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: This quicker than usual update is for all those who hate cliff hangers…And a million thank yous go out to every reviewer from last chapter! I appreciate your kindness!
Please note that all mistakes this chapter are my fault...I reworked some things and didn't have the heart to make my beta go over it again.
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Chapter 5: Smoke Signals
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Unprepared to have his relief morph again to terror, Sam would have shouted out his brother's name if he had had a breath in his body. Leaping over the pit wall, he desperately ran toward the burning racing car sliding across the inside grass. Felt little encouragement when the car slid to a stop without flipping because Dean wasn't crawling from the car and the flames were starting to lick along the car's roof.
Heart pounding, lungs starving, dread and fear coiled in his heart, Sam reached the car, didn't slow down, was practically diving through the driver's window. As he fisted his hands onto Dean's shoulders in the smoke filled interior, his brother's words almost didn't register.
"Seatbelt, Sam!" Dean said amid a hacking cough, looking to his brother, hoping Sam could hear him through his helmet. "Won't release!"
Letting go only of Dean's left shoulder, Sam sent his other hand digging into his pocket. Pulling his knife free and flipping it open, he ruthlessly cut through the harness that bound his brother to the burning vehicle. In the next second, he began roughly dragging Dean out the driver's window. The further he succeeded in pulling Dean from the burning car, the more of his brother's weight rested on him. Struggling under the strain, Sam slipped his hands around Dean, caught his big brother in a bear hug until Dean's legs were clear of the vehicle, until they found unsteady purchase on the infield grass.
Urgently wanting to be clear of the car in case it exploded, Sam maneuvered to Dean's right side. But he kept his arms still securely wrapped around his brother's torso, worriedly knew that Dean was incapable of standing on his own, let alone walking. Not with the violent coughs quaking through his body and not with his legs barely agreeing to hold him up.
As he practically carried Dean away from the burning vehicle, Sam cursed as he nearly lost his grip when Dean stumbled and bent over under the onslaught of a harsh, breath-stealing cough. Not wanting to hurt Dean, Sam stopped his head long pace and sank down to his knees with his brother in his grip. Steadying Dean against his chest as his brother's coughs turned into gasps for air, Sam felt panic and uselessness sear through him. Hoping to give Dean a better position to draw in a breath, he eased him forward, watched as his brother's hands braced on the ground.
When he was certain that Dean could hold himself upright, Sam, with shaky hands, slid his hands from their supportive position on Dean's chest and sent them to the task of unlatching Dean's helmet and carefully removed it. For the first time he heard his brother's deep coughs unfiltered by the helmet and he sympathetically flinched. Fearfully he gripped Dean again when he bowed forward until his head rested on the ground, the smoke still stealing almost all of his breath away.
With his one arm around Dean's back and the other bracing Dean's chest so he wouldn't collapse totally onto the ground, Sam leaned down close to Dean, said soothingly, "Hey, you'll be alright. Just take small breaths, Dean." Hoping his own panic at seeing his brother struggle for breath wasn't detectable to Dean, that Dean wouldn't meet his eyes and see the fear that was still thrumming through him like a freight train.
"We'll take it from here."
The voice surprised Sam, snagged his attention from his brother's pale, smoke streaked profile, reminded him that they weren't alone, that the world didn't consist of just him and Dean. It was surreal, watching the paramedic come to a crouch beside Dean, slip an oxygen mask on Dean's face, start taking care of his brother…without his permission, without his request.
"You OK?" came another voice from Sam's other side, causing him to shoot a quick look that way to see another paramedic, studying him.
"Yeah, yeah," Sam denied, annoyed that any attention, any concern was for him when Dean was the one hurt, had almost died.
"Alright, then step clear," the 2nd paramedic ordered, concern switching to no nonsense business, his hand wrapping around Sam's bicep as if he could pull him away from Dean.
