Cole had pick up his own ride," he glibly pointed out, eyes shooting a quick assessing look to Sam. Not seeing a protest or regret in his brother's features, Dean focused again on the road and told himself that it didn't bother him that they were splitting up for this hunt, that he and Sam wouldn't be able to talk to each other out in the open starting tomorrow. After all, why should it bother him when it didn't bother Sam, right?
For the next few miles, the low sound of the radio was the only noise in the classic car as Dean unerringly made his way through town as if he had a GPS in his head of every small town USA. Sam admired that about his brother, hoped one day he would have the guts to tell Dean that…along with the million other things his brother did and was that he admired.
Sam felt dread settle in him as the auto rental sign came into sight, announcing that his separation with Dean was at hand. 'Get a grip. It's not like you're going into different states.' Snidely his mind tacked on, 'Like you did two months ago by your choice.' Internally he cringed, not only at his action but at the small voice in his head that accused him of bucking the separation only because Dean had instigated it this time.
Driving past the auto rental agency, Dean pulled the Impala into a side street parking space two blocks down the road. Bringing his car to a halt but making no move to shift it into park or cut the engine, Dean looked over at Sam. He couldn't help responding to the confused, almost hurt look on his brother's face. "It's better if we're not seen together in town."
Caught off guard at the suddenness of their act of separation, Sam stammered, "Ah…yeah…right." Hand reaching for the door handle, he tried to think of something to say, something to make this feel better, to wipe away the notion that they were making a colossal mistake. Coming up dry, he swallowed, swung his look away from Dean and got out of the car. Opening the back door, he pulled his bag free and slung it over his shoulder. Awkwardly standing there on the curb, silent, he pleadingly met Dean's eyes.
"I'll call you," Dean quietly offered, feeling vulnerable with Sam standing outside the Impala and him inside, with them splitting up. 'Course this is a dream come true for Sam. Getting to run his own research, to come to his own conclusions without me there mucking up his thinking process, to have his independence from me, to not feel like my luggage.' Meg's words still trapped in his head even after he knew what Meg was, what she had sought to do with words like that. It was a sick twist of fate that their Dad's dying accomplished what Meg hadn't been able to. Achieved it in one fell swoop. Split him and Sam up? Check. Make them at odds with each other? Check. Shake the trust they had in each other? And double check.
Shifting from one foot to the other, eyes on his brother, Sam suddenly took a step forward to rest his hand onto the open passenger window frame, reluctant to let Dean drive off, for them to be parted, even for a night. It just felt wrong, like they were going against the natural order of things, were breaking some Winchester code of conduct. But 'Yeah, cause Dad leaving us eating his dust for a year was sure validation that we Winchesters stick together,' sourly popped into his head.
Reading a vibe of desperation in his brother's expression, Dean tilted his head and gently asked, "What?"
For Sam, it suddenly felt like he was again standing out in front of his Stanford apartment after their hunt for their father in Jericho. That he was about to simply watch his brother drive away, watch Dean slip away from him after they had been apart for two years. Remembered that he had been willing to let Dean go without any real reassurances that they would ever talk again, be brothers ever again…just for his desperate, hopeless need for normalcy…for safety. 'For a life I didn't deserve. Not when I'm the cause for all this, for Mom's death, for Dad hunting, for Dean denied any shot at his own dreams… of racing cars and having a family to come home to instead of a car and a cursed little brother.'
In a reversal of roles, Sam wanted to tell Dean that they made a great team. To try, as Dean had more than a year ago, to bind them together, to make the vague yet unmistakable offer for them to stay together. "Dean…"
"Yeah," Dean snapped, wondering what was going through Sam's head, if his brother was hesitating because he thought he was too weak to be alone, to work a case without his little brother having his back. "Today Sam. I want to check into the motel before dark, get a look around, see where the other drivers and mechanics stay."
