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.
SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN
Chapter 3: Learning Curve
SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN
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.
SNSNSNSN
The ground shook under Dean's feet even as the muffled sound of metal twisting in torment and shattering glass seeped into the garage. Unerringly able to pin point ground zero, Dean was running for the garage's back door that led to the parking lot before Tim and the other younger mechanic, Derek, could even form words of wonder. Slamming out the door and without slackening his pace, Dean processed the scene instantly: the car trailer, the upside down car crumpled on the lot, the glass sparkling off the ground like spilled diamonds, the man running along side the truck, heading for the wreckage, screaming "Bruce!!"…and the second car rolling off of the top level of the car trailer.
Knowing that the other man was running into the impact zone of the second falling car, Dean yelled out in warning, "Stop!! Another car's falling!" To Dean's relief, his voice was commanding enough to break through the man's panic, to initiate a stumbling hesitation in the man's headlong pace, for the stranger's panicked eyes to seek him out.
The two second hitch in his forward motion kept Billy out of the radius of the flying debris and repercussions as the second car impacted, trunk first, with the undercarriage of the first car. But a second later the car began to topple over, heading his way. Desperate to get out of the car's path, the older Garner tripped backwards, landed on his butt on the macadam hard just as the toppling car slammed right side up, inches from his big toe.
The air still echoing with the sound of screaming metal, Dean bolted by the car and nearly slid to a crouch beside the stunned man on the ground. Hand latching onto the man's shoulder, he asked with concern, "You alright?" felt relief when the man's wide eyed gaze latched onto him and he was offered a slow nod. "Can you stand up?" he gently prompted, even as he crossed to the man's right side, slid his hand under the man's arm and slowly levered the older man to his feet. The man's shocked eyes, however, overlooked him, focused instead on the first car.
"My brother.." Billy stammered. Shoving away from Dean, he began stumbling and leaning on the cars as he made his way to the initial ground zero, to the last spot he had seen his brother.
Certain that no one could have survived the force of the initial car's impact, let alone the combined tonnage of the second car, Dean felt sick with the realization that the man had lost his brother. His brother. That loss hit home for Dean, left him unwilling to join the man's side, to see the man's shock morph into ravaging despair.
When the man again yelled out his brother's name, it took Dean a moment to put two and two together, to wonder if Bruce Garner was the man's brother, to feel another layer of guilt wash over him. Not only had someone been killed on his and Sam's watch, but they had failed to protect the man who had purposefully sought out their help. 'My help,' he numbly corrected, remembering that Tom Snyder had recommended him to Garner, that Garner had called him and him alone. Had not even known he had a brother, let alone one who was a partner in the family business. 'No, this isn't on us. This is on me.'
A gravely voice had both Dean and Billy spinning around, their eyes drawn to the first level of the car trailer. "Yeah, yeah. I'm not deaf, Billy" Bruce Garner groused as he climbed to his feet between the two cars on the trailers' first level, his suit creased, his left sleeve hanging on by a thread and his hair sporting a rooster tail.
Dean felt Billy's relief, felt his own heart ease knowing that he hadn't failed, hadn't let another person die. But that relief evaporated as Sam materialized beside Garner. The sight, the implication of Sam there made terror spark through Dean's nerve endings and the recently ever present hand of despair tightened its pitiless grip on his heart. He had almost lost his brother. He had almost lost Sam.
SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN
Sam, wishing to avoid a painful encounter with a car in motion, had quickly formulated his one and only move. Tackling Garner, he felt his bones collide with the older man's as his momentum drove them both forward toward the trailer's lower level. Even as their dive landed them on the rear car's roof, Sam was scrambling onto all fours. Determined to be out of the way of flying car parts, he fisted one hand onto Bruce's suit and began yanking the other man forward to half crawl, half tumble down the car's windshield. The tremor caused by the falling car's collision with the ground sent them sliding off the hood. Landing heavily onto the trailer floor between the two cars, Sam was trying to force air into his lung when Bruce landed on him, the older man's elbow unmercifully digging into his gut.
With his ears still ringing with the reverberations of the car hitting the ground, it took Sam a moment to register that Billy was screaming Bruce's name. Since Garner was still sucking in air like a drowning victim, Sam was about to make a reply for Garner when another voice made his blood run cold: Dean's. Dean was there, was utilizing his commander tone, which he had perfected from their father, was, no doubt, about to risk his life to save Billy's.