"Get off me!" Sam snarled, eyes burning, fingers clenching tighter onto the fabric of Dean's racing suit. "He's my…" but a hand wrapped around his wrist, was a touch he recognized, sparked a connection that he shared with only one other soul. Swinging his look back to Dean, he saw his brother was still coughing amid the mask, had his eyes closed, head still resting on the ground. But Sam knew exactly what his brother wanted, was asking of him. There was no need for words between them.
Reluctantly Sam swallowed his words, didn't proclaim the connection he had with Dean, didn't break the promise Dean had made to Garner. But it took every ounce of his loyalty to his brother, all his strength to clutch desperately to Dean's suit for another moment and then uncoil his fingers, to release his death grip on his brother. Giving his brother's chest a gentle pat, he then started to remove his touch, but he couldn't stop himself from catching Dean's hand in his own, giving it a momentary squeeze before he pulled back, freed himself of Dean, let go.
Sitting back on his hunches, Sam watched as someone else took care of his brother. Felt that, out of a lifetime of hard things which he had endured, being unable to help Dean, having to allow someone else to help his brother always ranked as one of the hardest for him to handle.
"He's having trouble breathing," Sam supplied, surprised at the hoarseness of his own voice, at the burning at the back of his throat that had nothing to do with smoke inhalation. His comment earned him a sarcastic 'no really, thanks Einstein,' look from the 1st paramedic. Then the paramedics were pulling Dean to his feet, away from him. Raising his hand, Sam almost reached for Dean's arm, instead forced his hand to fall away. Dropping his hand to come to rest on his leg, he coiled his fingers into his own flesh until it hurt as he watched, with burning eyes, as Dean was helped into the ambulance and eased down onto the gurney. He barely registered that Tim had joined his side as the sight of his brother was stolen from him as the ambulance doors shut.
For a moment, Sam found his own breath knocked out of him. Couldn't shake the crippling feeling that came over him like it had when he had watched Dean get loaded onto the medic helicopter, get taken away from him, for forever for all Sam had known at the time. 'He's alright. Stop acting like a girl, Samatha,' he growled to himself, purposefully used one of his brother's taunts to try and cut across his panic. But 'This job sucks Dean!' vibrated through him as loud as a shout.
Tim's voice was almost a welcome distraction from the departing ambulance. "Seems like he'll be Ok," and there was real concern in the man's voice. "They radioed me that they thought it was just smoke inhalation." Sam nodded, couldn't quite join in the man's relief, not when it was his brother. "Crap, kid! The way you reacted….you a fireman on your days off?" Tim asked in incredulous wonder.
Swallowing hard, Sam forced himself to look away from the ambulance, to look, instead, up to the head mechanic of the # 16 car. 'Dean wanted to be a fireman,' slipping into his mind even as he answered, "Some people I loved died in a fire…." surprising himself at his honesty. Climbing to his feet, he took a few moments to wipe grass from his knees, to refortify his defenses before he faced Tim again. "Guess when I saw the car on fire…" he forced a shrug he hoped looked natural, "it just felt… the same, you know."
Compassion beamed in the older man's eyes and a flickering of sadness. "Yeah. This is like freakin' instant replay for me too…except the last engine fire no one walked away from…not the driver," his voice was hoarse, told Sam that the tragedy was personal for the other man. "And not the first fireman on the scene."
Instead of making Sam feel better, relieved that things hadn't turned out worse for Dean, his desire to go to the hospital to be with Dean spiked higher. Feeling like he was about a breath away from saying, 'screw this job', and abandoning his asinine cover of him and Dean being strangers, Tim's next words surprisingly steadied him, reminded him that he had a purpose, that Dean had risked his life to save these people, expected Sam to be the partner he claimed he was to him and make something good come from his close call.
