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 7: Heated Rivalry

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

As Sam stepped into the racing track and surveyed the morning activities, he told himself he wasn't looking for Dean, that he didn't care what his stupid, reckless, bullheaded brother was up to. 'Concentrate on the job. When the job's done we'll have to leave. Dean will have to leave.' With that in mind, hecrossed over to join the commotion in the center of the infield where a 1950 era Chevy coupe was being unloaded from a semi truck. Casually, he asked a man in the crowd, "What's with the old car?"

When the man turned to him, Sam could see that it was registering with the track employee that he was about to talk to a reporter. For a moment, silence fell between them before the man apparently decided this information was nothing other than public knowledge. "It was owned by the last driver NASCAR ever picked from this track, Nelson Barton. Guy was headed to the big time."
"Was?" Sam pressed, starting to feel the beginning of a break in their research.

"Yeah, he got killed in a motorcycle accident before the ink was even dry on his NASCAR contract. Poor jerk," the man said, more sneer than sympathy in his tone as he walked away.

Watching as the old Chevy was carefully placed onto the center grass, Sam couldn't help smiling. Finally they had something to go on. Before he knew it, he had his phone out but his finger hesitated over Dean's speed dial. After the previous night's confrontation, he wasn't sure of the reception he would get from Dean. Sliding his phone back into his pocket, he decided to gather more information, to have a better peace offering for Dean than just some vague lead.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Head down, Dean slipped hurriedly from the Smithfield's tent of worship. His collision with a solid shoulder had him stumbling a moment before he regained his balance. Looking up to see the man he had clipped, he found himself meeting Sam's eyes. For a moment silent shock vibrated between them.

"Hey," Sam finally managed, caught off guard by how happy he felt at the chance encounter. Found that his joy at unexpectedly getting to see Dean up close and personal overshadowed his simmering anger from the night before.

"Hey," Dean awkwardly returned, knew his face was flaming in embarrassment at having been caught in the act of attending the church service.

Shooting a look around to make sure their encounter wasn't being observed, Sam returned his observation to his brother. "You were…." but he let the question hang, knew that he really didn't want to push Dean, not on this, not when a measure of peace was between them, postponing the anger that would probably crop up again between them later.

"Research," Dean instantly returned, firmly, tacked on, "On the job."

"Right," Sam quickly accepted. "Right," nodded his head as if it were obvious.

"Well we better…" Dean stammered, sending his right hand sweeping to the right in a vague gesture of departure.

"Yeah, Ok," Sam quickly agreed, like it meant nothing to him whether they dispersed now or five hours from then. Inside, it tore him up, the idea of parting from his brother without clearing things up between them. But no matter how much he wanted, needed to talk to Dean, this wasn't the time or place, for more arguments or for apologies. Giving Dean one more steady look, hoping that his emotions weren't evident, he walked by Dean and slipped into the tent.

Surprised that Sam was actually entering the tent, Dean turned and watched his brother claim a seat on a bench before the tent flap closed, shutting him out. For an instant Dean contemplated reentering the tent, asking Sam what he thought he was doing in there..until he realized Sam would turn the tables on him, ask him that same question. Unwilling to answer that question, even to himself, Dean walked away.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Working under the replacement #16 car, Dean jolted when a cold can of soda landed on his stomach. "Thanks Sa.." he began before he cut himself off, remembered that he wasn't at Bobby's, wasn't working to put together the Impala, that it wasn't his brother bringing him drinks, tossing sandwiches onto his legs, making sure he took the time to eat amid his obsession.

He swallowed the hurt that came over him at the knowledge that Sam wasn't his Good Samaritan this time, that when he rolled out from under the car, it wouldn't be to Sam's worried expression, would be to the scrutiny of a stranger. "Thanks," he offered to his unknown company, stilling his work until a reply was made.

"That means take a break," Tim clarified, giving a light kick to Dean's leg. He waited until the younger man rolled himself from under the car before he continued. "We've got this baby as good as it's going to get," he stated as he stood by the car, sought to read Dean's expression.

Sitting up with a grunt, Dean leaned against the car frame and opened his soda, took a healthy swig. "It's not as good as the other one," he mumbled, head down, eyes on the can in his hands, feeling a thousand times a fool for being the one, the mechanic, to total the primary #16 car.