Frantically beginning to heave Garner off him, Sam found himself falling back against the trailer bed as the ground jolted and the nails-on-a-chalk board crunch of metal upon metal ripped through the air again. A lump formed instantly in his throat and a small whoosh of air escaped his lungs that formed one single name: "Dean." In the split second of silence that fell on the heels of the roar of destruction, Sam couldn't breathe, could only think of Dean lying in that hospital bed, so still, so quiet, so set on leaving him. Forever.
Hearing his brother's voice with its unmasked concern for Billy had Sam swallowing down a contorted breath, had him going limp upon the trailer bed. Dean was Ok. Sam almost groaned as Bruce pressed his hand into his stomach and chest as he levered himself to his feet. When he heard Bruce speak so nonchalantly about his brush with death, like he hadn't been collapsed on top of him, breath ragging out of him like a locomotive, Sam fought the urge to kick the man's legs out from under him.
Sitting up and then using the car's bumper to pull himself to his feet, Sam felt the last of his tension melt away at the sight of his brother, standing amid the broken frames of two cars, not a mark on him. The smile he felt emerging, however, faltered under the shaken look in his brother's eyes. "You hurt?" he asked, concern wrinkling his brow.
"You hurt?" Dean asked, his words in perfect synch with his brother's. Even as he spoke, he was stalking through the wreckage to the side of the trailer where Sam stood, his eyes never leaving his brother's face, determined to catch a flicker of pain in the features he knew better than his own.
Knowing that his brother wouldn't answer his question before he answered his, maybe wouldn't answer it at all by the current set of his jaw, Sam replied, "I'm fine," with a smirk, shaking his head slightly. He watched the tension slip from Dean's shoulders at his words, a reaction he knew he alone would have detected. Ducking through the metal struts of the trailer and stepping over the railing, Sam found Dean's hand wrapping around his arm, steadying his descent onto terra firma.
Instead of releasing his hold on Sam, Dean quickly did his own visual sweep of his little brother from head to toe, making his own determination about his brother's health. When his eyes came to rest on Sam's, he growled, "What happened?", reluctantly dropping his hand from Sam's arm. But he made no move to step out of his brother's personal space, knew that the perimeter didn't apply, hadn't ever applied between him and Sam. Had always figured it was a byproduct of having grown up in such close quarters with each other, both physically and emotionally. Of course that theory didn't exactly hold water, not when the rule had never applied to their dad. Nor did it make sense that they each fiercely guarded that zone from anyone else, guarded it even for each other.
"Garner was standing at the rear of the truck when the second level started lowering," Sam recounted, nodding his head to the trailer but not removing his eye contact from Dean. "Cars should have been locked in…"
"But they weren't," Dean grimly surmised.
Bruce Garner chose that moment to join the brothers, raised each man's hackles by stepping close enough to encroach upon both of their personal boundaries. Pivoting his body toward Dean, Garner turned flashing eyes upon the older Winchester who he had designated as his lead ghost hunter/grunt. "Glad to see my money's not going to waste," he sarcastically snarled lowly, his words purposefully pitched to not travel over to his own brother, who still stood, stunned, among the wreckage.
His irk raised at the man's blatant indifference to the danger Sam had put himself in for his sake, Dean hissed back, "Sam just saved your life!"
"He shouldn't have had to if you were doing your job!" Garner heatedly countered, stepping closer yet to Dean, his breath practically hitting Dean in the face. But an instant later, his eyes swung over the elder Winchester's shoulder. Seeing the approach of his employees, he tried to gauge when they would arrive on the scene, be close enough to overhear his conversation with the "ghost hunters" he had been desperate enough to hire.
Garner's words had cut through Dean like a machete. He had heard them before…from his Dad…more times than he could count. Times when he had screwed up, almost got Sam or his Dad killed or failed on a job, had cost or nearly cost someone they were supposed to be saving their lives. 'Like now.'
Determined that his track employees never guess that there was a connection between his new mechanic and the reporter, Bruce roughly pushed his way between the brothers, callously separating them. Standing toe to toe with Dean, he commanded, his voice slipping back to the tone of the military man that he once was, "You do your job! That understood?"
"Yes, sir," Dean involuntarily replied, a knee jerk reaction to the tone his father had bred him to obey. Instantly horrified and embarrassed that he had responded with that respectful obedience to a bastard like Garner, Dean clenched his jaw and silently but venomously cursed himself. Cursed his weakness, his need to be commanded, cursed himself for reacting without thinking, hated himself because, for a brief moment, when he was relegated again to foot soldier instead of commander, the weight had lifted from his shoulders and he could actually breathe.