"I wish someone would make all of this …" Tim, hands fisted, struggled for the right word, for a label to make sense out of everything he couldn't understand. "This 'bad luck' stop. It should have never happened," he gritted out, angrily sweeping Dean's discarded helmet from the grass. "Not with this helmet's air filtration unit. None of this should be happening. That steering wheel was loose every run we made and the engine blowing like that…" running a hand over his mouth, the mechanic looked almost too shaken to speak for a few moments. "None of this makes sense! I would say it was a competitor sabotaging the cars if one shred of proof could be found. I mean, it can't be a coincidence that the top six drivers, the ones most likely to be picked for NASCAR have had these 'mechanical problems'."
The man's honest anguish and the new found lead had Sam turning his full attention to Tim, allowed him to shove his need to be with his brother down to a bearable level. "Wait, you're telling me the drivers that have been involved in the accidents were the most likely ones to get the NASCAR contract?"
"In my opinion, yeah. Our best driver …was killed in the third accident," Tim's voice cracked and he looked away for a moment, was wearing an expression of loss when he looked again to Sam and shook his head. "Man, that was horrible, seeing Troy…seeing a guy so good, so ready for the big time get killed just when his ticket was about to get called. I loved that guy like a brother," he admitted without reservations, meeting Sam's eyes, not afraid to voice his affection for a man that could no longer return the sentiment.
Sam didn't doubt Tim's words, felt the other man's emotions strike a chord within him. Swiveling his sight to the still burning #16 car, Sam felt his throat constrict as Tim's words rang through his head …'loved that guy like a brother'. "Yeah, I know what you mean," he said, wasn't aware he said it aloud until Tim made a reply.
"Sorry, didn't mean to bring back bad memories for you," Tim apologized as he watched the boy's face lose more color, saw the shaky breath the reporter drew in when he looked back at the car the firemen were dousing with water.
Clenching his jaw, Sam nodded but didn't tear his look from the car. Couldn't fight down the need to keep telling himself that it wasn't the Impala this time, that Dean was going to be alright, wasn't slipping into a coma, wasn't going to be playing any hide and seek with a reaper.
When a new voice spoke behind him, Sam turned around to see a dirty blonde haired man in his fifties approaching them. Noticed that the man wasn't wearing any racing apparel or even anything embossed with a racing emblem on his preppy clothing as he came to a stop by Tim. "Tim, what happened? Who got hurt?"
"Dean, my new mechanic I was telling you about. Car just….failed him," Tim replied, jaw clenching a moment, his self-reproach evident.
Having easily detected the guilt Tim was feeling at the accident even before it was evident in his words, Sam did not offer up reassurances to the other man, didn't try to ease his guilt. Couldn't when he harbored a nagging doubt that the man had been at fault, had, in some way been responsible for almost getting Dean killed.
"Pastor Pete, would you go the hospital, make sure he's OK?" Tim asked, an earnestness in his request that caught Sam by surprise.
The man, the pastor smiled, put a hand on Tim's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "You know I was going to go anyway. I'll call you when I know his condition."
As the pastor began to walk away, Sam bit his lip to stop himself from calling after the man, from asking to either hitch a ride with him or demand that he get a call too. That someone have the decency to tell him about his own brother's condition. But he reminded silent, let the pastor walk away, obeyed Dean's wishes which he had conveyed with only a touch.
Turning his focus back to the #16 car, Sam saw that the flames were out, that the firemen were stepping clear of the car, leaving the burned out hull for the tow truck. Stepping forward, he ran his hands over the car's wet but still warm frame, cursed the car that had almost stolen his brother from him even as his fingers caressed the metal under his touch. Felt that part of Dean was there in the car, that the car gave him a connection to Dean, to what Dean loved. Was a link to the life Dean might have had…to the life he could still have.
"He's good, isn't he?" Sam asked, voice low, hand still on the car as he sensed that Tim hadn't moved from his position behind him.
"What?" Tim replied uncertain what the reporter was asking, watching the younger man run his hands over the car like it was a memorial to something lost, to someone he had lost.
"Dean….the mechanic, he handled the car…well," Sam stammered, knew it was an understatement even as he choose his words.