Perceiving Dean's dejection, Tim consoled, "Yeah, well Kentworth couldn't get NASCAR to take notice of him if he were the only driver in the race." When Dean's posture didn't shift at his joke at Kentworth's expense, Tim declared, conviction in his voice, "Wasn't your fault, man," determined to ease Dean's misplaced guilt.

"Yeah," Dean gruffly said standing up, starting to walk to the tool chest. But in his heart he knew it was his fault. That out of all of the people on this track, he knew what he was up against, that he should have been able to bring the car back in one piece. He was surprised when the older mechanic's strong hand shot out and coiled around his arm, forced him to come to a standstill. Meeting Tim's eyes, Dean raised his eyebrows, half in challenge and half in question.

"You and I both checked that car over thoroughly before you went out there. It was perfect, we both know it," Tim lowly pointed out, not relinquishing his grip on the younger man. "Same thing could be said for all the cars that hit that track and had accidents. Something's happening that's out of our control: bad luck, the whammy, something. And you walking away, basically in one piece, that's credit to your driving, Dean."

"No, it's not," Dean sharply denied and he tried to pull free of Tim's grip but the older man only stepped closer to him at his struggle.

"When I was at NASCAR, the steering wheel locked up on one of the best drivers and he got it loosened up, just like you did. And yeah, he pulled it from the wall…but the car went into a barrel roll. He panicked, over steered, turned his car into scrap metal and ended up with internal injuries. You didn't." Tim gave Dean a shake as he gritted out, "You think even half of the pro drivers have your reflexes, your level of nerve. They don't." Then he released the younger man but his eyes remained locked on Dean's.

Stunned at Tim's defense of him and compliment, Dean stood there a moment before he nodded his head, seemingly accepting the older man's words. Tim gave him a companionable pat on the cheek and a smile before he moved to the car, closed the hood and faced him again.

"You're right though, this #16 car, it's not as good as the first one. But in this team, Garner's been putting all his money into Anderson's ride."

"Because he thinks Anderson's got the best shot at a contract," Dean repeated the information Tim had already supplied to him. Felt a flash of petty jealousy that a jerk like Anderson could actually get to go pro, could do something that, in another lifetime, he would have wanted for himself, badly.

"Yup," Tim answered, his eyes on Dean, as if he was almost baiting Dean, pushing him to feel indignant enough to do something about the injustice they both sensed was possible.

Not knowing what Tim wanted from him, Dean busied himself wiping the grease from his hands. Head still bowed, he casually asked, "What about the #36 car? It seems ready to hit the track?" But his eyes came up then. He wanted to watch Tim's reaction, wanted to find some reason why the man had lied to him about Troy Nichols' car's condition.

At the mention of Nichols' car, Tim stilled, met Dean's intense gaze with confusion, hurt. "Troy's car…it's totaled. Should be resting in some junk yard."

"Looked pretty good to me last night when I saw it," Dean challenged, wanted to believe Tim hadn't lied to him, that the mechanic was in the dark about the polished, fully repaired car.

"Saw it where?" Tim intently asked, stepping closer to Dean, a need in his eyes.

Nodding his head toward the garage he had snuck into the night before, Dean answered, "Couple garage bays down from this one. Seems Garner had the heart to repair it after all."

Tim blew past Dean, was reaching in his pocket for the team garage keys as he quickly walked to the garage that had once been Nichols'. Unlocking the car garage door, he rolled it up to reveal the gleaming, pristine # 36 car. To Dean's surprise, Tim didn't enter the garage, stood at the entrance, hand coming to cover his mouth as if the car itself were a ghost.

Coming to stand at Tim's side, Dean quietly asked, "Are you alright?"

"I don't know why Garner would do it…" Tim spoke in a near whisper, eyes still transfixed on the car

"Because it's part of Troy…maybe the only part he has left. It helps to ease his grief to look at it, to fix it …even if it also hurts," Dean explained even as he wondered if he was talking about Nichols' car or the Impala. He understood only too well how memories and pain and grief and the lingering tendrils of happiness and the essence of home could be found amid the chassis of a car.