Standing stock still, Dean refused to even look at Sam, was unwilling, unable to face the condemnation he knew would be in his brother's eyes. But when Bruce knocked his shoulder as he maneuvered out of the close quarters and walked away, it jolted Dean enough to spin him a half turn toward Sam, causing his eyes to accidentally collide with Sam's. He felt sick at the disappointed, disgusted look that he read in his little brother's eyes. With the word 'pathetic' ringing in his head in Sam's voice, he turned around, walked away, left his brother standing there, alone.
Striding by Bruce and his gathered audience, who he was beginning to regale with his near escape, Dean stalked back to the garage, despising himself more with each step. The "yes sir" had just come out of him, the response hardwired into him, like breathing, like protecting Sammy. Yanking the garage door open so hard it slammed against the cement wall, he crossed into the garage, headed to the storage area where he had been going before the accident had derailed him. Stepping into the small cement block room, he took a step forward, toward the shelves. But mid step he swung around, sent, with a yell of anger, a punch into the cement block wall. He sadistically welcomed the deserved pain even as it vibrated up his arm, sent a ribbon of ache through his whole body.
Shuffling forward, he pressed his fisted hands and head against the wall. Sam would not understand, wasn't weak like he was. Would never understand that filling their Dad's void…it wasn't always a conscious choice he made. That, at times, when he had seemed to blindly follow their Dad's orders, he had resented his need to try and earn his Dad's love, had hated that he was too scared of the consequences if he was anything but the obedient son. Had despised himself for only knowingly how to follow orders, how to hunt, how to protect.
No, Sam didn't understand what motivated him and somewhere down deep Dean hoped to God Sam never understood, never became what he was, never lived every moment of his life navigated by fear, fear of losing his purpose in life, fear of being alone, fear of failing those he loved. Dean drew in a ragged breath at that thought. That fear had been realized, he had failed his father, failed Sammy in a way too. Hadn't done his job, had trusted where he should have mistrusted, had let his emotions, his needs blind him. His need to rescue his father, his need to have his family back together again, his need to not be alone, to have someone take the lead and tell him what to do, to have someone there to take up the slack while he crawled in a corner and shattered.
Oblivious to the blood staining the knuckles on his right hand, Dean loosened his fists, rested his palms against the wall. He could no longer be the person he was, the good soldier he had been trained to be. For he would never follow his father's final command, would never kill Sam. Could never be free of the weight he bore, not until Sam was safe, saved. Had to be strong enough to not break, not compromise, not follow when he had to lead. Had to step out of the shadow of his father, out of the mold of hunter, out from Sam's side, had to do what he had to, become what he needed to in order to save his brother. Had to, for the first time, find out who Dean Winchester really was.
SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN
Reaching out his hand, Sam had intended to grip Dean's arm, to stop his brother's departure, but at the last second he coiled his hand into a frustrated fist. Had stood there, cursing silently as he watched Dean walk away from him. Gut churning, confused that Dean could just blatantly follow Garner's orders, Sam wished that he understood his brother better, knew how to fill just a little bit of the void their father's death had created in Dean. Could be the person Dean turned to, listened to, obeyed, well at least when it concerned handling a threat to his life.
Feeling as if he and Dean had again come to blows, Sam absently rubbed at his cheek where Dean's fist had landed months prior when he had accused Dean of replacing their father with Gordon. Rubbed at his cheek as if the phantom pain he suddenly felt was there instead of where it truly lay: in his heart.
Dropping his hand and sighing, Sam watched Dean storm through the garage door, nearly flinched as the flung open door rebounded off the wall before slowly gliding shut. Turning his focus onto the job, he crossed over to Billy, asked without preamble, "Did you leave your truck unattended while you were here?"
The question stole Billy's attention from Bruce, sent his still too shocked eyes upon Sam. "What? Yeah, I went into the office…wanted to talk to my brother," his eyes skittering back to his brother who was recounting the story like it was a practical joke that had been played on him, eliciting nervous, relieved laughter to sputter from his gathered audience.
Sparing a look to Garner, Sam cursed the man's need to play this off like some random accident, to pretend like all of the car accidents were bad luck, simply the risks of racing. Especially when Garner sensed that they were more malicious than that, either human or supernatural in nature. Was predisposed enough to think that they were supernatural to call two 'lame ghost hunters', to put two wildcard players into his racing realm, which he controlled with a closed fisted hand.
Returning his look to Billy Garner, Sam watched the myriad of emotions flicker across the man's features as he watched his brother. "Did you release the cars from the trailer?" he point blank asked, abandoning sensitivity for the sometimes useful but blunt, 'shock 'em and catching 'em off guard' method Dean favored.