"Well?!" Tim scoffed, walked slowly to stand beside the reporter, continued speaking only when the younger man turned and met his eyes. "If it had been even any driver from this track in that car, we would have been planning another funeral right now. Dean, he's…" Tim stopped, clenched his jaw shut a moment as he felt again the lingering cold hand touch of fear that had surged in him as he had watched the car heading for the wall, almost go into a roll and ultimately catch on fire. He cursed himself for liking the kid so much, better than he should for his own peace of mind.
"Yeah, kid, he handled her well," Tim sardonically answered the reporter's initial question because that adjective didn't even begin to cover Dean's skills. Didn't in any way convey to the reporter how many drivers in the professional game could have recovered the car like Dean had. "And you can quote me on that one," Tim briskly bit out, feeling a bitterness well up in him at the thought that Dean would not get any recognition for his skills, would instead be labeled as another mechanic that had no business testing the car. "See you around, Sam," Tim said solemnly, eyes flickering from Sam to the car before he walked away. Heading back to the garage, he dreaded the call he had to make to Garner. Almost as much as he dreaded the task of gathering a group of the track's mechanics together to go over the burned out car, to try and determine, once again, what had almost caused another death on the race track.
Looking over his shoulder, Sam watched Tim leave and knew what the other man hadn't spelled out. Honestly, he didn't need to hear it from a stranger, knew it in his heart from the very start: 'Dean could do this, could race professionally, could have a life, a future.' But Sam knew it went deeper than that, had come to see that, maybe for the first time in his life, Dean could be happy.
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When the exam curtain was ruthlessly shoved aside, Dean expected a furious but concerned Sam. He couldn't fight down the disappointment and dread that stole over him as an irate Bruce Garner stalked into the small closed off space.
"I'm not paying you to wreck race cars! And I didn't hire you so you could sue me for a disability claim! I'm not paying for this hospital bill!" Garner thundered, finger pointing at Dean as he stalked over and glowered down at the younger man lying in the hospital bed.
Dean removed the oxygen mask to make a defense but it turned only into a nearly asphyxiating cough.
Looming farther over the downed man, Garner hissed, "Thought you weren't man enough to get behind the wheel?! Imagine my confusion when Tim calls me and says you are the latest screw up to take out a ¼ million dollar car! I should sue you for the damages."
Dean sputtered, not in fear but humor, at the thought of him paying back a ¼ million dollar debt. Especially when he didn't even have enough change in his pocket right then to snag a coffee.
Interpreting the younger man's reaction as fear, Bruce gloated, "Yeah, not so cocky now that you could be facing a liability suit."
Catching movement over Garner's shoulder, Dean watched as a new visitor stepped into his 'room'. Though he had never seen the dirty blonde haired man before, when the man cleared his throat, causing Garner to turn around, Dean easily read recognition in the race track owner's face.
Feigning surprise at Bruce Garner's presence in the injured mechanic's room, the Pastor held out his hand to the other man. "Ah, Mr. Garner. It's good to see you. Missed you at last week's church service."
Caught up in another coughing fit, Dean was surprised to see Garner's demeanor turn into a school boy's shamed stance. To see Garner slip his hands into his pockets, bow his head and give a mumbled excuse.
"Yeah, sorry…family obligations came up," Garner fabricated, suddenly feeling cornered in the small confines of the curtained off area of the ER.
Smiling, the Pastor offered forgiveness. "Well better to have missed last Sunday's service then tomorrow's. It's from Revelation, about the end times."
Garner nearly stammered as he slid by the pastor, "Ah yeah, hope I can make it. Well I have a conference call…" and then he was gone, his patent leather shoes clicking quickly away on the tiled floor.
Struggling to suppress his cough, Dean looked to the Pastor in awe. Seeing the satisfied smile on the man face, Dean's awe turned to gratitude.
"If you wanted him to stay…" the Pastor began but his smile hadn't fled, was accompanied by a mischievous glimmer in his eyes.
