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: As promised, here's chapter 9.
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Chapter 9: Classic Memories
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The word "cremated" mocked them on the computer screen.
Surging from the kitchen chair in Sam's motel room, Dean bitterly exclaimed, "Barton was cremated, just great. So we're no further than we were before." Pouring himself another cup of coffee, he leaned against the counter, shook his head. "But it's him, Sam. You know, he's pissed that someone else is going to get to go pro when he didn't."
"But he can't be tied to his car, it just arrived at the track and before that it was in some car museum two towns over," Sam supplied, turning in his seat to look at Dean.
"Well, he's clinging to something at the track. Which, hey, there's only a whole friggin' fairgrounds to scour looking for ..guess what? We don't know." Dean ran his hand through his short hair then decisively slammed his coffee mug unto the counter and began stalking for the door.
"Whoa, whoa, where are you going?" Sam called, coming out of his chair as Dean stopped at the door.
"I can't just sit in here, staring at the walls, Sam. I have to do something," Dean confessed, eyes meeting Sam's, needing him to understand that this had become personal for him.
"Alright, I'm with you Dean, but the libraries and the newspapers are closed…it's Sunday," Sam gently pointed out, treading lightly even as he made sure Dean knew this was going to be a united effect from here on out.
Dean scowled and dropped his eyes to the ground but a moment later, when his head came back up, Sam knew by the wide smile on Dean's lips that his brother had had a eureka moment. "What? You think of something?" Sam asked, feeling his own hope lift.
"It's visiting hours, Sammy," Dean merrily announced, enjoyed the confused tilt to Sam's head. "I know a place that's open on Sundays, has the best historians around and I bet I can even hook you up with a date," he said, eyebrows bouncing at the last taunt. "Come on, Sammy," and then he slipped out the door.
Without hesitation, Sam began to follow his brother.
"Coffee maker, laptop, Sammy," Dean singsonged from outside.
Grumbling at his brother's smugness, Sam spun around, stalked back to the coffeemaker, clicked it off and hit the power button on the laptop. Hearing the Impala's engine roar to life, he used his long legs to trot out of the room.
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Sam felt a surge of pride at his brother's intelligence as he climbed out of the Impala. He looked to Dean with a wide smile and was rewarded with one of his brother's gloating smirks. "Not bad, Dean. Not bad," he complimented, as they stood in front of the Smithfield Nursing Home.
"I have my moments," Dean returned as they walked toward the entrance, side by side.
"So how are we going to decide who to interview?"
"I'll ask one of the nurses. I'm sure they've heard each patient's stories a thousand times over." Feeling Sam's appraising look, Dean turned to Sam. "What?"
"Since when did you become an expert on the happenings at a nursing home?"
"Oh, Sammy, the knowledge I have would blow your little brain," Dean boasted, a beaming smile on his lips.
Sam laughed, glad to see Dean's smile, to see the guilt and sorrow replaced by the light his brother's eyes. "Yeah, right. You keep telling yourself that."
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Hours later, slipping back into the Impala's sanctuary, Dean leaned back against the seat, groaned, "Crap that was torture!"
From the passenger seat, Sam couldn't help chuckling. "Man, you pretending to be that red headed woman's long lost lover…that was priceless dude! And when she pulled you in for the lip lock…"
"Dude, shut up," Dean growled, rubbing his hand over his mouth in disgust. "Who knew the old lady had the strength of a shtriga. I think we should have dumped holy water on her Sam, or slipped a silver necklace over her head. Something."
Sam only laughed harder at Dean's discomfort. "And you thought I was going to get a date out of this."
"Hey, that lady in the wheelchair with the doll collection, she was ready to let you meet her family."
Sam shook his head and looked to Dean with brotherly pride. "It was a good idea, Dean. The two guys and your shtriga, they gave us some more information on Barton."
Sitting up straight in his seat and turning to face Sam, Dean got back to the business at hand. "Yeah, so Nelson Barton got the nod to go pro but the night before he was leaving for the big times, he decided to cowboy around, wanted to take his motorcycle a few laps around the Smithfield track at night."
"But he wrecked the bike on the track, it exploded and killed him," Sam picked up the story.
"Bye bye fame and fortune," Dean said, shaking his head at Barton's foolish stunt that had cost him his life. "So he's jealous, can't stand to see someone else from the track get what he thinks should have been his."