"No!" Billy nearly shouted, full attention returning to the tall young man before him. "Course I didn't do that! Those cars almost killed my brother!"
"Yeah, they did," Sam quietly said before walking over to join Bruce. He offered up a fake smile as Bruce jovially slipped his arm over his shoulders and introduced him as not only his life saver but a racing magazine reporter there to do an investigative story on the track's history, past and present. Internally Sam itched to toss Garner's arm off his shoulders, to shove the man out of his personal space and ask him who he thought he was to order Dean around. Dean, who was smart enough and brave enough and strong enough not to need to follow anyone's lead. 'If only I could convince Dean of that fact,' he sullenly thought as he resigned himself to play along with Garner's charade.
SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN
As Dean bent over the #16 car's engine, Tim at his side, it was an ironic poke at Dean's new resolve to find himself to be the student instead of the teacher. Tim's knowledge about conditioning an engine for the demands of racing and his laid back instructional methods made Dean readily soak up the man's words. And Dean had felt a pang of pride when he answered one of Tim's questions correctly, when the older man gave his shoulder a squeeze of encouragement and camaraderie. Dean could almost hear his father's voice whispering in his head, "That's my man," an endearment that had begun long before he was a man, before any child would ever be deemed a man in anyone's prospective…but his father's. Tim's voice startled him from his memories.
"You OK?" Tim looked at his new mechanic, had seen the closed off look, knew whatever thoughts had preoccupied the younger man weren't the kind anyone disclosed to someone they had recently met. As Dean treated him to a quick smile that didn't reach his eyes and gave a quick "Yeah" in reply, Tim worriedly wondered if Dean ever opened up. To anyone.
Pulling his eyes from Dean and settling them back onto the engine, Tim casually posed, "You learn about engines on your own?"
"No, my Dad," Dean answered, hating how low his voice slipped on the word Dad He continued talking, hoping to cover it up. "He worked as a mechanic." 'Least for awhile.'
"Me, I taught myself. My father was mechanically challenged." Shooting a smirk up to Dean he confessed, "Course the first car I took apart I couldn't get back together. Had to sell it for parts."
Dean gave a small laugh. "Make any profit off of it?"
"It was all profit," Tim boasted, a mischievous look emerging in his eyes. "It was the first car I ever stole."
Dean fought the urge to like Tim more, to trust him more at the kindred spirit they seemed to share. "But it wasn't your last?"
Snorting, Tim returned to the engine, tightening a bolt. "That would be a no."
"So from a life of crime to racing chief, that's not a bad rags to riches story," Dean quietly returned, studying the Tim's profile, hoping to get the other man to open up a little more.
"Riches? You call this riches? Here hold this," Tim ordered, releasing the wrench to Dean's capable hands while he dug into the toolbox on the floor.
"More than most people get, getting a shot at doing what they love," Dean clarified, read the clear look of agreement on Tim's face before the older man bent under the hood again.
"Guess so. It's not about the money or fame for me, never was," Tim admitted, putting his newly acquired tool to use.
"The driver for Garner, Anderson …" Dean began.
"You mean the guy who was jealous of your car but was too scared to swung on you?" Tim pointed out, smiling up at the younger man.
"Yeah," Dean drawled, "him. He doesn't seem to have your philosophy. This is just a stop over for him on the road to fame and fortune, right? Probably the same could be said for most drivers here."
"They all have dreams to race for NASCAR, yeah. Truth is, the best of them…" Tim swallowed, felt his emotions creeping into his words. Shaking his head he began again, "There was only one guy here that deserved to go pro, Troy Nichols. He had the talent, even the heart to race." Pulling back from the engine, Tim stood up to face Dean. "Was the kind of guy you couldn't begrudge success to, he was just too likeable. Garner treated him like a son."
Knowing that Nichols was dead, was one of the track's 3rd fatality that Garner had stated like a statistic, Dean tread gently, recognized the sorrow lingering in Tim's eyes. "So he raced for Garner?"
Tim nodded. "Was Garner's top driver."
Pointing to the #16 car, Dean began, "Was he driving this car when…"
"No. Garner had three primary cars, one backup. Troy ran the #36 car. It's still sitting in its garage. I don't think Garner has the heart to scrap it for parts or restore it."
It was hard for Dean to envision Garner having the heart for anything, let alone sentimentality for a driver whose death cost him a NASCAR contract income. But one look at Tim's face and Dean believed the older mechanic's words. "So Garner's runner up is Anderson. And you said his odds are pretty good at grabbing the contract?"