"No! Nah, think he said what he wanted to," Dean replied, voice low and gravelly. As the Pastor stepped closer to him, his eyes settled intently on the man. Couldn't quite understand why the man was there, how he had come to have a Pastor visiting him, a Pastor that knew Garner.
"I'm Pastor Pete from the Smithfield race track church. Well, I call it a church, the guys call it the Tent of Repentance," the Pastor joked, as he came to stand by Dean's right side and offered his hand.
Shaking the man's hand, Dean opened his mouth but again his words were interchanged for harsh coughing.
"I hear that the oxygen mask works better if you actually use it for breathing," Pastor Pete gently reproved, nodding for Dean to take a breath from the mask he still had clutched in his hand.
Reluctantly taking the man's advice, Dean held the mask up to his face, drew in a breath of oxygen, felt the thickness in his chest ease and the spots dancing in his vision fade.
"Guys at the track were worried about you, sent me here to check up on you," the Pastor explained, the compassion in his gaze seeming sincere enough.
'Guys?' Dean wanted to ask, instead raised his eyebrows, wondering if Sam had been one of those guys.
"Alright, guy: Tim," the Pastor admitted with a smile. "He seems pretty attached to you already. I'm surprised …" At the flash in Dean's eyes, the Pastor laughed at the younger man's misinterpretation of his words. "Ah, no I didn't mean that I'm surprised he likes you, I mean I'm surprised he's taken you under his wing. He kind of shut down after Troy's death, wasn't letting anyone get close to him…until you showed up. Now we've hardly had a conversation that didn't include some story that involves you," The Pastor revealed with a warm smile.
Giving the Pastor a hard stare, Dean lifted the mask, was about to call the Pastor on his cock and bull story but the Pastor overrode his denial.
"Ah…a non believer," the Pastor drawled, not with anger but mirth. "Alright. If Tim hasn't been telling me all about you then how do I know you practically rebuilt your 1967 Chevy from the ground up after a car accident, that you know your way around an engine practically blind folded and Tim considers you one of the best mechanics he's worked with in all his years on the racing circuit."
"He didn't say that," Dean denied, voice rough but his incredulousness shining through.
"Yeah, actually he did. He would be here checking up on you himself if he didn't have to stay back there and perform the car inspection for the investigators," Pastor Pete explained, had easily seen the pained regret in Tim's eyes today just as easily as he had seen the man's sorrow when Troy's body was pulled from the wreckage a few weeks ago.
"I'm guessing the car's toast," Dean half asked, half surmised. Though he hung onto a thread of hope that the car was salvageable, that he had not truly cost Tim a car on the racing team he obviously cared so deeply for.
"Sorry but yeah. I've seen enough accidents lately to know if something's salvageable. You're the luckiest one…getting out alive…mostly in one piece. Well not lucky but…"
Dean cut him off, didn't want to hear that God had a plan for his life, the old 'the Big Guy wasn't done with him' speech. "Yeah, I heard about the other accidents. You visit the two drivers that survived?"
"Ah, yeah, yeah I did," and there was sorrow in the man's eyes. "Held the funerals for the other drivers too. I know this sport is dangerous but…" The Pastor swallowed, looked more a broken man than a man on a mission for God. "Sometimes I just want to walk away, slip behind a pulpit where I don't have to always talk about loss and tragedy." Offering up a small, self chastising smile, he sighed, "Sorry, not what you want to hear from me, right? I'm supposed to be all, 'this is God's will' but the truth is…It hurts, losing people you care about, no matter if its part of the grand scheme or not."
Registering the compassion in the injured man's eyes, the Pastor found a smile turning up his lips. "Tim's right about you." At Dean's confused look, the Pastor switched gears. "Well, I actually came here to make you feel better, to make sure you're OK. Tim's probably left me five messages on my cell phone wondering why I haven't called him yet with an update on your condition."