Tim simply shook his head, not in denial but agreement as he kept his eyes trained on the repaired car. "Goodness knows Troy loved this car…said it was the best woman he had in his life, 'sides his mama," he said with a drawl, apparently mimicking his deceased friend's common quotation.

Dean watched as a slow, bittersweet smile turned up Tim's lips before the mechanic slid the garage door down again, locked it. He matched Tim's stride as they both walked slowly back to their assigned garage.

Tim patted the #16 car's spoiler. "Alright, let's finish our checklist so we can get this baby out to the track. We're up for practice runs in half an hour."

Not objecting to Tim's back-to-work mode, Dean reached for the clipboard but out of the corner of his eye, he spied the vintage car sitting in the track's infield. "That the pace car for next week?"

"Yeah, but it's more than that. It's part of this track's history."

"What history?"

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Waiting for his team's turn at a practice run, Dean leaned against the #16 car, watched disinterestedly as the # 9 car pulled into the pit area. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Darien Rook leaping over the pit wall, apparently wanting to take the practice run himself. But when Sam, wearing a racing suit, followed in the driver's wake, Dean felt his stomach drop to his feet. Rigidly standing up, he cursed himself for misjudging Sam's willingness to go through with his threat from the prior night.

Before Dean even knew the play he was about to make, he was moving, was determined to intercept Sam's beeline for the race car. Had only one thought running through his head: he didn't want Sam in that car, on that track. Stepping fully into Sam's path, he watched as his brother took a step back from him and purposefully didn't meet his eyes, reacted as if there was a restraining order in place between them, dissuading proximity, fully outlawing even the most accidentally of physical contact. For a moment, Dean clenched his jaw, fought down the hurt until words were possible, words low and rough but audible enough, even friendly enough to fool their audience. "Hey, I didn't get a chance to thank you for saving my life yesterday." And suddenly he meant the words, the sentiments, hoped Sam knew that. He could barely breathe, his relief was so great, when he was rewarded with Sam's eye contact, was blessed with a pause in his brother's retreat as well as his advancement.

Just barely managing to keep his stranger's mask in place, Sam shook Dean's outstretched hand, fought down the wince as his brother's grip seemed intent on crushing his bones. Pulling his hand from Dean's grip, he said with an edge to his tone, "Just glad I was there," turning on a smile that was more goad than sincerity. 'Friggin' miracle I was around to save your reckless butt! We're supposed to pretend to be strangers, Dean, not be strangers.'

Eyes meeting Sam's dark glare, Dean returned, "Yeah, I'm glad you were there too," meaning the words, in all their connotations. Noting the unrelenting reprimand still in his little brother's eyes, he knew he had a long way to go to get Sam's forgiveness…for what exactly he wasn't sure. For driving? For almost becoming part of the track? Or for not offering up a promise like the good soldier Sam supposedly didn't want him to be?!

Perceiving the sincerity in Dean's statement didn't mean as much as it should have to Sam, not when Dean still wasn't saying what he wanted most to hear. Putting on a golly gee smile worthy of Gomer Pyle, Sam said, "Since I'm about to take a spin around the track, I'm really hoping you don't have to return the favor." Though his words were meant to instill fear, Sam felt like a cold-hearted jerk when Dean paled, when he saw the affect any danger he faced vibrated through his protective older brother. And yet, part of Sam reveled in his brother's discomfort, wanted to shout 'See, this is how I feel when you're being a reckless jerk! Tears into you, doesn't it?!'

Breath trapped in his chest, Dean felt like a plea was moments away from slipping free of his control. Instead, he let his eyes convey his emotions, to entreat Sam to have some mercy. But Sam seemed unaffected, was turning away, was going to get in the friggin' car, was going to let him stand on the sidelines, heart threatening to pound right out of his chest, leave him wondering if he had even the forethought to line his pockets with salt, to take any kind of precautions. "It's not safe.." he blurted out, stepping closer to Sam, more forcefully blocking his brother's path. His eyes flickering to his gathering audience of Rook, Tim and the young mechanic Derek, Dean knew he had to play it cool, say what he would to some stranger that was unknowingly facing danger. But when he again focused on Sam, Sam was mockingly reacting to his words with a look of 'what? really? Not safe?' It made Dean want to punch him.