"But what I don't get, the first accident, it wasn't the best driver. According to everyone I talked to, Troy Nichols was the favorite NASCAR pick but his accident was the third one on the track. If it were me, he would have been the first guy I took out of the picture," Sam said.
"Maybe he tried to kill Nichols but it took him awhile to get the job done. Doesn't matter whether he picked it by a lottery or 'cause someone pissed him off, we need to stop him Sam."
"I know that Dean, but if we understand why he made the choices he did, we can find his weak spot, because, apparently burning his bones isn't going to get the job done."
"Some of his remains may still be in the track," Dean theorized.
"And if that's true, what are we suppose to do, torch the whole track, Dean?" Sam returned, a challenge in his tone.
"If we have to," Dean firmly stated, starting the Impala. "But I think I might know someone who can tell us the exact section of the racetrack where Barton wrecked his motorcycle. Trouble is, we can't talk to him until tomorrow."
"Who?" Sam demanded, feeling again like Dean had been holding out on him.
"Karl Phillips," Dean supplied, pulling the Impala onto the road, he gave Sam a quick glance, saw the clench in his brother's jaw. "Tim said that he is the resident track historian."
"Thought he wasn't seeing anyone from the track," Sam coldly challenged, an accusation lurking in his words.
"I got an invitation," Dean quietly said, feeling more and more uneasy about his promise to Phillips' wife. "From his wife." He shot Sam a quick, almost pleading look. "She visited me in the hospital, wanted me to talk to her husband." He gave a bitter smile, "He sensed something in the car before his accident and he thinks he's going crazy. And that, on top of the burns on his face…well," Dean shrugged couldn't quite verbalize it. It cut too close to the bone for him, that hopelessness.
Sensing a change in Dean's emotions, a vulnerability, Sam just nodded his head when Dean looked at him. The quietness in Dean's voice, the entreaty in his next words made Sam's throat hurt.
"I don't want to talk to him alone, Sam. I wasn't going to…" Dean swallowed, looked to Sam, "not without you, man. I know we've been…" Dean swung his attention to the road again. "Well, it's been feeling like we're hunting solo and I've…"
When Dean remained silent for a few heartbeats, Sam gently prodded, "What Dean?"
"I've done enough of that, Sam. Too much," Dean confessed, a rawness in his voice that had nothing to do with smoke inhalation and everything to do with hurt that went too deep.
"I know," Sam acknowledged, his own voice raw. Swallowing, he forced a lightness into his next words. "And if you remember correctly I already exacted a promise from you that we're not ever pretending to be strangers again. I'm holding you to that, Dean."
"Nag, nag, nag," Dean grumbled but he shot a sideways look to Sam that held mirth and gratitude.
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The lights were out and silence blanketed Sam's motel room but neither brother could find sleep, both lay awake, knowing instinctively that their brother wasn't asleep either.
Dean shifted in the bed, rolled onto his side, faced Sam's bed, hated that every time he closed his eyes he saw Rook's car on fire, felt his throat close up as he thought how very close it had come to being Sam in that car, being dead. Studying Sam's face in the moonlight slipping into the room, he quietly said, "Thanks Sam."
Eyes flying open, Sam met Dean's eyes across the small expansion between their beds. "For what?"
"For not getting into Rook's car," Dean unabashedly clarified.
Sam could see the fear and gratitude in Dean's eyes, heard those emotions in his brother's words. "Passing on driving Rook's car, I did it for you, Dean," Sam revealed, wanted Dean to know, that though he had made some wrong decisions lately, had left when he should have stayed, his loyalty to him was unshakeable.
"I know," Dean lowly returned.
Silence fell again and Sam couldn't keep the words in any longer. "I know you wanted to save Rook…"
At Sam's words, Dean sighed, flipped the covers back and sat up, ready to do whatever he could to cut off the conversation. But Sam matched his actions, was right there, coming to his feet when Dean did, his action leaving the brothers standing face to face in the dark motel room.
"Dean, you weren't willing to let me go back into that burning house in Salvation. Well, I wasn't willing to let you kill yourself trying to save someone that couldn't be saved." When Dean made to walk away, Sam gripped his shoulders, gave him a shake to earn his eye contact. "You warned Rook, Dean. As if seven accidents weren't warning enough for him. He. Made. His. Own. Decision, Dean!"
"But Sam I knew…." Dean protested, his voice choked.