"Tell him I'm fine, will be sprung in an hour or so," Dean reassured, wanted to tack on a request for the Pastor to tell the magazine report that same report. 'Yeah, that would make sense, you passing notes to some supposed stranger.'
"I'll tell him." Steadily meeting Dean's gaze, Pastor Pete carefully asked, "Is there someone in your family I can call for you?"
At the unexpected offer, at the word "family", Dean's breath caught. The action provoked his lungs to protest, violently. Shuddering under one of the worst bouts of his coughing, he had to put all his energy into forcing air in and out of his mouth. Trapped in the struggle to breathe, he couldn't protest when the mask was slipped from his hands and placed on his mouth or dislodge the hand that gripped his forearm. He barely registered the Pastor's worried question of "Should I get a doctor?" in time to reach his hand out and snag the man's arm, to stop the Pastor from leaving the room and tracking down a doctor who would only tell him what he had been told already. That they wanted to keep him in a few days for observation, wanted to keep him on oxygen at least overnight, unknowingly wanted to stop him from going back to the track, from working the case, from having Sam's back as he worked the job. And that just wasn't happening. His big brother instincts were way more resilient than any side effects from some smoke inhalation ever could be.
"Alright, no doctors," the Pastor reassured, watched anxiously as Dean finally wrestled breath back into his lungs, was able to draw in oxygen from the mask without much of a hitch in the rhythm. Noted that his promise was easing the panic in the younger man's eyes, got his arm released from Dean's strong grip. Stepping over to the table beside the bed, Pastor Pete pulled out a note pad and pen from the drawer and looked expectantly down at Dean. "I'll call your family. I'll tell them whatever you want me to," he offered gently, certain that Dean's earlier words about getting 'sprung in an hour' were not the doctor's plans even as he sensed that the man would not want his family to know how truly serious his condition was.
Dean shook his head slowly, knew that he couldn't ask the Pastor to call Sam, not when the Pastor might realize that he was talking to the "reporter" on the track. No, he wouldn't put Sam's cover in jeopardy, because, even though he now had indisputable proof they were dealing with a spirit, he didn't want the crews on the track to learn that they had been lied to. Knew from harsh personal experience that people who were afraid were unpredictable, were always the unknown factor in any hunt, could be an asset or a liability, could serve to save him or to almost get him killed.
"No. but thanks," Dean dismissed, his voice gravely and muted by the mask, refusing to put Sam in greater danger, especially since he wasn't presently there to have Sam's back. Steadily meeting the Pastor's gaze, he almost cringed at the compassion he saw gathering in the older man's eyes. 'Crap here we go.'
"But you have family," Pastor Pete lightly pressured, said it more as a statement than a question because he had seen the indecision moments before in the green eyes.
"Brother," Dean answered before he could think about it, could make a conscious decision on whether or not he should admit it. But he knew in his heart there was no way he would ever deny having a brother, having Sam in his life. They might be playing a con on the race track crews but that didn't mean he would ever disown Sam, that he didn't feel pride flare in him at seeing the competent, kind, strong man his brother had become, would always be.
"Personally I would want to know if my brother was in the hospital," the Pastor gently pushed, tacked on as he saw the protest in the younger man's eyes, "even if it wasn't an overnight stay." Because, though he wasn't a betting man, Pastor Pete would wager last year's church offerings that Dean wouldn't submit to staying overnight in the hospital, regardless of what his doctor had to say on the matter.
"This is nothing for Sa…him to worry about," Dean corrected, felt unbalanced, vulnerably under the man's too kind gaze and good intentions. But it was too late, he suddenly wanted Sam there, badly. 'Ah, you need your wittle brother to protect you from the big bad pastor, Deany,' he taunted himself. Removing the oxygen mask, he answered more forcefully, though he wasn't sure who he was trying to convince more, the Pastor or himself, "I don't need my brother to come hold my hand."