"Yeah. Guess so if NASCAR is set on picking someone from this track. Anderson was pretty far down the totem pole when the season began but with the best driver's either dead or laid up… he's climbed to first spot."
"And you think that happened all by luck, just a string of freak accidents, right before NASCAR shows up at this track?" Dean pressed, adding incredulousness to his tone as he raised his eyebrows.
Tim shrugged, "Hey I had the same thoughts running through my head as you do. But Anderson is mechanically challenged and, with each wreck, there have been no signs of foul play. I guess the tide was bound to change."
Tilting his head in confusion, Dean asked, "What are you talking about?"
Wiping his grease covered hands on a rag, Tim sighed. "That the track's luck would have to swing the other way eventually. I mean, over fifty years and, before this season, there had been only one fatally. Crap, only two guys had ever even been injured enough to be taken to the hospital. Phillips always said the track was charmed," Tim said with a smile but it soon fell away, was replaced by a grim line.
"Phillips, the last driver hurt on the track?" Dean asked, though he already knew the answer, knew it was the driver who had suffered burns on his face, who was refusing to see anyone from the track.
"Yeah, Karl Phillips. He was the unofficial track historian. Knows more about this track than that kid reporter will ever learn even if he stays here a month, talks to everyone here."
Dean felt a little offended at Tim's remark about Sam, at calling him a kid, judging his investigative talents. Dropping back down to look under the hood to conceal his features, it took Dean a moment before he could make an even reply. "But Phillips wanted his shot at NASCAR too, would have left the track he loved?"
"If Troy had the talent to go pro, Karl had earned the right to go pro. He's playing against time. Was," Tim amended, earning him Dean's eye contact. "Karl's in his forties, been around racing all his life. This was his last shot at his dream."
"He can't come back?" Dean gently prodded, somehow finding that he cared about the man's fate, a man he had never met.
"Can't now, can't in time for the next race. Maybe won't ever choose to," Tim sadly wondered, alluded to the driver's disfigurement, of face and spirit.
Dean let that statement go because he understood too well about missed opportunities, about regrets, about hurting so bad it was easier to cut yourself off than to let yourself heal.
SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN
Walking across the track fairground, Sam felt exhilarated as the sound of a race car roaring around the track filled the air. Crossing between the track office and the garages, he couldn't keep the smile off his face as the race track came into sight, felt his heart quicken at the sight of the race car blurring around the track. 'I'm acting like a kid in awe. I can't imagine the way Dean felt, standing here… so close to…" Sam's smile slipped away as the realization hit home. 'So close to his dreams, to a dream he never let himself pursue before, to a dream I'm refusing him now.' Jaw clenched, Sam watched the car skim by the wall on the turn, head into the straight strength pouring on the speed. Though he couldn't judge the vehicle's speed, in his head he was already calculating the extent of damage that would come to the car if it lost control…felt sick at the injuries he envisioned would come to the driver. 'I just can't do it, Dean. I can't stand here and let you put yourself in that type of danger. I know that makes me a selfish jerk but you're my brother.'
"Takes your breath away, doesn't it," Katie McCleen, the track's press secretary, said as she stood at his side, his unofficial tour guide.
Turning to the grey haired woman in her sixties, Sam offered his boyish smile, "Yeah, it kinda does. So how long have you been working for Mr. Garner?"
"Started this season," she replied. At his raised eyebrows she freely answered his next question before he asked it. "I know, terrible timing on my part. It's been hard trying to keep the track's reputation in tact with all the accidents." Her blue eyes turned intent and her tone was boarding on threatening as she stated, "Bruce said you promised to not do a slam campaign, to report things truthfully. There has been absolutely no proof of sabotage on any of the wrecks."
"According to whose inspections? The mechanics' here? The police's?" Sam challenged, hoping to get a reaction he could interpret from the woman.
"Both. There was a full police investigation after Troy's death instigated by Bruce himself. No one's covering up anything here Mr. Cole."
"Call me Sam. So you're telling me 6 accidents in three months, 4 of which were fatalities is all… just what? Bad luck? I think I better go grab my cross necklace and lucky horse shoe out of my car if that's true," he joked, tacking on a bitter laugh, angry that the woman would down play four people losing their lives all so the track's press wouldn't suffer. "And no threats were made between the drivers? Seems like the competition would be a little blood thirsty with NASCAR scouts coming to sit in the stands."
Her look frosting over, Katie snapped, "I reserve the right to read your article before we agree to its publication."