His unspoken sentiments buffeted by his brother's gruffness, Sam slid his hand from the Impala and stood back from the car. "I'll call you after I interview Stapp," he coolly replied.
"Ok," Dean agreed even as he put the car into motion. Finding that he couldn't just leave Sam there, Dean chanced a look in the rearview mirror even as he chided himself. 'He's not a kid anymore. He doesn't need you to protect him 24/7. Doesn't want you to even try.' But as his eyes landed on the tall frame that was his brother, Dean was unprepared to see the look on Sam's face that was so reminiscent of that dejected boy he had left at hundreds of bus stops growing up. Everything in him screamed for him to stop the car, to return to Sam, to tell Garner what he could do with his cover story. But in a blinking of an eye, the expression disappeared from his brother's features and Dean wondered if it was his own wishful thinking that had him seeing things that weren't there.
With his foot hovering over the brake, Dean watched Sam turn around and begin the two block hike back to the car rental agency, his shoulders high and his stride determined. Chastising himself for misreading his brother's expression, for thinking there was regret and longing in his brother's look instead of a look of relief at the freedom he had been granted, Dean prodded the Impala forward. 'Sam's not like me. He doesn't hate being alone. Fact is, he's happiest doing his own thing, by himself. And his deciding to take up the family tradition of hunting to honor Dad, that doesn't change a thing. His leaving me behind after Rivergrove should be proof enough of that, for even someone as thick headed as me.'
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Picking out the rental car, a task Sam usually relished, was surprisingly depressing to him. Dean wasn't there to criticize his choice, wasn't muttering about the how wussy the 2006 model car was that he sat behind now. He could almost hear his brother's snort when the quiet engine kicked on, his taunt 'Well there you have it: the neuteredmobile. Sure that isn't going to be too much engine for you to handle, Sammy?'
Pulling out of the rental car agency, Sam turned right, headed toward the motel he and Dean had scoped out when they drove into town, the one they had decided would make a decent base of operation …for him. Dean's own lodgings were only a few miles from the race track, a motel that Garner used to house his racing crew who didn't live locally.
It wasn't the first time Sam found himself checking into a motel alone…but it never felt good, right. Fact was, it hardly ever boded well: Him hunched over his laptop desperately Googling for a miracle while Dean lay in the hospital after his electrocution, dying; Walking into that room in Fayette Indiana, alone, after skipping out on Dean in the middle of the night after his revelations about their father's last words about him; Sinking down onto the one of two beds in that motel in Baltimore where he had checked in as James Rockford, overwhelmed with the weight of finding a way to get Dean out of jail and knowing that Dean was fully expecting him to work on the case, to put all his efforts into saving some stranger from the ghost's next attack instead of worrying about something so trivial as his brother getting a lethal injection for murders he never committed.
"Single or double?" the motel manager's question broke Sam out of his unpleasant memories, only to add another layer to them. All three times that he had checked into a motel room alone, he had always gone with a double bed room, prayerfully, hopefully and determinedly believing that he wouldn't be alone that long, that Dean would be there that night…the next night…soon… sometime. But this was different, this separation was by mutual choice, even if it was prompted by Garner's restrictions. Offhandedly, Sam wondered if that was what rubbed him the wrong way, that they had left Garner dictate to them how they would do their investigation, if they would even act like brothers.
Feeling new anger flare in him, Sam growled out his answer, "double" and snatched the proffered keycard from the man. Vowing that before long he and Dean would put their partnership back on track, would be telling Garner where he could put his whole undercover, you're not brothers, game, Sam stalked out the door and moved the rental car to the slot outside his room.
But as he swung open the motel room door, saw the two beds, felt the empty quietness reach out to him, Sam couldn't wipe out the memory of the excited look on his brother's face at the prospect of going undercover in the racing community. A look that didn't diminish even at the stipulation that Dean had to deny that they were brothers. 'That I'm his brother. His little brother, guy he's always swearing to protect, to not leave,' Sam sarcastically thought, carelessly tossing his bag on the bed. "Mention something about racing and he's gone, barely remembers he has a brother," Sam dejectedly mumbled, knowing he was acting like a hurt, jealous child but willing to allow himself a moment or two to indulge in the feelings.
