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: Sorry this is a short chapter this go around.
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Chapter 4: Letting It Ride
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Squinting against the sunlight, Sam could see Dean, decked out in mechanic overalls, leaning under the hood of the #16 car. Though he couldn't hear his brother's laughter from where he stood, he saw the expression clearly enough, saw Tim joining in on the laughter. Watched with something like jealously as Tim ruffled Dean's hair and Dean retaliated with a backhanded slap to the head mechanic's gut, the action garnering more laughter between them. When Derek, the younger mechanic that had sat beside Dean at the bar last night, stepped into the garage, he was instantly caught up in the merriment.
Pulling his eyes away, Sam watched the #6 car thunder past as it ate up the track. Stamping down the ache to be close enough to Dean to hear his laughter, the greedy need to be the cause of the smile on his brother's face, he reminded himself that he was waiting here to talk to the car's driver, was destined to play Sammy Cole, ace reporter for some lame racing magazine no one had heard of. Bitterly leveled the same accusation at himself that he had at Dean the night before: He had a job to do. He needed to stay sharp, keep his heads in the game.
But in truth, Sam couldn't even say with any certainty that this was their type of job. Between all the drivers, the mechanics, even Bruce's brother, there were enough human suspects to fill a mug book. Then there was the fact that the EMF was useless around the track and that the previous driver killed on the track was unlikely to have the ability or desire to haunt. His body had been cremated and the man had no real attachment to the track, having been just randomly racing at various small time race tracks for the summer.
Frustrated at the lack of progress on the job and left sleepless and hurting after his confrontation with Dean in the bar, Sam had lain awake most of the night. Had spent time fantasizing about actually writing the whole investigation off as not their type of gig. Could admit in the darkness of the night that he wanted nothing more than for him and Dean to move on, to let Garner deal with his own very likely human saboteur. But he shot the notion down almost as quickly as it had come to mind. Dean would never go for that, he was too vested in this investigation, in these people. Would stay and do whatever he could to protect them against whatever threat presented itself. No, Dean was too noble to walk away when people needed him.
Rubbing his hand behind his neck, Sam felt the heat coming off the track as he came back to the present, watched as the #6 car slowed down and make its way toward pit row. It was a weird notion for Sam, to feel resentment at the very people he was trying to protect. Had felt that resentment flare hotly in him after leaving the bar, seeing Dean enjoying the mechanics' presence more than his own.
Coming forward to the stopping race car's left side, notepad in hand, press badge clearly displayed over his suit pocket, he jovially greeted the driver as he exited the car. Internally he coached himself, told himself he could do this, could smile, pretend interest, investigate his heart out, could do it and would do it because the job mattered to Dean. And his brother mattered to him, always had, always would.
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Watching as Sam worked his boyish charisma on the driver for car #6, Dean leaned back against the #16 car, took a long pull on the water bottle. He had foregone calling Sam that morning, their argument in the bar's bathroom the night before still echoing through him. But now, with a clearer head, Dean regretted his decision, wished he had called and made a truce. Wished that he had even apologized to Sam, because, according to the pounding headache he had woken up with, his little brother hadn't been so out of line saying he was getting drunk. 'Drinking on a job, arguing with Sam, walking away from him in anger. Great, I'm turning into Dad. Just super, Dean.' he ruefully thought.
Purposefully he shifted his look to the car being put through its paces on the track as Tim came to his side, leaned against the car's front panel too. He was opening his mouth to ask the other man how the #6 driver ranked in the standings when Tim spoke.
"So, are you up to taking this beast through its paces?" Tim invited, a wide smile on his face as he looked to his newest mechanic.
"What? The driver.." Dean stammered, wholly unprepared for the opportunity, the temptation.
"Ah Danny Kentworth doesn't know much about engines, barely knows about racing cars," Tim scoffed with a smirk, eyes sparkling as they continued to hold Dean's. "But I've seen your car, I've seen the way you handle her. And kid, I've seen the look in your eyes when those cars go around that track. You can almost taste it, can't you?"