"So that's a yes on the tension between the drivers?" Sam jokingly goaded, but his smile was soft, earned him a sigh and a response from the press secretary.
"Course. There are eighteen drivers all wanting the same dream. But if you're implying that anyone would kill for that dream….you're way off base," Katie assured, easily conveying she believed what she was saying whole heartedly.
"Is this the first time NASCAR has been to this track?"
"I honestly don't know but I thought the other drivers mentioned that, years ago, one of the drivers almost went pro."
"Almost?" Sam pushed, sensing it might lead to a helpful bit of information.
"Yeah, but something happened. Sorry, I don't know what. You'll have to ask around, see if you can get one of the drivers to open up to you."
Sam smirked as he looked to the older woman, a challenge in his eyes. "You think they won't talk to me?"
Katie tilted her head, gave Sam her first warm smile. "You're boyish good looks won't sway them like they did me. Good luck, Sam."
Turning around and heading back to her office, Katie gave the handsome tall man free access of the track and its employees. Just like Bruce Garner had ordered her to. "Bruce, I hope you know what you're doing," she said under her breath, wondering how the track could withstand even one more ounce of bad publicity without going belly up.
SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN
It didn't taken Sam long to determine how right Katie had been. Nearly all of the drivers resented his presence, bristled at his questions and generally tended to walk away from him before he was finished talking. And he was posing as a reporter that Garner told them to be open with in their interviews!? "Yeah, really friendly guys. Would never turn on one another just to see their dreams come true, no siree," he grumbled under his breath as he stalked for the rental car, wishing he had better results for his day's work, that he would have some meaty information to wow his brother with.
Dropping into the driver's seat and slamming the door, he sat there a moment, saw that all the signs of the morning's accident had been wiped clean from the parking lot. Like it had never happened. Sam couldn't get the brothers' tone from his head, so angry, so bitter, so many old hurts boiling under the surface….so reminiscent of his own argument with his father.
'This is why I left in the first place.'
"Yeah, you left, Sam. Your brother and me, we needed you. You walked away, Sam. You walked away!"
"You're the one that said don't come back! You're the one that closed that door!"
Sam shifted in his seat, had to swallow down emotions that were catching in his throat. His father might have closed the door, but he was the one who had kept it closed for four years, had been unwilling to let it crack open, to allow his father to slip inside his barriers, to let himself love his dad again. Then his chance to swing the door wide was gone, stolen away, ripped away. Now, no matter what he did, no matter how diligently he followed in his father's footsteps, or how faithfully he tried to fulfill his father's wishes, he would get no second chances to make amends, to say 'I love you Dad.'
Pulling in a deep breath, Sam started the car but knew that the last place on earth he wanted to be was in that empty motel room that mockingly contained two beds. Didn't want to be alone, knew just whose company could lighten his mood, knew just as certainly that Dean wouldn't agree to see him. There had been something in the look Dean had shot to him after the trailer accident, right before he walked away. Something that shouted 'back off' or 'shut up' or pleaded 'don't. Just don't.' Was a warning shot off the bow that Sam respected his brother enough to heed. After his own flight, he knew he had no right to condemn Dean for needing some space from him…even if it hurt like heck.
Exiting the track fairgrounds, Sam turned left, deciding right then and there to take up an invitation to a bar that Darien Rook, driver of the number #9 car and the only driver who had shown him one ounce of friendship, had offered him hours ago. He found the bar just two miles down from the track, its evening crowd already settling in. As he walked into the bar, boisterous voices rang out from a corner table and Sam nearly tripped as he easily picked out Dean's laughter. He was looking that way before he could stop himself, drawn to his brother's presence …just like seemingly the rest of the bar's patrons were.
Sandwiched between Tim and a younger man, Dean was the center of attention at the table of mechanics, the other five men eagerly listening to whatever story he was recounting with a wicked smile. Forcing suddenly leaden feet forward, Sam walked toward the counter where Rook sat, waving him over. But he wasn't out of ear shot as Tim said his brother's name, pride in his tone. Couldn't help catching, from his peripheral vision, the enthusiastic response to Tim's toast as the beer glasses heartily clanked together.
Sam knew it should have made him happy to see his brother accepted, liked, that someone was recognizing, like he did, what a great guy Dean was. And certainly Dean deserved to enjoy himself, to have a night out with …friends, it seemed. But all Sam felt was a shaft of pain in his gut, like something was suddenly lost to him. Offering a forced smile to Rook, he slid into the stool beside the driver, let himself slip into easy, non- racing conversation with the blond haired thirty two year old driver.