Discarding subtleties, as he had had to do on many a hunt, Dean ripped the veil away, disregarded Garner's 'order'. Looking to Sam but also making sure his gaze swiveled to include Tim, he emphatically declared, "I know it sounds crazy but something happened in that 16 car, something's been happening on this track and it sure its just mechanical problems." Turning his full gaze onto Sam, he implored, "Don't get in that car, man. Just…don't," and if his voice nearly broke on the last words, if they sounded pathetically like a plea, Dean couldn't be bothered to care, not when Sam's life was at stake.

But it was a new angry voice that entered the fray as Danny Kentworth, driver for the #16 car, joined the gathered group. "You wreck my primary car and now you're trying to get us to believe it wasn't your fault!" he snarled in Dean's face. "Trying to sell…what, a ghost made you do it?" he accused, giving Dean's chest a shove as if in punctuation.

Stumbling back under the surprised assault, Dean strove to keep his cool, to keep his cover in place, to see Kentworth's point of view. "I'm not saying it wasn't my fault, I've just saying other things are going on here."

"Other things are going on…yeah, like you screwing up my chances to go pro," Kentworth shouted, pouncing forward to latch onto Dean's lapels only to find Dean had side stepped his advance, was skirting around him with his hands raised in supplication.

"Look, I didn't mean to screw up your hopes," Dean sincerely replied, cursing himself again for not finding a way to disentangle the ghost from the car before it went super nova. "But your secondary car it's…"

"It's a cheap mock up and you know it! Because Garner, he sure isn't going to spend any more money on better parts, not when he's been betting on Anderson this whole time. That car was my ticket!" Danny's rage stoked higher as he realized he was speaking the truth. His next lunge at Dean was uncontrolled, was about rage not about finesse, was about inflicting damage, not restoring honor.

Planting his feet, Dean calmly waited for the enraged man to enter his sphere, felt guilt at planning his defense because Kentworth had a right to his anger. But the driver never made it inside his predetermined fight radius, was body blocked, not by Sam but by Tim. Surprised at being defended by someone not family, Dean watched Tim forcefully wrestle Kentworth back a few steps and then shove him away.

"Don't do this, Danny!" Tim commanded, finger warningly pointing at the younger man's heaving chest. "You know as well as I do that it could have easily been you testing that car that day when the same things went wrong! It wasn't his fault! It was the car!"

"The car's your responsibility!" Kentworth railed back, taking a menacing step forward, anger shifting to his head mechanic.

Shoving between the two men, Dean yelled, eyes slamming into Kentworth's. "I screwed up, alright! Not him! The car went… The wheel froze and then when the engine started to blow, there were things I could have done, should have done…."

"You had no business being in that car!" Kentworth roared, hands fisting in Dean's coveralls.

Dean had no defense for that, it was exactly what Sam had told him, was still telling him. "Maybe not," he quietly admitted, realized then that Sam was beside him, felt his brother stiffen at his words. "I'm sorry, man. Truth is, I screwed up and there's nothing I can say to make it alright."

Dean's admission stole the fury from Kentworth, left the other man only with regret and a dream never realized. He slid his hands from Dean's coveralls,

Sidestepping Kentworth, Dean shot a quick look to Sam. Then, without another word, he started to walk back toward the garages.

Not riding with Dean in the ambulance to the hospital had been hard, but it was equally hard for Sam to watch Dean walk away, hurting. It was like a torture test, standing there, reading surrender in the quick glance Dean had given to him and then having to let Dean leave. Was painful, not going with Dean, not catching up to him and offering up denials to his brother's statement, even if it contradicted what he had been telling Dean the whole time, what Kentworth had told Dean: that he didn't belong in that car.

Unable to force himself to lose sight of his brother, Sam tracked Dean's progress across the pit area, fought a fierce inner battle against discarding the charade and going where he was supposed to be: with his brother. When he saw Dean pull out his phone, hope sprang in him that his phone, which was a couple of paces behind him on a tool chest, might ring, that Dean would solder together the widening seams in their bond. But his phone remained silent even as he saw Dean start to talk…to someone that wasn't him. Pushing down the reaction it stirred in him, he tried to guess who his brother had called. Rook brought his attention back to his present company.

