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 to those looking for chapter 9! This is only a repost of Chapter 8, which was posted briefly last Sunday but I took down because it seriously needed some revamping on the wording. Hope it's better this time around! And thanks again for your wonderful support and reviews for this story! For those waiting for chapter 9, I am hoping to have it posted in a day or two.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Chapter 8: Fallout Repercussions

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Quickly looking over his shoulder, Sam saw a part of the car's metal framework arching into the air and seemingly heading right for them.

"Oh crap!!" Sam cursed, positive that they were truly at ground zero. Dropping down onto Dean, he slid his hands under his brother's body and urgently rolled himself and Dean a few rotations to the right. The sound of contorting metal reverberated through his chest and, even mid-motion, he felt the ground shake under him.

His momentum deserting him, Sam ended up on top of Dean, but sensing that the danger hadn't passed, he rested his forehead against Dean's, bracketed Dean's head with his arms to provide any shelter that he could. When a whish of heat passed by him that nearly singed his hair, Sam bowed over Dean further, praying that more fallout wasn't heading their way. But the sounds around him changed from destruction to voices of panic, to sirens.

Drawing back from Dean, Sam saw that his brother's green eyes were locked with his. Before he could voice his concern, Dean's hand surged forward to clutch at his shirt. Uncertain if his brother wanted him to stay close or if Dean wanted something else, Sam leaned down toward Dean.

"Off," Dean wheezed, the one word not reaching Sam even at their proximity.

"Dean! What?" Sam worriedly responded, tilting his head so his ear was by Dean's lips.

"Get…. off….of… me. Crushing…me.." Dean forced from his compressed lungs, giving Sam a weak shove on the chest more to prove his point than to move Sam.

Finally able to hear Dean's words clearly, Sam cursed his own stupidity and immediately scrambled off of his brother's already abused body. Keeling beside Dean, he stammered, "Dean, I'm so…"

"Help me up," Dean rasped, hand raised to his brother, waiting for Sam's hand to slip into his. When that didn't happen immediately, Dean, unwilling to take the time to catalogue the look on his brother's face, snapped, "Sam, now."

Responding to his brother's need as much as to his tone of voice, Sam put his hand in Dean's, slid his other hand behind Dean's neck and gently levered Dean upright. Sitting on the ground, his knees resting against Dean's legs, Sam found himself looking, not at the ablaze car, but at his brother's profile. Watched as his brother's jaw jumped and his eyes darkened as Dean watched the flames dance across the car. "Dean…" Sam gently entreated, uncertain what he would say next, just wanted to connect with his brother, to convince Dean that he had done what he could to save the other man.

At his brother's soft call, Dean, fighting through the piercing headache and pressure in his chest, pushed himself to his feet, took an unsteady step forward toward the burning car. Sam's manacle grip on his right arm stopped his forward motion. Eyes never leaving Rock, Dean instantly tried to uncoil his brother's long fingers from his flesh. Failing to free himself from his little brother's hold, Dean shifted his eyes from the burning car to Sam and growled, "Let go!"

"No," Sam stonily refuted, shaking his head. Slipping in front of Dean, he blocked his brother's path to the wreckage even as his other hand trapped Dean's left arm in its grip.

"Let me go, Sam," Dean lowly ordered menacingly, determinedly struggling to get free. But he couldn't help himself from looking over Sam's shoulder to the car, to Rook who had to still be alive, couldn't be dead. He wouldn't allow him to be dead. Catching Sam off guard with a brutal shove, Dean got his freedom, side stepped Sam.

All but tackling Dean from behind, Sam coiled his long arms around Dean's chest, trapped Dean in his hold, pinned his brother's arms to his side. "Dean, no!" he commanded, steel and fear in the two words. Tightening his hold on his brother's torso, he started to pull Dean backwards, further away from the wreckage, from the raging fire.

Digging his heels in, desperate to get to Rook, to save him, Dean shouted, "Let go Sam! I have to get him out!"