Dean nearly blushed as he hung his head. He wasn't supposed to be so easily read…by anyone. "That obvious, huh?" Dean quietly said, turning his head to view the man he had come to classify as a friend, as someone who wouldn't exploit him, wouldn't even reprimand him for hanging greedily onto a dream should never even be harboring. Looking to the track, Dean let out a breath as he enviously watched the car maneuver around one of the track's turns like it was riding a rail. He wanted what Tim was offering to him, badly. Had wanted it the from Garner's first phone call, had ached for the first time he had stood along the track, bend down and let his hands graze across the asphalt. His gaze flickered to his brother's tall frame in the pit row, was drawn there as strongly as he was to the track.
Reading the longing in the younger man's eyes which were transfixed on the race track, Tim interpreted with a smirk, "So that's a yes, right?" Not waiting for a reply, he pounded Dean on the back, turned around and called out to the other mechanics. "Alright guys. Dean's gonna take her for a spin. Let's get 'em suited up." Grabbing a helmet off the worktable, Tim tossed it to Dean, who caught it easily.
'Sorry, Sammy,' Dean thought as a full fledged smile turned up his lips. For the first time in a long time felt like he was doing something for himself, for no one else but himself, for no one else's happiness but for his own. 'Yeah, 'cause this sure isn't going to make Sam happy,' he knew but the thought didn't deter him. As he shucked out of the mechanic's overalls and reached for the driver's suit Tim was holding out to him, his smile was near blinding.
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"So, there has never been a history of bad luck on this track before now," Sam asked, watching the driver for what he wouldn't say.
"Every track has its tragedies, sure. And some of that can be attributed to the track's level of difficulty, to the skill of the driver and the competition and yeah, just bad luck. But what's happening here…" the driver shook his head.
Seeing that the man was fighting to keep himself together, Sam surmised that one of the dead drivers had been a close friend of his. "Hey, we can talk about this later. I didn't mean to …." But his words fell away as he spotted his brother, stepping out of his overalls, a helmet in hand. His breath caught when he saw Tim holding out a driver's suit toward Dean. 'No!' he internally protested as his brother's fingers wrapped around the suit, as he saw the huge smile on Dean's face.
Before he remembered that he was in the middle of an "interview." , Sam was frantically reaching for his cell phone. Shooting a distracted look to the driver, he apologized in a rush of words, "Ah, sorry, I need to make a phone call." He walked away before the driver could even make a reply. Slipping into an unused garage where, from his vantage point, he could watch his brother, he initiated his speed dial. He didn't even give Dean a chance to offer up a greeting. "You promised," he nearly roared, his voice pitched just low enough that it would not travel across the flat open track fairgrounds.
"I did not," Dean gruffly denied, his voice low, his head bowed while he used his free hand to pull up the driver's suit zipper.
His own hand drawn into a fist, Sam fought the urge to stalk over to his bull headed brother and physically stop him, regardless of the consequences. 'Yeah, like me going toe to toe with Dean is going to end any differently than me ordering him over the phone to not be a reckless jerk.' In desperation, Sam switched his tone from one of anger to one full of beseeching. "I don't want you to do it, Dean," praying that his wishes meant something to his brother.
"Tough," Dean bit out as he clicked the phone shut and tossed it on the table where his overalls were. Zipping the suit up to his neck, he saw the question in Tim's eyes, "Sorry, jerk still owes me for a part, thinks I'm just going to wipe the slate clean."
"Yeah, I know the type," Tim agreed. Stepping forward, he slid the flap of fabric across Dean's neck and snapped it closed, gave the younger man a once over. Giving Dean's chest a pat, he prodded, a seriousness in his eyes and an earnestness in his tone. "Are you ready to do this?"