"Please don't tell me that that guy's crazy ramblings scared you," the driver taunted, coming to stand toe to toe with Sam, though Winchester towered over him.

Not wanting to belittle Dean's warning, Sam challenged back, "Doesn't sound crazy stacked up with this track's recent casualty count. Nah…I think I'm gonna pass." As he brushed past Rook and Kentworth, he was already unzipping the racing suit, snatched his cell phone and keys from the tool chest as he passed it. Realizing then that Dean wasn't standing where he last saw him, Sam felt fear slide down his spine. Not the type of fear he felt on a hunt but the kind that went deeper, hurt worse. The fear that the connection, the safety, the essence of home that he counted on to always be there, even when he turned his back on it, would get lost, would be revoked from him. When his intense scan of the track and pit area didn't reveal Dean, Sam quickly opened his phone and called Dean. He didn't even get out a "hey" before Dean was talking, voice angry, frustrated.

"Garner won't shut the track down. Not even for a day. I told him what we're dealing with, that we've got a good lead but needed a day or two."

Sam was stumbling over Dean's last statement. Just that morning Sam had picked up a lead, he, himself, not Dean and now Dean was talking about a lead, was using words like "we" when it was brutally apparently to Sam that it was anything but a group effort. "We have a lead?" he accused with a low growl.

Ignoring Sam's tone, Dean calmly said, "Yeah, take notice to the pace car?"

"You mean Nelson Barton's ride. The one he earned a trip to NASCAR with but never took?" Sam shot back, tone caustic, hating that the investigation suddenly felt like an underhanded competition between him and Dean.

For a moment Dean made no reply. "You holding out on me?" he demanded, his own voice quiet and incredulous but no less dangerous than Sam's. Maybe more so.

"Sounds like you're the one holding back things from me," Sam snapped, unable to keep the hurt from piercing through his anger.

"I just learned about Barton today," Dean acidly pointed out, hand gripping the cell phone tighter, wondering if this was the pre-amble for Sam leaving again, if these were the signs he had missed every time before.

"Me too," Sam supplied tersely, anger still there, too mixed with hurt to be easily discarded.

But as the ramifications became clear to the brothers, that they were both right…and wrong, matching sighs were exchanged over the phone lines, unknowingly bringing small matching smirks to each brother's face.

"Yeah, Ok," Dean softly said, initiating the truce, rubbing a hand over his bowed head as he leaned against the side of the bleacher seats. "So you didn't take Rook up on his offer." It was offered as half question and half statement, though Dean, not having had the strength to turn his back on Sam, to leave him, not completely, had seen Sam walk away from the race car. 'Just like Dad couldn't let him go fully, had to check up on him at Stafford. Dad and I, we were always weak when it came to Sam.' But that thought spurred darker thoughts, reminded Dean of the promise his father had exacted from him. Sam cut into his thoughts.

"And I won't take him up on his offer unless you break your promise."

Sam's ill timed use of the word 'promise' made Dean feel like that hot iron poker was again burning through him, this time into his internal organs, into his heart. "Promise?," his voice cracked vulnerably on the word that had come to be a curse to him, that lately triggered his Dad's whispered words to echo through him: 'save him or kill him, save him or kill him.'

Head tilting in confusion at the emotions he heard in his brother's tone, Sam lightly clarified, "Yeah, your promise to not drive on the track. Dean, what's wrong?" Desperately he wished he and Dean weren't talking over the phone, that they were face to face, that he could see Dean's face, was able to read his brother's expression.

"Nothing," Dean gruffly denied. "Listen, maybe you should head back to your motel, hit the internet for info on this Barton guy."

Though Sam accepted Dean's denial that anything was wrong, he wasn't willing to concede the bigger issue. "I'm not going anywhere until you promise me you won't get on that track."

"Sammy, I'm a mechanic, I have to get on the track to do my job. I have to cross the track to reach the pit area and then to get back to the garage and then to come out here and time the runs," Dean joked, purposefully misinterpreting Sam's meaning.