Sighing, Sam got his emotions back under control and dragged his laptop out on the table. Sinking into the chair, he connected to the internet and began his designated job in his and Dean's partnership: research. Doggedly he began to bring up information on the race track and the most recent wrecks, was surprised to find tension singing through him as if there was some imminent, Dean's-in-danger type deadline that he was working against. Which was foolish because Dean had relented to his little brother pleas, had gone in as a mechanic, not a driver and as far as they knew only race drivers were getting targeted.
Ruthlessly Sam denied that his desire to wrap the job up quickly had anything to do with the conspicuously untouched second bed or with his nervous habit of fingering his cell phone which was beside his laptop or with the silence in the room that was making his skin itch. Nope, those things weren't a factor at all to his determination. Saving people, that was his goal, his focus. It would just be an added bonus if, long before the week's end, he found himself in the Impala's passenger seat, his brother at the wheel, and them heading out of town, together.
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Pulling into the parking lot of the motel Garner had directed him to, Dean felt his gut clench as the group of people on the second floor leaning against the rail and talking, bottles in hand, all turned to watch his entrance…rather the Impala's entrance. "Crap, should have let Sammy take the Impala and I should have rented a car…something nondescript," he grumbled under his breath, remembering too late the way things had been in high school when the Impala had instantly granted him allies ..and enemies.
Now, here, among actual professional race car drivers, Dean knew the prime condition, black paint gleaming Impala was an unmistakable boast about driving skills. 'Which would be great, appropriate…if I was pretending to be a race car driver instead of a race car mechanic. Thanks Sammy…I'll be lucky if I don't get my teeth knocked out and the Impala isn't crowbarred.' But he winced at his own thoughts…at the memory of how the crowbar had felt in his hands as it ripped into the beloved metal of the Impala, of one of the few things in life that he could claim as his own. Immediately he shut down the whys of that one, wanted to not think about that, about his father, about his father's prediction about Sam, at least for a few days. 'Forever' his mind tagged on, where wishes that couldn't be granted were always waiting to ambush him when he least expected it.
As he cut the engine, one of the first floor doors swung open. The lanky dark haired man that stood in the doorway eyed the Impala with respect but as Dean climbed out of the car, his expression turned to one of angry disgust…the way Dean felt when some jerk was driving a prime sports car like an old granny.
Not one to back down from a challenge, Dean stood there in the open door, met the man's gaze head on and quirked an eyebrow in a 'you got something to say' gesture. It threw the man's bravo for a loop…morphed it into fury and when the man poked his head back into this room, Dean knew the guy was probably getting his four body-building buddies to join him in beating up the new guy. Suppressing a curse, Dean shut the driver's door, opened the back door and withdrew his bag. Shutting the back door, he greeted his gathered audience of the man, his three, thankfully, skinny friends with a longsuffering sigh. It didn't pass Dean's notice either that three guys and two girls from the second floor party were coming down the stairs seemingly intent on joining them.
Not wanting to hamper any defense he would have to make, Dean dropped his bag on the ground. Spreading his hands out, he offered a goading smile to the front man. "Ah…a welcoming committee. Is the fruit basket already in my room?" he quipped, pointing to his motel room door.
"You got a smart mouth…" the dark haired man sneered, eyes clashing with Dean's before they settled on the gleaming hood of the Impala. "And a car you're not worthy to drive, grease monkey."
"Oh, I see. We're going to go the mature route…calling each other names," Dean amicably said, nodding his head. But a moment later, when he took a step closer to his antagonist, his eyes telegraphed something that sent the other man tensing with that fight or flight instinct. Lowly Dean threatened, his green eyes turning opaque in their deadliness, "I'm not looking for trouble. I'm here to do a job but if trouble's something you want…you better want it badly." Reading doubt in the other man's eyes, Dean shifted his glare to flicker to the three men behind the other man, let them know that he wasn't scared to take them all on if he had to, that his threat was for them as much as it was for the big mouthed jerk facing off with him.