It truly wasn't Rook's fault that Sam lost the train of their conversation, that he was worrying the label off of his beer bottle, that he was silently urging the driver to call it a night. No, it wasn't the friendly driver's fault that Sam's every sense was in tune to his brother's, that he could hear his brother's voice above the bar's din, nearly winced at Dean's laughter, the real kind, echoing against his back. But Sam had the good grace to be ashamed when he gave an enthusiastic "Goodnight" to Rook as the driver stood to leave which monstrously overshadowed his attentiveness for the last forty minutes.
Once freed of his companion, Sam swiveled minutely around in his stool, was hurt that it was harder than it should have been to catch Dean's eyes, for his brother to "sense" his gaze, even his presence in the bar. Finally, when Dean's green gaze finally landed on him, Sam jerked his chin slightly toward the bathroom. He was in no way prepared to see Dean contemplating blowing him off. Sure, he knew Dean had wanted his space, that they hadn't planned this chance meeting, but it had never occurred to him that his brother would refuse to talk to him.
When Dean finally excused himself from his little fanclub and headed for the bathroom, relief first swamped over Sam before anger took up the next wave. Taking a slow swallow of his now warm beer, he vindictively envisioned walking out the door, standing Dean up, letting Dean know how it felt to be left him high and dry. However, as he stood up and tossed some dollar bills on the bar, he headed for the bathroom, didn't hesitate, couldn't think further than getting a chance to talk to Dean face to face. Swinging into the bathroom, he saw Dean leaning against one of the sinks, an impatient set to his jaw.
"This better be an emergency, Sam," Dean greeted, a hard edge to his voice as he pushed himself upright to face his little brother.
Unprepared for the gruff greeting, it took Sam a moment to find his reply. "Why? Am I interrupting your 'research'? Is this your new interrogation technique, Dean? Get them drunk…or is it just about you getting drunk?" condemnation slipping into his tone, even as he cursed himself for it.
"I'm not drunk!" Dean refuted, abandoning his relaxed stance. Though he had been prepared for a confrontation with Sam he suddenly felt like he had brought a knife to a gunfight.
Reacting to Dean's anger, Sam hissed, "We're working a job, Dean!" coming to stand toe to toe with Dean, not bothering to redefine Dean's levels of drunkenness.
"Back off! You're not my keeper, Sam!" Dean snarled, green eyes flaring, body taunt, not intimidated by his brother's height advantage.
"Yeah, you're right. But you're supposed to be my partner! You know, help me solve this problem before someone else dies. Remember that Dean? Four people dead!?" Sam condemned, his voice turning hard and low, into a tone he rarely used with his brother.
"I know my job, Sam!" Dean shot back, his eyes turning dark and dangerous at finding his integrity under attack now as well as his loyalty and his bravery. "I've been doing this job since I was twelve and I didn't take a four year vacation…" 'like you did.'
"Yeah, well, maybe you should have," Sam returned with a bitter laugh, the same anger coming to life as it always did when his decision to go to college came under attack.
"I didn't have that luxury, Sam!" Dean growled, unmasked fury blazing in his features. "People's lives were at stake! Dad's life was at stake!" But at his last words, at his impulsive mention of his father, the color instantly drained from his face. 'Yeah, because having me around sure saved Dad's life, didn't it?!' he bitterly thought, guilt searing through him when he thought of the sacrifice his father had made for him, to save him. Quickly, he looked away from Sam, locked his jaw together, refused to let it jump with his welling emotions.
Seeing Dean's reaction, knowing where his brother's thoughts had gone, Sam gently entreated, "Dean, don't, man. What Dad did…."
"I gotta go," Dean cut in, unwilling to hear his brother's well meaning insistence that it wasn't his fault that their father was dead, was in Hell. But as he turned to the door, his hand on the door knob, he couldn't shut out the overpowering presence of Sam, of his brother, the only family he had left, that he hadn't failed. Yet. Looking over his shoulder at Sam, he promised with a flicker of a fabricated smile, "I'll call you tomorrow and we'll compare notes, 'kay ace reporter?"
Dean was offering an olive branch and Sam readily accepted it. "OK," he quietly said with his own small, sad smile. And then Dean slipped out the door. Running his hands through his hair, Sam braced himself against the sink and hung his head. "That could have gone better," he mumbled, wishing his stomach wasn't churning so badly over the words that had spilled from them both. He coiled his hands around the porcelain sink, kept himself from stalking out of the bathroom, walking right up to the Dean's table and telling Dean that their father had made his own choice and it wasn't Dean's burden to carry.