"That's not what I meant and you know it," Sam lowly returned, dreading the upcoming battle but willing to use the weapons he had to in order to win. "I didn't drive Rook's car because you asked me not to." 'Begged me not to'. "Because I thought you finally understood that it works both ways. That I want to keep you safe as much as you want to keep me safe. I thought you might realize how I feel when you're taking stupid risks with your life." 'Scared, desperate, angry…helpless.' "It sucks, Dean. It really does, man," Sam admitted, though his words were breathless and quiet it made them no less daringly honest.

Struggling to not let Sam's emotions shatter his own control, Dean looked out at the track, watched as Rook took his car through the paces. He did know how it felt, standing on the side lines, watching someone that he loved recklessly endangering his life. He had hunted too long with his father to not know that feeling intimately. And Sam was right, it sucked. It just never occurred to him that, somewhere along the line, he had picked up that trait from his father, that Sam worried about him, really worried, that he was putting his brother through the same torture he himself had endured with his father. "Ok," he quietly agreed.

There was a drawn in breath before Sam spoke, trying so hard to be non-pressuring that it was almost funny. "Ok what?"

"I won't drive on the track," Dean vowed, meaning it, but he couldn't shut out the pang of regret that shafted through him at the quick death of a dream that was never meant to be.

"Promise?" Sam couldn't help ask, knew he had to have this reassurance from his brother before the tension in him that was making even breathing difficult would ease.

Dean almost returned with a frustrated retort, would have if he had not detected the little brother plea in Sam's voice. Sam wanted this, needed it and it was something Dean could give him. "Yeah, Sammy I promise. I'll stick to being under the hood of the cars from here on out." Hearing Sam's sigh and knowing what would come next, Dean circumvented, "And don't thank me…just…don't."

Knowing when to accept victory quietly, Sam said, "So I'll head to the motel room and …" but Dean's "No, no, NO!" sliced across his calm. "Dean?!" But Dean's voice wasn't the next sound that captured his attention, the scream of tortured metal was. Before he could process anything else, he was running toward the source of the din, cell phone still gripped tightly in his hand, praying that Dean was safe, wasn't at ground zero.

Clearing the building, Sam saw Rook's mangled car lying on its roof on the track, fire flickering from under the car, flaring over the side and licking at the sky and smoke billowing. And for that heartbeat, between horror and his instinct to help, there was relief, relief not for himself, not for not taking the fateful drive but relief that Dean's wreck hadn't been as bad, that Dean had walked away from his. Before that relief could fade, before he shifted into savior mode, Sam caught movement out of the corner of his eye: Dean running for the car.

Witnessing Rook's loss of control of his car, Dean had dropped his cell, was running for the track before the car finished its two flips to end up on its roof. Heaping curses on himself for allowing anyone to get on the track, feeling sick that it might have been Sam in the car just as easily as Rook, Dean ran for all he was worth, knew his smoke abused lungs were slowing him down but he was determined to not let his screw up cost someone their life. He was almost there, was twenty steps away when the car exploded. A shockwave of heat threw him backwards to land onto the track. The impact knocked free what little breath his weakened lungs had clung valiantly to and sent him into unconsciousness.

Following his big brother's example, Sam had started to run for the crash. But somewhere down deep, Sam wondered who he was setting out to save, Rook or Dean, didn't honestly know if his efforts were focused on rescue or protection. He stumbled when the explosion shook the ground and a diluted wave of heat bounced off him. When he regained his balance, it wasn't the burning car that clenched his heart. It was the sight of Dean… down on the ground, unmoving. Later, he wouldn't be able to recall if he yelled his brother's name or not, would only remember running madly to get to Dean.

Reaching Dean, Sam dropped down to his knees beside his prone brother, called out "Dean!" Pressing his one hand against his brother's chest, he was reassured by the heartbeat under his palm. Gently gripping Dean's jaw, he turned Dean's head so he could see the source of the blood starting to stream down from his brother's temple.

The second explosion gave off another merciless wall of heat which sent Sam sprawling forward onto Dean, who groaned at the weight of his brother's 6'4" frame falling on him. Quickly looking over his shoulder, Sam saw a part of the car's metal framework arcing through the air and seemingly heading right for them.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

TBC

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Thanks so much for reading and for those encouraging reviews!

Have a wonderful evening!

Cheryl W.