Settling his look again to the first man, Dean indiscernibly tensed to attack, felt himself wanting to unleash some fury onto the deserving jerk. Reading the other man's intentions to back down, a spark of disappointment went through Dean. Opening his mouth to goad the man, irrationally wanting to let the man land his first punch, he found someone else butting into the confrontation.
"Anderson, you're kind of slumming it aren't you? Hanging out with us now that you've got your own private practice track," a man's voice taunted from behind Dean.
Dean didn't spare any of his attention to the newcomer, let the dark haired man in his early fifties come to a stop at his side without much reaction.
"Well, Tim, hanging out with a washed-out mechanic like you has always been slumming it in my books," Anderson shot back to Tim, eagerly shifting his anger to an opponent that didn't have the potential to put him in the hospital.
Out of his peripheral vision, Dean saw Tim offer up a slow smile before he gave his comeback. "Then I guess you getting saddled with a washed out mechanic like me should tell you just how your driving skills rate."
Anderson's right cross was in motion almost instantly but Dean caught the man's wrist mid swing. As if it were child's play, Dean, in one fluid motion, forced the man's arm down, spun Anderson around and pinned his arm behind his back. "I've never heard of a one armed race car driver but if you want to be the first, just say the word," he hissed in Anderson's ear.
"Alright, alright. Just chill out," Anderson stammered, a hint of pain in his voice as he tried to go onto his tip toes to lessen the pressure Dean was exacting on his shoulder.
Releasing his hold and pushing the man away from him simultaneously, Dean felt his muscles coil, ready for action as Anderson faced him. But the driver turned his look instead to the mechanic. "By the end of this week, I'm going to be signing a contract for NASCAR and you'll still be stuck here on this no where track. And you always will be." He let his eyes scan the gathered crowd, "All of you will be." Then he stalked to a red Corvette, got behind the wheel and sent gravel flying as he tore out of the parking lot.
As the gathered spectators slowly dispersed, leaving Dean and Tim alone, Dean turned to the mechanic. "You have to work on that jerk's car?" Dean asked with undisguised bitterness, liking the man at his side already, especially over the jerk that had dared to imply he didn't deserve the Impala.
"Yup but it gets better. If you're Dean, the new mechanic Garner hired, you get the distinct pleasure of working on Anderson's car too," Tim drawled, his eyes moving from the departing Corvette to Dean. He gave a tight smile, "Good news is Eddie's a better driver than he is a fighter."
Latching onto the first useful information he had, Dean asked, "Good enough to win that contract he's betting on?"
Tim shrugged, "His chances are looking pretty good now," a flicker of sorrow in his brown eyes.
"Now?" Dean said, let the inquiry take him where it would but when Tim's look darkened, he knew the other man wasn't one to get played.
"Don't try and pretend you don't know about the recent wrecks. I know Garner, he would have been upfront with you, told you what's been going on around here before you signed on," Tim coolly countered, turning fully to face Dean. "Let's clear things up here and now. Garner hired you but I'm your boss. You can't cut it, you're gone. If you're getting some superstitious vibes because of the recent deaths, buy a lucky rabbit's foot…..on your way out of town."
Tilting his head as he unflinchingly met the older man's gaze, Dean found that he was starting to respect Garner's head mechanic. "I'm partial to Bugs Bunny keeping his foot and I'm not the type to cut and run when things get dangerous." He didn't show an ounce of reaction to the measuring look Tim hit him with before the other man bowed his head and gave it a shake or two.
Raising his head, Tim met Dean's eyes with embarrassment. "No, I didn't think you were the cut and run type. Sorry, Dean. We sure do know how to make you feel welcome, huh?" he shamefully apologized as he offered his hand.