"That it was dangerous? That he was risking his life climbing into that car? Dean, he already knew that. Racing is dangerous, he knew that and you telling him that…that would be like someone telling us our job is dangerous."
"But we know what we're getting into!" Dean growled back.
"We do?!" Sam challenged with a bitter laugh.
"Most of the time," Dean defended but at Sam's skeptical look he amended, "Alright, some of the time."
Tightening his grip on his brother, desperate to ease the guilt weighing Dean down, Sam quietly stressed, "You did what you could do. You told him what he was up against."
"I should have stopped him…" Dean stammered, a thousand would-have and could-have scenarios running through his head.
"Yeah, and what about the next driver? And the next? And the next?! Dean, they all think their dreams are about to come true. Nothing you would have done would have stopped every driver from going on the track. Nothing," Sam insisted, eyes piercing Dean's, praying his brother would accept his words, realize that they were the truth.
Dean stilled and then he nodded his head slightly, knew only too well the exhilaration of reaching for a dream, the recklessness, the blindness that came from that ambition. His own willingness to disregard even the good advice and concerned requests of a brother whose only objective was to keep him safe.
Reading his brother's acceptance, knowing that Dean wasn't going anywhere, Sam slowly released his hold and watched as Dean sunk down onto his bed. Sam claimed a seat on his own bed, sat there and met Dean's gaze.
"Sorry that I got blinded by that too, chasing a dream," Dean said quietly, his eyes conveying the sincerely of his apology as they met Sam's. But almost instantly, Dean looked to the floor, didn't want to read Sam's response. Running his hand over his head, he snorted scornfully, "And this was going to be such a cherry gig."
"Kentworth was wrong…I was wrong," Sam announced, continued only when Dean's head came up, when Dean's eyes met his in confusion. "You belonged in that race car, Dean." Sam smiled when he saw surprise register in his brother's face. "Man, the way you handled her…" he praised in awe. But an instant later, he was unable to hold back his smile as he taunted, "Does the Impala know you've been stepping out on her?"
"Ah shut up," Dean groused, giving Sam a shove on his chest that had the younger man toppling back onto his bed. "Go to sleep, Sam," he ordered, crawling back under his covers, watched as Sam followed suit.
"I mean, you made me watch the movie 'Christine' when I was little and I think I see the same jealous tendencies in the Impala." When a pillow whacked him in the face, Sam laughed out "Ow".
"You need therapy…" Dean grumbled, turning his back on Sam to hide the smile on his face.
"That's why I hang around with you…once they see you in action, I look sane," Sam countered.
"Ha ha ha. Next time I get hungry for tomatoes I'll get you a stand up comedian gig, Sammy."
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As Mrs. Phillips ushered the brothers into her living room, Dean noted the racing pictures, mementoes and trophies that decorated the small but welcoming home and shot a look to Sam. Sam wore the same grim expression Dean felt inside. Racing was Karl Phillips' life, as much a part of who he was as hunting was to Dean. Claiming seats beside each other on the couch, they remained silent as Mrs. Phillips went to get her husband.
Sam could feel the tension wafting off of Dean, knew that Dean took this part of their job, the 'consoling innocent people' element, just as seriously as he did the 'vanquishing evil' part. Though Dean would deny that instantly, would say Sammy was the softie in the family. A small smile twisted up Sam's lips. He could live with that mantle if it made Dean feel better, less vulnerable. He would bear just about anything if it meant he was around to hear Dean introduce him like he had moments ago to Mrs. Phillips. "This is my brother, Sam."
Hearing raised voices from the other room, Dean cringed.
"I told you I didn't want to see anyone from the track and I meant it!"
"Karl, he had an accident too. Maybe he knows something, can tell you he felt…"
"What? That he's as insane as I am, that he's seeing things too?!"
Hearing the hurt in the man's voice, the break in it had Dean standing, heading toward the couple, determined that this man wouldn't have to think so little of himself anymore. Dean could feel Sam at his heels, knew that his brother had his back, would be there with him, for him.
With slow, measured steps, Dean and Sam entered the kitchen where Karl and his wife sat at the table. Their sudden, unannounced presence startled them both. Karl stood up, but it was a slow ascent and Dean could see the white knuckled grip he maintained on the chair to get the action completed.
"Get out of my house! Now!" Karl roared, turning fully to Dean, revealing the burn on his face that started at his temple and went mid way down his cheek.