Unprepared to contend with his brother's unleashed strength, Sam felt Dean halt their backwards motion, knew that he was only seconds away from losing his grip on Dean. Knew just as certainly that if he didn't stop Dean, his brother would go to Rook, would dive into the flames to try and save Rook, would hurt himself, most likely kill himself trying to save a stranger. "Don't, Dean! Please don't! He's gone!" he frantically shouted, needing to reach his brother, to stop him, to keep him with him. Willing to even hurt Dean if it would keep him from getting one step closer to the fire, to a hopeless, suicidal rescue attempt, Sam constricted his hold on Dean's already weakened chest and rasped out, "He's gone and there's nothing you can do!"

Dean had been contemplating a viable next move that wouldn't hurt his brother when Sam's broken voice cut across every emotion that was raging inside of him. Stilling, chest heaving, adrenaline flaring and heart sinking, Dean saw the firefighters arrive on the scene and begin to douse the flames with water. Amid the chaos, he could hear Sam's ragged breath at his shoulder, felt his brother's chin brush his collarbone. Sam didn't let him go, kept his arms around him as they stood there together and watched someone die that they should have saved.

When the firefighters finally won the battle against the flames, Dean could see inside the car, could make out the charred remains of a man, a man that had unknowingly been dead the second he slid behind the wheel of his race car. 'And I knew that,' Dean accused, cursing himself for not stopping Rock, for not finding some way to stop the practices until he and Sam had figured things out. He didn't need to see the fireman lean into the car, check Rook, withdraw and shake his head to the ambulance crew to know that Rook was dead but the finality of the gesture broke him from his stupor.

When Dean pushed on Sam's hands, Sam released him without protest. Freed, Dean took a step forward toward the car, found Sam's hand instantly wrapping around his shoulder, as if there were still danger to protect him from. For a minute, Dean looked at the burned out car, at the corpse and then he turned on his heel. Purposefully not meeting Sam's gaze, he started to walk away, was surprised to find a male paramedic in his path, a white gloved hand holding a sterile pad reaching for his forehead. Flinching back a step, he tried to get his mind to react. When the paramedic seemed intent on pursuing him, he tried to tell his hand to intercept the paramedic's reach. But it was Sam who reacted.

Stepping between Dean and the medic, Sam snagged the paramedic's hand mid motion with quick, bruising strength. Eyes piercing the paramedic's, he lowly stated, "He's fine," even though he knew it wasn't true. Felt almost chagrined that he was actually perpetuating the lie his brother usually offered up to his concerned inquiry. 'He's not fine but I'll take care of him,' he corrected silently.

The paramedic, apparently used to bravado, pressed, "Listen, we have to check him out for insurance purposes."

Sensing that Dean was stepping from behind him, was intending to slip away from the paramedic and him, Sam briskly dismissed, "He'll sign the waiver. Later." Nearly shouldering the paramedic out of his way, Sam ran a few steps until he was at Dean's side, pacing him. Focused on Dean's profile even as they moved forward, he noted the blood running from Dean's forehead was crossing Dean's eyebrow, was making its way toward his brother's eye.

Though suspecting that he might be taking his life in his hands, Sam skipped a step or two ahead and swiveled around, right into his brother's path. Before Dean could offer up a verbal protest, Sam slid his hand up to catch Dean's jaw. "Hold still," he half growled and half pleaded, surprised when Dean obeyed. Using the sterile pad he had snatched from the paramedic's hand like the consummate pick-pocket that he was, he carefully swiped at the bloody trail, made his strokes light and yet useful as he uncovered the source of the blood. The gash was small, was almost a non-issue compared to the injuries they wracked up on a standard hunt. Except it wasn't a non-issue, not when it inflicted pain on his brother, made his strong brother look weak, vulnerable, hurt. Daring to allow his focus to flicker from the gash to his brother's eyes, Sam was braced to read anger, impatience, frustration emanating from Dean. The guilt and pain that reflected back to him made his breath catch in his throat.

Feeling as if he were laid bare to Sam, Dean gruffly knocked Sam's hold loose, mumbled a "I'm fine" in a tactic of retreat. When Sam tried to reclaim his hold on him, he easily side stepped Sam's reaching hand. Walking toward the garage, he wasn't surprised when Sam was instantly there, pacing him easily with his long legs. He could feel his brother's gaze on him…almost as strongly as he had felt the blast of heat from the exploding car. "Don't Sam," he quietly warned, not risking a look to his brother.

"Don't what, Dean?" Sam gently returned, eyes glued to his brother's face, uncertain what Dean was asking of him, what Dean wanted from him, would accept from him.