Shaking the other man's hand, Dean felt the lingering tension melt between them. "Yeah, between Anderson's greeting, your interrogation and the jovial interview I had with your boss, who, by the way, isn't upfront, but blunt…like a rock, it almost seems like I'm working with my family."
Tim laughed quietly, "Sounds like my family. If we're not arguing about something it's simply because we're not talking."
"Yeah," Dean agreed, voice raw at the too close venture into his own family's true dynamics, his look dropping to his boots. 'Course Sam and I can argue even when we're NOT talking.'
Sensing that the subject of his family was a sore issue with his new mechanic, Tim stepped to the Impala, ran his hand along the smooth black finish like a caress. "A lot of love has gone into this beauty." Walking toward the passenger side, he bent down, ran his hand over the metal like a doctor performing an examination. His startled eyes flew up to Dean's. "You fixed the frame?!" surprise in his tone.
Leaning against the Impala, Dean casually admitted, "Tangled with a Semi," purposefully not stating whether he was the one driving the car at the time. He wasn't sure if he was embarrassed or happy when he saw a look of true admiration shine in Tim's eyes.
"You're lucky that you walked away at all from that confrontation," Tim quietly said, his inspection back to the car, his practiced hands reaching under the car to the metal hidden from view. At Dean's silence, Tim looked up, saw the younger man wasn't looking at him and his jaw was clenched as if he was holding something back…or something together more fragile than a vintage car. Instinctively, he knew then that Dean hadn't simply walked away from the crash, not physically or mentally. Standing to face Dean's profile, he unreservedly complimented, "You did an outstanding job restoring her," feeling 100 better about his new mechanic's qualifications than he had when Garner had sprung the news of a new addition to his team on him..hours ago.
Dean looked sharply at Tim, at his reference to the Impala as "her". Feeling his memories of the accident fading to the background, he patted the Impala and truthfully drawled, "She's the only one who's never left me."
"I can relate to that," Tim readily agreed with a sad, knowing smile. "Almost more than I want to." Then he seemed to shake himself out of his melancholy. "I'm in room 46. How 'bout you dump your bag in your room then come down and help me drink the 6 pack I finally got cold?"
"I don't make a habit of turning down a free drink. I'll be down in a few minutes," Dean replied with a smile. For a moment, he stood there, watched his new boss disappear into the room four doors down from his own. Digging out the room key Garner had given to him, he unlocked the door to the efficiency room. Though the room was like the better places he and Sam had crashed in over the past year and a half, Dean stood immobile in the doorway. There was a striking contrast between the room before him and the rooms that he had been in lately: There was only one bed. And for the life of him, Dean couldn't dismiss the sharp sense of wrongness that settled over him at the glaring difference.
Waging through his emotions, Dean stepped into the room and shut the door. Tossing his bag onto the table, he withdrew his phone from his pocket but doubt had his fingers hesitating over the buttons. Did Sam even want to hear from him? And what would he say, 'Don't let the bed bugs bite, Sammy?'
Letting the phone fall out of his hand and bounce onto the bed, Dean left the room. He would give Sam same privacy for a change, let his brother know that they weren't tied at the hip. Striving for an upbeat outlook, Dean told himself that the separation between him and Sam could prove to his little brother that he had a say in this life, in this lifestyle that he had finally come to see as his own path. That maybe this was the way he could make Sam realize what he himself already knew: Sam could stand on his own, was too good hearted, was too strong to go darkside on him, now or ever. That for all the times their dad had been right, he wasn't right about this, about Sammy… 'Or about me,' Dean bitterly thought, wondering how his Dad could ever think he would kill Sam, could kill his brother. Hand raised to knock on Tim's door, Dean winced as a more hurtful thought singed through him. 'How could Sam even think for a second that I would kill him?! That I have any intention of keeping the promise I gave to him when he was sloppy drunk?! Crap, maybe we're more strangers than brothers after all.'