The Pastor shrugged like it was no skin off his nose but his next words belied that gesture. "Alright, but what if it was your brother who ended up in the hospital? Was the one who nearly died in a racing accident, was lying in a hospital bed, his every breath painful and surrounded only by a bunch of strangers. Wouldn't you want to know? Wouldn't you want to be there for him?"
Dean's breath evaporated, not from smoke inhalation but fear, at the thought that made him sick. Of Sam being the one here, hurting, feeling alone, being alone. He almost jerked when the Pastor laid the phone on his stomach.
"Do onto others as you would have them do onto you," the Pastor said but there was humor in his tone and in his eyes instead of a lecture. "And here's my number if you want to talk..about anything." Then he began walking away only to come to a halt, spin around and give Dean a wide smile. "If you do get "sprung" before tomorrow 10am, I hope to see you at the race track church."
"For the Hell and Brimstone sermon?" Dean replied, his tone low, bitter at the mention of Hell, of thinking of his father there, in his place.
"Nah, sermon's about David's unbreakable brotherhood with Jonathan. I just said it was about Revelations to get Garner skipping out the door," Pastor Pete confessed with a exaggerated jump of his eyebrows and a wicked smile.
"You are one sly Pastor," Dean complimented with a small laugh.
"I prefer resourceful. See you tomorrow," the Pastor bade and then he slipped between the curtains.
The Pastor's absence left Dean lying there, alone, a phone in his hand, uncertain if he should make the call or not. Sam knew he was Ok, knew he wasn't dying or anything. In the scheme of things, this was so minor an injury it hardly deemed a line in his always increasing medical chart that he kept tallying in his head. This was nothing, he was fine. And so what if he wanted to hear Sam's voice, if the Pastor's little parable, about how it could be Sam sitting here after he almost met his Maker, had him a little unnerved. Winchesters didn't cower under pressure, they shined. Nah, Sam didn't need to hear from him and he didn't need to hear from Sam. They weren't girls. They didn't need reassurances from each other, didn't need to hold each other's hands.
But he found he couldn't force himself to slide the phone from his chest, to return it to the night stand. Instead he gripped it tightly in his hand and wondered how his Dad could have made the decision to not return his phone calls for a year. How he could not return Sam's phone calls for a year. How his Dad could hear the catch in his voice when he begged him to come to Lawrence and just delete the friggin' message and not come. How he could listen to Sam say he was dying and not care enough to even pick up the phone, call to see, at least, when the funeral arrangements were being held.
It didn't make sense to Dean, the way the man could disown them…and then turn around and die for him. Sacrifice his soul for his life. Could tell him how proud he was of him and ask him to kill his brother in the same breath! How he could pick and choose how he showed his love for his sons, regardless of what they needed, of what they wanted. Could decide his oldest son's life was more valuable than his own. Could raise him and Sam to believe that actions were all they could do when words would have been enough.
Bitterly, Dean wished his father had found a way to just talk to him while he was in the coma, to tell him he was loved, that he would be missed but reassure him that he and Sammy could and would carry on without him. That John would have just let him go. Wished his father would have been honest with Sam, told him that he was different, had to watch himself, had to toe an invisible line in the sand. Wondered how things would have ultimately turned out if he and Sam had been his Dad's partners instead of his subordinates, instead of pawns in a game his Dad ended up conceding in the end.
Rolling onto his side, Dean unconsciously clutched the phone to his chest, closed his eyes. He nearly choked on the smell of smoke that saturated him. It reminded him of Mom and Jessica and his father's funeral pyre. Of death and dying and defeat. Made his throat ache from crueler things than acrid smoke, made him want nothing more than to hear his brother's voice, to know he wasn't alone, that everyone else had left him but Sam was still there. To be reminded that he still had a reason to keep fighting, to draw in another breath, to clamp down on the scream that wanted to rip from him. He needed to hear Sam's voice to be reassured that there was still good in the world, still good in his world.
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TBC
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See I didn't leave you with a death defying cliff hanger. I can be nice…sort of.
Thanks for reading this chapter!
Have a great day!
Cheryl W.