"Don't ask if I'm Ok or say we can't save everyone or…" Dean bit off his words, shook his head in the silence that fell, disgusted with himself, at his weakness, at almost babbling away like he was someone who didn't see death practically on a daily basis.

Sam looked away from Dean, knew he had to if he wanted a shot at keeping himself locked down, to not react to the clear knowledge that Dean wasn't alright…and it had nothing to do with head-wounds or smoke inhalation. He nodded his head, though he doubted Dean saw the gesture.

In silence they walked off the track, Dean heading for the Impala, Sam simply following Dean. Bitterly, Sam forsook the painful lie that he had been perpetuating the last couple of days on the track, that he and Dean were strangers, that his life wasn't intricately and irreversibly tied to Dean's. He was unprepared to have his brother's arm flung out in front of him, forcibly cutting off his forward motion, didn't understand the action until a Dodge Viper swung into their path and lurched to a halt.

Leaving the car door open in his wake, Garner barely stopped in front of the older Winchester instead of turning his motion into an attack. His clenched hands and the rage and despair in his eyes warned that violence could yet be but a heartbeat away. "Rook's dead! They just called me on my way over here and he's dead!"

"I'm sorry…" Dean began earnestly, guiltily, but Garner curled his hands in the front of Dean's coveralls, jerked the hunter closer to him.

"Sorry!? You're supposed to make sure no one else got hurt! Now Rook's dead!! And you're sorry?!" Garner snarled, breath hitting Dean in the face before he pushed Dean backwards, out of his grip. His despair spawning hatred he venomously accused, "This is your fault. He's dead because of you," his eyes boring into Dean's.

Dean did not refute Garner's accusation, couldn't. Not when it was the truth. "I know," he quietly confessed, remorse drowning the two words, dulling his eyes.

Stunned that Dean accepted the blame without protest, Sam stood there, uncertain what words to say or who to say them to. Anger and worry vied for supremacy within him.

"You know…" Garner repeated Dean's words with a hiss. "You know?!" he said more forcefully, Dean's submission spiking his rage.

Garner telegraphed his impending attack openly, so it was in utter disbelief that Sam watched as the race track owner's fist impacted with Dean's jaw, sent his brother's head snapping right. Drawing courage from his "victory", Garner stepped forward to land another blow.

Recognizing that Dean hadn't raised a hand to defend himself, worriedly realizing that Dean would accept whatever punishment Garner dished out to him, Sam intervened. Ruthlessly he lashed out at Garner with his own right cross, watched in grim pleasure as Garner dropped to the pavement. Doggedly he advanced forward, his fist coiled and ready to be unleashed on the downed man, the man who thought to lay blame on Dean, to hurt Dean, with words and fists.

Stepping in front of Sam, blocking his path, Dean braced his hands against his brother's chest, locked his eyes with Sam's. "Sam," he warned and yet appealed. "Don't."

Furious, Sam insisted, "It's his fault, Dean," hurt spearing through him at Dean's blatant acceptance of that erroneous blame. Eyes shifting over Dean's shoulder to pierce Garner, he snarled, "It's your fault! You suspected what was going on! And today, Dean called you, told you to close down the track. You didn't! Rook's death is…"

Dean growled, "Shut up Sam!" Gripping Sam's shirt, he jerked Sam, causing his brother's attention, his eyes to snap back to him.

Climbing to his feet, Garner pointed to the Winchesters, coldly said, "You're fired and I'm not paying you one cent," as if his money mattered, as if they were there at his beck and call solely, as if preventing deaths was only a worthy pursuit if the money was good enough. "Get off my track," were his parting words as he stalked by them, headed toward the travesty on the track, on his track.

"Why did you let him hit you, Dean?!" Sam heatedly demanded. "Why did you let him dump the blame on you?! You called him, you told him to shut down the track! He wouldn't do it, his greed wouldn't let him do it!" Sam shouted back, hands gesturing to the disappearing Garner then back to his brother.

"Sam, someone he knew just got killed," Dean forcible returned. "The fifth person to die on property that he owns."

For a moment, Sam hated his brother's compassion, his logic, had to look away to rearrange his own emotions.