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Dreams, goals, a future. They were for other people, had never been for him but standing along the Smithfield race track, watching the number 52 car take the inside lane on the closest turn, Dean let himself wonder where his life would have taken him if he had been allowed such luxuries. College, marriage, kids, himself working as a fireman, a race car driver, being a man that could take off his shirt without wondering what people would think of the scars marring his body, a man that might have a chance at looking in the mirror and not hating what he saw, a man that wasn't drowning in fear and desperation and pain?
Suddenly, he felt a stab of jealous for the man in that race car, for Tim, for all of the others he had seen at work in the race track. Each of them were following their dreams, were living their dreams..even if they were the second string type of dreams. Had found in themselves the ability, the strength to reach for something they wanted, to get it out of tenacity, or mercy or merit. But the only thing Dean had ever let himself want, he could never have: his family, together, at peace with each other. He winced at the mockery of that thought. Even in death his father knew no peace, not where he had sentenced himself. 'For me.'
"So this is your first time working the racing circuit," Tim greeted, coming to stand beside Dean, his eyes also on the car making its practice run.
Having sensed the other man's approach, even as his thoughts had traveled their own dark corridors, Dean lazily replied after a moment, "Yeah." Invisibly shaking himself from his self pity, Dean turned to Tim, remembering he had a job to do, that his path was already carved out for him, had been his destiny after the first drop of his mother's blood had dripped into Sammy's crib. "Sounds like you've had quite the career," he said, underlying questions there if Tim allowed him to pose them.
"Had is right," Tim smirked, memories flickering in his head that Dean couldn't see.
"Sorry, I didn't mean…" Dean stammered, feeling like he was the last person on earth that had a right to criticize a man for his failed dreams.
"I know. Anderson's right, though. This is small potatoes compared to the NASCAR garages," Tim admitted and Dean realized in that moment that the man spoke from experience, watched as Tim's eyes followed the race car rocket around the track like it were a child he was proud of. "But the cars, they stay the same: no egos, no tantrums, they don't try to slug you when they come in last." Tim gave a sad smile to Dean. Dean found himself mirroring the smile, understanding the connection between man and machine that the mechanic referred to, that he himself had alluded to the night before. "Probably why I'll work anywhere I can just to get the chance to look under the hood of a race car. Pretty pathetic but there it is anyway," Tim sighed but there was a light in his eyes as well, contradicting his words, the loneliness he spoke of. "But I don't mind being pathetic," he tacked on, a cocky smile morphing his features into a man who looked younger, less world weary.
"Sadly, neither do I," Dean agreed, knowing, since his father's death, that he could find some measure of peace, even during the worst maelstroms, when he worked on the Impala, had felt like there was a part of him still able to function when his hands set to restoring the ravaged car, knew that he could fix the Impala in a way that he could never hope to fix himself. Letting silence fall again, both men watched the racecar take the outside lane on the straight stretch. "Guess the mechanic I'm replacing didn't agree with us," Dean said after a moment, hoping to use the intro as a bridge into more intense questioning.
"Nate loved working on the cars," Tim contradicted without anger, instead with regret, "but he couldn't deal with everything going on around here lately."
"The wrecks," Dean clarified, saw Tim's head bob once in agreement. "I don't mean to be pushy, or superstitious but I feel like I'm coming into this job blind. Garner said there have been six wrecks, four of which ended in fatalities. I know I've got next to no experience with racing but that just doesn't seem normal to me. And I don't believe in coincidences."
As much as he didn't want to talk about losing some of his closet friends, to resurrect his memories of burning, crumpled cars and watching corpses extracted from their metal frames, Tim knew he owed Dean some answers, knew the kid was being as respectful as he could but wasn't going to back down now. "Let's head over to the garage." At Dean's raised eyebrows of protest, Tim continued, "And I'll bring you up to speed on what you've gotten yourself into."