The burn wasn't as bad as Dean had feared. It would draw attention, yes. Would it draw disgust? No. But it would garner pity, sympathy and maybe that was worse. "Something was in the car with me when I wrecked, same thing that was in your car," Dean stated bluntly, knew how to handle only that harm to the man, didn't know how to handle the burn, the death of a dream. His statement had Karl stilling, had his wife coming to her feet, looking at Dean like…like she had made a horrible mistake inviting this lunatic into her home.
Raising his hand, Dean continued, "I know, I know. It sounds crazy but there's a ghost at the track, causing the accidents."
Karl's face crumbled, not in acceptance but further devastation and he turned to his wife. "You hire this guy, Lilly? You think if I thought there was a ghost in the car I would think, 'Wow, I'm not insane after all!'"
Lilly opened her mouth to stammer out a denial but Sam spoke first.
"There was a coldness in the car, the kind that made your bones ache, right?" Sam gently asked, stated, eyes on Karl. "And you felt like you weren't alone."
"Please leave," Lilly begged, heading for Dean, her eyes filling with tears because, inconceivably, she had made things worse, had unknowingly welcomed a kook into her house.
But Dean's eyes were on Karl, saw the man react almost imperceptibly to Sam's words. "You know that car better than anyone else, Karl," Dean insisted. "You know the feel of it, the smell of it, could describe every detail from memory. Trust that, trust what you know." Karl's eyes met his and Dean knew he was right. And maybe that was what was breaking Karl down so hard and fast: Instability where they had only ever been stability. Doubt, fear where they had always been trust, faith… in his own skills, in knowing the track better than the way home to his house, and in something as strange as a car. "And it wasn't the same, the day of your accident, was it?" Dean pressed, because he valued trust, faith but he understood doubt and fear even better.
Karl stared at Dean, at Sam and then he shook his head marginally, brokenly said, "No." It caused Lilly to turn around, to go to him, slip her arms around his waist, maybe to comfort the insane guy, maybe in a show of trust.
"Same thing happened in my car. When the steering wheel froze up and the brakes failed. And then the engine just caught on fire. None of that is normal and you and I both know it. And how do you explain all the accidents on the track? Bad karma?!" He turned his look to Lilly Phillips, "You wouldn't have asked me here if you believed that your husband's accident was his fault, if you didn't think something else was going on at the track. You believe in Karl, in his skill as a driver, you have faith in him, right?"
As a tear streamed down Lilly's face, she nodded, turned her face up to Karl's gaze. "I believe in you, Karl. I always have. And this," she softly said, her hands lightly caressing the burn on his face, "it doesn't change that, doesn't lessen my love for you, my faith in you."
Sam shot Dean a look, felt suddenly like intruders on the tender scene.
Gently clasping his wife's hand, Karl gave Lilly a tender kiss before he raised his eyes to the Winchesters. "Alright, say I believe you. What can we do to get that thing off my track?"
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"Have you ever heard of Nelson Barton?" Sam asked, as he and Dean were once again seated on the Phillips' living room couch, his gaze meeting Karl Phillips as the foursome enjoyed coffee like they were old friends now.
Karl jolted. "You think the ghost …that it's him?"
It was Dean who made a reply. "He's our best candidate. He died before being able to go professional in a nasty motorcycle accident. Seems to me he wouldn't be too happy to see other guys from the track getting what he believes is rightfully his."
"They have motivates…get jealous ..these…ghosts?" Lilly stammered, fighting down a chill, was reassured when Karl put his hand on her leg.
"Yes, they have emotions that are amplified, and they act on those emotions, sometimes violently. They react to them when most humans would have the restraint, the moral code not to," Sam broke into his college professor mode. Feeling Dean smirking at him, he barely restrained himself from backhanding Dean in the gut, offered instead a glare that only made Dean's eyes shine brighter with mirth.
"So Nelson Barton's …spirit is still on the track and he killed Troy and the other drivers, wrecked me because we might get a NASCAR contract, get the dream he once earned but never got to fulfill," Karl said, more in statement than question now.
"That's what Sam and I believe," Dean said, meeting Karl's eyes unflinchingly. "And we are going to stop him, send him to the hereafter but we were hoping you could give us some information."
"I'll help any way I can," Karl firmly returned, bitterness and strength replacing his fear and regret.
"Do you know where Nelson wrecked his bike?" Sam asked, holding his breathing, hoping that Karl was the track historian Dean hoped he was.