Seeing that his words had an effect on Sam, Dean softened his tone, released his white knuckled grip on Sam's shirt. "He's hurting Sam, lashing out. And he's got a right to aim that anger at me." When Sam's gaze shifted to him, a protest visibly written in his brother's eyes, Dean spoke before Sam could. "Sam he hired us to stop this and I promised him that no one else would get hurt."

"He hired us, Dean. Us," Sam insisted, eyes lancing into Dean's, unwilling to concede to anything short than full out victory on this debate. "And any promise you make is a promise I make. So if you want to take on the blame, then whatever you shoulder, some of that goes to me, Dean. Half of it. But not all of the blame Dean, not when you called Garner, asked him to shut down the track, not when Garner knew that something supernatural was going on, knew it enough to call us and yet he kept the track open non-stop."

Seeing that Dean's guilt wasn't swayed by his words, Sam stopped talking, looked away a moment. When he resettled his look upon his brother, there was forged steel in his gaze. "You wanted to let him vent some of his anger and his sorrow out on you, if that made you feel better, fine, you did that. But it ends there. If he makes another move against you, you put him in his place or I swear I will, Dean," Sam vowed, menace vibrating through his tone, blazing unchecked in his eyes. He would not idly stand by while anyone hurt his brother.

Having rarely seen the look reflected in his brother's eyes, Dean knew that Sam was 100 serious, would follow through on his threat without any of his usual compassionate tendencies hampering him. But instead of reassuring Sam that one freebie shot was all Garner was allotted, Dean said, "Let's get out of here before Garner has us arrested for trespassing. I'll clear my stuff out of the motel room and then we can do some research, figure out where Barton's buried." Patting Sam's chest, Dean started to walk toward the Impala.

Sam quickly matched Dean's stride. With his brother at his side, with them heading to the Impala, together, Sam felt contentment wash over him. But remembering that Rook, a man he had inadvertently sworn to protect, who had been a good guy, a kind person, had just lost his life, he felt guilty for being happy, for reveling in his brother's presence. Especially when the younger brothers that Rook had spoke so fondly of would never have their older brother with them again, would have a gaping whole in them that no one could fill, ever. At that thought, Sam had to swallow hard to dislodge the emotions in his throat.

Sinking into the passenger seat of the Impala for the first time in three days that felt like a year, Sam shot Dean a look, saw the muscle jump in his brother's jaw as Dean watched the black plume of smoke rise above the garages. Not knowing how to ease his brother's guilt, he remained silent when Dean turned the car on and left the race track behind them.

But Sam found that the horrific, metallic scream of the racing car's buckling metal kept ringing relentlessly through his head. And he knew that sound, intimately. Had heard it every night for a month after his family's accident with the semi truck, had heard it every time he shut his eyes, tried to find sleep. And he had wanted to drown it out any way he could, had wanted to scream, to shout, had covered his ears with his hands, had growled to himself again and again, "Stop! Stop! Stop!!" But only one thing had ever dispelled it: Dean's voice coming from the motel's other bed amid the darkness, asking simply 'You ok?'

"You OK?" came that same low, concerned voice now from the other side of the car.

Turning to Dean, Sam saw the worry in his brother's eyes, worry for him. 'I am if you are,' he wanted to counter, knew brutally just how true the words were, was just starting to grasp just how linked he was to his brother. "Yeah," he gave in answer but Dean's eyes held his, wanted more, sought the truth. "I know it makes me a bastard…but I'm glad it wasn't you in that car today, Dean," he confessed, voice quiet but convicted even as he wondered if Dean would think his heartless thought meant he was one step along the path toward his dark destiny.

At Sam's words, Dean swallowed, looked to the road ahead but his hands tightened on the Impala's steering wheel. It had been too close today, not for him but for Sam. If Sam had gotten into that car…. "I'm glad it wasn't you, Sam," he admitted, voice low, gravely and then his eyes met his brothers and he gave a grim smile. "Guess I'm a bastard, too."

Sam's smile was weak but 100 real. "I'm Ok with that," he said, meeting Dean's quick glance steadily. Watching as something shifted in Dean, as some measure of the tension lifted from his brother's posture, Sam felt that they were going to be OK. That as long as whatever weight they shouldered, whatever dangers they faced, if they did it together, they would both be alright.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

TBC

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Ah, the boys are back together again. See, I'm not totally heartless after all.

Thanks for reading and reviewing!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.