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Leaving Travis Stapps' house, Sam couldn't shake off the sharp void of Dean's absence that had permeated his "interview" with one of the two drivers who had survived his wreck on the Smithfield track. Sam had taken for granted Dean's propensity to always ask the weirdo questions, to let himself appear the crack pot while allowing Sam the guise of the sane one, of letting his little brother retain as much of his pride as he could. Today, Sam had had to play the part of the escapee from the mental institute. "Did the car move by itself? Did you feel a coldness in the car? Did you see anything "weird"? Weird like…someone that was there one second and gone the next?" Yeah, he was lucky if Stapp and his wife weren't calling the cops, or a van from a psychiatric ward wasn't being dispatched right now.
Pointing his rental car toward the highway that would lead him to the Smithfield race track, Sam called Dean, felt annoyance as the phone rang three times before his brother bothered to pick it up.
"Yeah," Dean answered loudly, his voice barely audible above the noise in the background of an air gun removing lug nuts and metal clanking against metal.
"Dean, can you hear me?" Sam asked, raising his own voice.
"Hold on," Dean instantly replied. Sam could envision his brother walking from the garage, heard the marked difference when Dean's voice was no longer competing with the garage noise. "So what did Stapp have to say? He see Casper the racing-kill-joy ghost?"
"If he saw a ghost, he's a better liar than we are. He just said the steering wheel froze up on him as he headed into the turn, sent him headfirst into the wall. I asked if he detected a change in the temperature or if he saw anything strange." Snorting, Sam admitted, "I thought they were going to call the padded van for me," needing to connect with Dean on that point but Dean's reply didn't meet him halfway.
"So that's a dead end," Dean bluntly stated, leaning against the southeast wall of the garage, eyes on the track off to his right. "Well I've asked some questions and it's like Garner said, the wrecked cars have gone through massive inspections and there's never been any signs of foul play. And since the third fatality, each car has been double checked before it makes its way onto the track, for practice or races. If it's human sabotage, they're getting away with it clean."
"So you're thinking Garner's right? That there is something supernatural happening here?" Sam asked, hating to be on Garner's side, for anything.
"Could be. I couldn't get an EMF reading, not with all the juice flooding in here to run the garages and the PA system and the lights. I'll .." but Dean broke off as he heard Tim calling his name. "Hey I gotta go."
Unprepared for the abrupt disconnect, Sam still had his mouth open to talk when the dial tone replaced his brother's voice in his ear. Slipping his phone back into his pocket, he tried to not let his anger get the best of him. It wasn't like he or Dean had the best phone etiquette in the best situations and now, trying to sneak around, it had to be expected that their conversation would be interrupted more times than not. But it was frustrating that he hadn't had time to prove to Dean that he was pulling his weight on the investigation, that his research the prior night had yielded some insight into the track's history. Sam couldn't fight the feeling that he was again hunting with his father, that he had to prove himself, had to earn the right to be treated like an equal even when he was shut out at every turn.
'Dean's not Dad. He listens to my theories, counts on me to have his back. We're partners, equals,' Sam denied, ashamed at even comparing the solid relationship he and Dean shared with the turbulent relationship he had had with his father for most of his life. But Sam's mind was not so easily pacified, it whispered, 'Partners, right?! And he's a full partner and you're a junior partner, always the little brother, always needing big brother to come to your rescue, to protect you. To tell you what to do.'
Hastily turning on the radio to block out the traitorous thoughts, Sam sang off key to the modern rock songs Dean would never abide coming from the Impala's speakers. Ten minutes later he turned the volume lower as he pulled into the racing track's back parking lot. As he shut down the engine, the sound of raised voices taking the place of the radio drew him from the car to cross the parking lot to get closer to the tractor trailer truck loaded with two rows of severely damaged cars, none of which bore any racing emblems.
Coming to a stop between two pickup trucks, Sam could see the two men in their fifties arguing at the back of the truck, easily recognized Bruce Garner as the thinner of the two men. The voices were full of anger and long held resentment.