"Sure, on the track, fourth corner. They say they could see the billowing smoke from downtown," Karl easily supplied, watched as smiles turned up on both of the brothers' features. "So how does that help?"
Since they had come as far as they had with the Phillips, Dean decided honesty was the best route. "Well, we usually have to burn the bones of a ghost's mortal body but with Barton, we figure there was blood and DNA, heck probably bone chips still on the track, holding him there. If we burn them, he might not have anything left to anchor him to the track…or to this life."
"Burn it how, a bomb?" Karl scoffed.
"We might be able to set the macadam on fire, let it burn awhile.." Sam revealed but Karl was shaking his head.
"No, not the macadam. That wasn't there back in the 1950's. It was a dirt track. The remains of Barton would be in the dirt under the pavement. And the pavement…it's thick. Every new track owner thought they could improve the track by putting another coat on top of the previous coat."
"Oh great," Dean grumbled, his eyes meeting Sam's. "So we're back to square one on how to send this guy packing."
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The race fairgrounds was covered in darkness when Dean drove the Impala through the electric gate Sam had circumvented. As they pulled onto the track, the brothers' eyes tracked the Impala's headlights to the 1956 Chevrolet Coupe that sat in the infield grass.
Cutting the engine, Dean let the silence stand a moment before he spoke. "Least Barton had good taste in cars."
"So what's our plan again, Dean?" Sam challenged, frustration and protest in his words. "Oh right, we don't have a plan," he accused, his eyes searing into Dean's as they sat in the dark car.
Giving Sam a glare, Dean climbed out of the car, rocksalt loaded shotgun in hand. Sam mirrored his actions. "I have a plan…" he half heartedly protested.
"Yeah, what plan Dean?" Sam prodded, his pace matching Dean's as they approached the old Chevy.
Reverently running his hand over the hood of the '56 Chevy, Dean drawled, "Car's a beauty." Shooting Sam a smile, he admitted, "Personally I'm glad we're not going to have to torch it."
"Dude, sometimes your car fetish really freaks me out," Sam jokingly taunted, shaking his head.
"It's not a fetish it's an appreciation," Dean clarified gruffly, giving the car's gleaming paint another caress. 'Cars don't tell you that you're pathetic. Don't demand promises from you that you would rather die than fulfill. And they don't leave you. So, yeah, cars rank pretty highly with me, Sammy,' he left unsaid, but when he looked up to Sam, he wondered if he had inadvertently dropped his guard, had allowed Sam to see the truth.
Tilting his head, Sam contemplated his brother, tried to interpret the vibe his brother was giving off.
"What?" Dean gruffly prodded, knowing that going on the offensive was always his best smoke screen with Sam.
"Nothing." Shifting his eyes from Dean's challenging gaze, Sam stiffened as he saw the burned grass in the infield, knew that Rook had lost his life right there. Hastily he looked back to Dean, saw that his brother's eyes were also fixed on the scorched earth, didn't like the sorrow that his brother's stance emanated. Knowing that he had said all he could to lessen his brother's guilt, Sam almost sighed. Instead he steered his brother's concentration back to finishing the job. "So this plan of yours?"
Leaning against the old Chevy, his eyes staring at Rook's last stand, Dean lowly theorized, "I don't think Barton ever left. You said so yourself, the track's had some awesome luck over the years." Eyes rising to look at Sam who had come to stand beside him, he continued, "Some might even say luck that was too good to be true."
"You think Barton's been here, protecting the drivers?" Sam incredulously returned.
Dean shrugged even as he answered, "That's my gut feeling."
Having learned to trust Dean's gut feelings, Sam asked, more in point of clarification than disbelief as he came to stand in front of Dean, "But why hurt the guys you've been protecting? Kill them? Just because they're going to get what he couldn't?!"
"Like you said, professor, spirits act on their emotions more than humans would," Dean said almost like a sigh as he stood up, eyes searching out the outlines of the darkened track. In that moment he understood Barton better than he wanted to. "One of those drivers was going to get what he never got: a NASCAR ride, a ticket out of here. Forever."
At the longing in his brother's voice, Sam shuffled his feet, eyes flickering from his brother's profile to the darkness around them, wondering what his brother was seeing in his mind's eye: A similar opportunity lost, stolen away, a life so vastly different than the one he had, had ever known? Happiness?! Sam's stomach churned at his thoughts, at what he perceived were Dean's thoughts…regrets.