Shooting a look over Tim's shoulder, Dean couldn't see Sam but knew instinctively that his brother could see him, was out there hoping that he would fold, would crumble under his little brother's plea. But Dean was going to disappoint him because Tim was right, he could almost taste the thrill, the surge of adrenaline, the danger of going as fast as he could on the racetrack. It had been harder than he imagined, standing on the sidelines, tuning up a car for someone else, watching as the cars burned up the track...leaving him a useless spectator. He hadn't asked for this chance, but it had come his way, and he wasn't passing it by, wasn't going to relinquish this dream, not for their family duty…not even for Sam. He wanted it, like he rarely allowed himself to want anything.
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Slapping his own phone shut, Sam swore and watched with cold dread as Dean suited up. He knew a quick flare of hope when Dean excused himself only to have it blown away when his brother returned a few moments later, a swagger of confidence in his steps. Fueled by anger, Sam stalked from the empty garage, headed away from his brother's gloating, was set on leaving the track, on saying to heck with his cover today. But as the rumble of the car coming to life vibrated across the air, Sam halted, found he couldn't walk away, no matter how angry he was. This was his brother he was talking about, a brother that was putting himself, albeit knowingly and recklessly, in danger. However, it was more than that. It was his brother finally getting a shot at just a taste of his own dreams, of a life separate from hunting, separate from their family, separate even from him.
Turning around, Sam watched Dean maneuver the car onto the race track as Tim took up a position in the infield, stopwatch in hand. As he crossed behind Dean's car, it took every ounce of Sam's fortification for him to not make some contact with his brother, for him to pretend this was just some stranger he was about to watch go over a 150 mph. Acknowledging the car's presence but pointedly not the driver's, he came to stand beside Tim.
Nodding his head toward Dean, he had to yell in Tim's ear to be heard over the rumble of the car's engine. "Where's the driver?"
"Not here," Tim shouted back with a cocky smile as he slid headphones on. Giving Sam an assessing look, the head mechanic retrieved another set of headphones from the box on the ground and tossed them to the reporter.
Eagerly, Sam put on the headphones, was suddenly privy to the conversation Dean and the head mechanic were already having. "Some pointers I should know about the track or are you looking for an insurance write off on the car?" Dean joked and Sam almost replied, might have if Tim wasn't already answering.
"Track goes in circles," Tim wisecracked which earned him a genuine laugh from Dean that made Sam both hurt and smile.
"Well, thanks, great mentor. Guess I'll find out things the hard way," Dean replied, as he tested his grip on the steering wheel, rolled his head from side to side as much as the confines of the helmet and car's interior allowed. "I'm ready when you are," he announced, felt his heart pounding in his chest not so unlike it did when he was on a hunt, when his adrenaline, his reflexes and his training came together, gave him the edge to survive…to win.
"Go on green, kiddo," Tim happily instructed, watching as the light still boasted red.
Struggling to see Dean amid the car's frame, Sam barely caught his brother's profile before the car bound forward as the light turned green. Fear and awe mixed in Sam as the car flew up the track like vehicle and asphalt were hardwired together. Felt his breath trap in his throat as the car took the first turn, fender inches from the wall and then the car seemed to surge forward on the straightaway, almost a blur as it covered the distance toward the next turn.
Tim's voice in his ear almost startled Sam. "I knew you were a natural, kid. Go ahead and see what she can take."
'Crap, see what she can take!? Like he's not going fast enough already?' screamed through Sam but he saw instantly that Dean had been holding back, had been holding the reins tightly on the beast, was now letting it have its preverbal head. The sound of Dean's voice almost made his eyes water in relief.
"Now this is the life! Whoo hoo!" Dean called out, feeling like he had waited his whole life for this moment, had been in training for it since he slid behind the Impala's wheel at the age of ten. Since he had learned, on the fly, how to do a 180, a 360, to slide into tight corners without losing speed, how to avoid whatever evil happened into his path and how to outdrive whatever human dared to pursue him and his black metal baby.
"I take it that it's running smoothly," Tim lightheartedly asked, nudging Sam, including him in on the merriment. But the reporter didn't react, didn't take his eyes off the race car.