"Yeah, that would be cool," Sam snorted bitterly, thinking of him standing there, in front of a table full of people who thought they knew the real Dean and talking about something Dean was super sensitive about. With a curse, Sam pushed himself upright, his hands leaving the sink's support and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Found himself wondering how no one could see that Dean was his brother, that they were related, noted that they had the same dark hair, the same intensity in their eyes, though they were different colors, had similar facial features….practically did a time share with their hearts and souls. He couldn't imagine any brothers closer that he and Dean were…most days. And no one could see that. "Not even me.." he softly said, ashamed that he had taken his relationship with Dean for granted, that Dean would always be there, always play big brother to his little brother, would never choose to live a life separate from him.
Suddenly needing some air, he stalked out the bathroom, purposefully didn't spare a look in the direction of Dean's table, didn't stop moving until he was out of the bar, until the night sky was overhead. Bending over slightly, he dragged in air like his lungs had been too long deprived of that essential. After a moment, he straightened, began the slow progression to his rental car but he couldn't help scanning the parking lot for the Impala, wasn't sure if he was happy or sad when he located the classic car. Found it explicably hard not to walk to the car whose black paint was glimmering under the moonlight. The car was Dean's, it wasn't his. There was no logic to him suddenly wanting to slide his hand along the hood, to feel possessiveness spring in him when he imagined the other mechanics gloating over the Impala. To feel betrayed that someone else had sat shotgun tonight, had sat in his seat.
Coming to a stop by his rental car, Sam couldn't take his eyes off the Impala, couldn't stop wondering who was occupying the space at his brother's side…. where he rightfully belonged.
SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN
Dean watched Sam exit the bathroom, knew he was the cause for the dark look, the defeated air that clung to his little brother as Sam stalked for the exit. Knew the instant his brother's presence was no longer there just as surely as he knew when his brother had put one foot inside the bar.
It had been hard, not calling Sam over, not pushing out a chair for him, not welcoming his brother's laughter into the mix. But he had reminded himself brutally that he and Sam had a role to play, a cover to protect. Had come to realize that maintaining it wasn't just about pleasing Garner, not now, not since Sam had now gotten as deep into the track's inner circle as he had. There could be no going back, not when a misstep, an uncovered deception, a misplaced trust could prove fatal, had for four people already. Almost five, if he included Garner's accident in the tally. No, with a murderer of the human variety or the supernatural at work, their covers as mechanic/reporter were the only protection they had for the moment, since toting guns in his coveralls or Sammy's notebook just wasn't plausible.
That realization made his agreement to meet Sam in the men's room ridiculously stupid and pathetically soft hearted. Wishing he knew how to say "no" to Sam just once when he should, he excused himself from the table and headed to the bathroom. But as he entered the bathroom, checked to make sure it was empty, he started bracing himself for the conversation to come, for Sam's accusations all over again that he was trying to fill Dad's void, was making Garner a replacement, his friggin 'you're looking for love in all the wrong places' lecture.
With his guard up, he had greeted Sam like he was his parole officer checking up on him instead of his brother. And with Sam's accusation about his being drunk, not doing his job…it had gone down hill fast, burning everything in its path, burning them both before it left nothing between them but simmering embers.
Swiping a shot of whiskey from the center of the table as he reclaimed his seat with his co-workers, Dean enjoyed the burn and the numbness that was settling in. Honestly, he had no complaints about his present company, had found easy camaraderie among the other mechanics. They were like the guys he had hung out with in the twenty some schools he had attended growing up. Would have been his equals if life had been kinder, if his father had passed down "Winchester and Son's Garage" instead of a leather bound journal about every evil thing lurking in the shadows.
But these men, they were not his equals. They did not know the feel of a gun recoiling in their hands as they pumped silver bullets into a shapeshifter's heart. They were not familiar with the warm, slickness of their own blood dampening their clothes, of categorizing it of little consequence, with thinking that the rivets of blood running down their skin was just as bothersome as rivets of rain during a downpour. They would never have to see the look in a person's eyes right before they took their life, freed them from the evil that had claimed their body. They would never carry the scars he bore, on his body or on his soul. They would never carry the guilt of their father's soul's condemnation. Would never be forced to decide their brother's fate, to save him or, against everything they had promised themselves, end up taking his life with their own hands. No, these men would never ever become what he was…and, God help him, Dean badly envied them that.
SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN
TBC
SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN
Thanks so much for reading! And thanks for everyone who reviewed! I'm low on energy right now so I might not reply to your reviews from last chapter but know that I really value and depend on your encouragement!
Have a great day!
Cheryl W.