Dean seemed to shake himself, to loosen the weight of the memories of the past, of his own trampled dreams. Dreams were for people who hadn't watched their mother burn to death, who hadn't had the veil of innocence ripped from them when they were four years old, who didn't know their father had died for them…had chosen Hell rather than see his oldest son lose his life.
When Dean turned to him, Sam nearly shivered at the look in his brother's eyes, the desolation, the bitter acceptance of defeat. And Sam knew, it had nothing to do with hunting, with the life that had been chosen for his brother long ago, was, instead, for the life not chosen, the life that would never be his, the life Dean deserved. "Dean.." Sam gently entreated, stepping closer to his brother, wanting to ease the hurt, anyway he could. But Dean stepped away from him, started walking for the fourth turn on the track, hid behind the life that was his, whether he wanted it or not.
"So he bought it here," Dean announced, standing on the turn, bouncing the barrel of the rifle against the side of his leg. He watched Sam walk toward him amid the weakly moonlit track, the Impala's headlights still the only true beacon they had available.
"But knowing that doesn't do us much good," Sam said with a frustrated breath.
"He seems to have the run of the whole fairgrounds..out to the parking lot at least," Dean supplied, didn't make a retort to Sam's pessimistic comment.
"Yeah, we're pretty much on his turf," Sam sighed, almost in resignation but his word "turf" got him a look of ridicule from his brother. "What? Turf is a good word…especially for a ghost from the 1950s."
"Yeah, right, fine, Cunningham. Did you bring the soda pop and why don't we put on the radio, listen to "The leader of the pack," Dean taunted.
Sam laughed in spite of himself, "Yeah, sure Fonzie." Then they stood there, side by side, looking around the shadowed race track. "You could do this…if you wanted to, you know," Sam's quiet voice seemed to echo against the night.
"What?" Dean asked as if he was confused, didn't understand Sam's meaning.
"This. Racing," Sam clarified firmly, even though he knew he didn't have to. Turning to Dean, he caught Dean's arm, made his brother face him.
"Sam…."
"Don't. Don't tell me you don't want this, Dean. I don't need you to protect me with a lie," Sam entreated, didn't want any more barriers separating them, any more lies between them ..even if the truth hurt worse than anything else.
"Sam…" Dean protested. He didn't want to speak the truth, knew better than anyone that the truth was sometimes a curse, killed what was thriving, strangled the light, made you wish you were dead.
"I wanted to go to college…and I went, Dean. I went, left Dad and I left you." When Dean stiffened at his words, Sam flinched, knew that the brutality of his decision was still an open sore between them. "I know about dreams, Dean. I know about wanting them so badly that you risk everything…and everyone to get them. The crime isn't having a dream…the crime is how you achieve them. I'll let you go…"
And the words made Dean's breath catch.
Noting Dean's reaction, Sam plunged forward, knew he had to say it now before he lost his courage. "I'll let you go live the life you want to, Dean. I know you've wanted out of hunting and I…I've been making you stay." He gave a bitter laugh. "That's ironic isn't it? All those years I tried to convince you again and again to stop hunting, to stop doing everything Dad asked of you, to stop putting your life in jeopardy for strangers. And now I've turned into the one tying you to hunting, endangering your life, time and time again. Making you think that the hunt…that any hunt is worth your life. It's not Dean, not to me, not ever to me. So if this is what you want, to race, I'll let you go…" Seeing the protest in his brother's eyes, he tacked on, "Or I'll stay with you, be your personal cheering section or reporter…mechanic if you teach me a thing or two about engines."
The offer was so unexpected, Sam's insight into his soul too precise, Dean stood stock still, met Sam's eyes in the moonlight. It was the offer his father had never made, it was the guilt free escape Dean had dreamed of but never believed would come his way. It was everything he wanted…and nothing even close to what he wanted.
"You really should take him up on his offer.." a male voice spoke beside them, causing the Winchesters to spin around to see the ghost of Nelson Barton standing there, looking so mortal. His fifty style racing suit charred, his brown pompadour hair askew, causing strands to fall around his face. And then there was the sadness in his eyes, easily read. "I know what it's like to carry around regrets." But when Barton's look swung to Dean, only hatred burned in the ghost's eyes. "But it's too late for second chances…for me…and now for you."
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TBC
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Thanks for reading and reviewing!
Have a great day!
Cheryl W.