"I said get this truck off my property!" Garner growled, stepping forward, invading the other man's personal space.
But the heavier man stood his ground, matched Garner's acidic tone, "Are you ashamed of your humble beginnings?! I know honest work never was your thing, not when it was easier to loot the family business."
"Loot?! We would have had to have something of value to loot!? We had nothing. And that's what you still have, Billy. Nothing."
Billy shook his head, "Our 'nothing' got you here. You're the one that stripped all the decent parts from all the cars on the yard, made the deal with the car dealership, behind my back, behind Dad's."
"You're still whining about an opportunity I had the balls to take! It's been more than twenty years. I know all you've got is regrets but sometimes you have to move on," Bruce snidely said, a smug smile turning up his lips.
Even from the distance he was at, Sam could see Billy clenching his fists, wanting to strike out. He watched as the man reigned in his emotions, took a step back, raised his hands in supplication. "I didn't come here to fight."
"No, you came here for money," Bruce shot back, trying to humble Billy.
A beat of silence and then Billy's voice dropped, was barely audible to Sam. "For Dad. The nursing home won't put him in the full care nursing section, not without a six thousand dollar check in their hand."
"I'm sure that's pocket change to an entrepreneur like you," Bruce sardonically returned, hand waiving to encompass the truck of vehicles headed for the scrap heap.
"Is that a no?" Billy evenly asked, his expression struggling to be closed but Sam could see the lingering hope in his stance, that he was still clutching to the last strand of a relationship corrupted by time and circumstance.
"Where was the old man when I wanted start up money, huh? Told me I had to earn it, work for it. Well, he can work for his money now. He can haul all the old tires onto the dump truck," and he pointed to the pile of tires in a corner of the lot. "He can clean up the garages, spit shine the windshields of the cars."
"Bruce he can't walk without a cane, can barely remember his own name…let alone mine," Billy returned with anguish, wishing he was talking about someone else's family, someone else's heartbreak.
Bruce stilled and his features lost every ounce of fabricated mirth. "Well you're lucky. He forgot my name a long time ago. Now get your truck out of here before I call the sheriff on you again for trespassing."
"You're heartless," Billy snarled. Then, turning on his heels, he began stalking back toward the truck's cab.
"I am what he made me," Bruce called to his brother's retreating back, was somewhat disappointed that it didn't garner any reaction.
Ashamed at eavesdropping on a private family conversation, Sam was about to slip through the trucks and make his way unobtrusively to the track when a sound sent his eyes curiously to the tractor trailer. Studying the scene before him, it took him a moment to realize what the sound was: the whine of the second level of the car trailer lowering. Even as he watched, he saw the rear car shift, start to roll backwards, whatever means that should have kept it locked in position ominously malfunctioning.
With a longsuffering tone, Bruce called out, "Billy, something's wrong with your piece of junk trailer," nonchalantly looking up to see the second level of the trailer lowering. After his years of working in his family business, he was intimately familiar with the mechanics and safety of car trailers. It never crossed his mind that a car could be heading his way.
Feeling as if he were moving in slow motion, Sam broke from his cover and started to run for Garner. He yelled "Watch out!" but Garner turned around and gave him a lazy, almost annoyed look at his apparent panic. Eyes flickering up as he ran toward the rear of the truck, Sam saw the car's back wheels roll off the trailer. Something in his face registered with Garner, had the race owner spinning around, eyes flying up. Instead of reacting, Garner froze as the car rolled from the truck, headed right for him.
Pushing legs and lungs to reach Garner before the falling vehicle did, it never occurred to Sam that he might die trying to save a man he didn't even like.
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TBC
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See action, as I promised.
Again, I ask that you please bear with me as I determine how to mix an investigation in with my normal love of hurting Dean and Sam and heaping on the angst.
Thanks so much for reading!
Have a wonderful day!
Cheryl W.