"As silk," Dean replied, almost feeling like an adulterer, cheating on the Impala even as he couldn't peel the smile off of his face or dampen the exhilaration thrumming through him.
"Take turn four in the inside," he heard Tim say. As he made the adjustment, it felt like the car was an extension of himself, of who he was….of who he wanted to be. That somewhere between putting on the suit and pulling onto the track, the real Dean Winchester had come alive, the one that had a future, that wanted a future, who deserved a future… a future that didn't involve hunting, a future of his choosing, a future of this.
As the car swept down the track, hugged the infield through the turn, never veered from its path, Sam knew before Tim voiced his praise that it was a freakin' beautiful piece of driving. Felt a surge of pride that it was Dean at the helm, that it was his brother's skills on display for everyone to admire and envy.
"Oh yeah!" Tim hooted, giving Sam a pat on his chest in his excitement and pride in his new friend's skills. "Kentworth would flip out if he saw the way you can handle his car. Guy's about one race away from losing Garner's sponsorship. If Garner would get a look at you racing…"
"Don't tease man…" Dean retorted, but Sam could hear the excitement in his brother's voice, knew that the prospect of actually getting a chance to race was something Dean had already been thinking about. But the next instant, his brother's voice had slipped into his grim, survivalist tone. "Ah crap!"
"What's wrong," Sam said at the same time as Tim, never knowing that his own mic wasn't activated in his headphones.
"Steering wheel's locked up and brakes are out," Dean tersely replied and from experience, Sam knew Dean was running a thousand and one scenarios through his head even as he was struggling to take back control of the car. His eyes on the car as it streaked by, Sam couldn't help but swing his eyes forward, to see what lay ahead for the unresponsive car: Turn 1. And if Dean didn't regain control of the runaway vehicle: the unforgiving wall.
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With a merciless and most likely fatal impact with the wall imminent, Dean, heart pounding in his chest, loosened his left hand from its useless grip on the steering wheel. Unzipping the suit just far enough to be able to slip his hand inside, Dean growled in annoyance as his fingers floundered a moment to find what they sought. Painfully aware that his windshield only offered him a view of the wall he was headed straight for like a runaway train. Fingers finally finding their target, he pushed his hand into the suit's inner pocket, fisted his hand around the contents.
Withdrawing his hand from his suit, Dean tossed his fistful of salt at the steering wheel and steering column. Having been forced to only maintain a one handed grip on the steering wheel, he wasn't fully prepared to have the steering fully relinquished again into his control. Found that his unbalanced grip skewed the suddenly free direction of the vehicle to the right, sent the vehicle into a closer impact radius with the wall. Slamming his left hand onto the wheel, he spun the wheel left as hard as he dared without inviting the car to end up into a roll. As he applied the now working brakes, he knew two bad outcomes were possible. Voted that, between kissing the wall or tossing his cookies and maybe losing a lung in a roll, he kind of favored the idea of a roll.
Bracing himself for the impact of the wall or to feel the car trade its traction for a trick of aerobatics, Dean was stunned to avoid both. Though he knew that if the car had sported a side mirror it would have been lost in the small space that was maintained between the vehicle and the inflexible cement wall. Even in his standards, Dean knew that it was miracle that he came out of the turn unscathed, shaken, yes, but unmistakably alive.
Beginning to tack down the engine in earnest, Dean desired to get off the ride. Because, for all of his recklessness, he wasn't suicidal, knew when to crawl away with the meager remainings of his winnings. Understood, like any seasoned gambler, that to continue to play when lady luck wasn't on your side was the quickest way to lose your bankroll.
Dean had slowed the car down to eighty mph when the engine exploded. The pressure sent the hood flipping over the car's roof, gave the flames room to lick manically at the sky and the ability to press greedy, searing hands against the windshield. Fire and smoke slipped inside the passenger side window as the carcass of the car moved only because the laws of momentum dictated it.
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TBC
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Thanks so much for reading this chapter!
Have a great day!
Cheryl W.
