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 for the long intermission! I couldn't seem to write myself out of a paper bag for what seemed like forever. Hopefully I'm back "on track" now.
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Chapter 11: Deadly Derby
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But the Impala came off the wall like it was a rebound, hit the older vehicle broadside on the right rear wheel base. Hit it hard enough to dislodge the Impala's right side tires from the ground, left the car on two wheels, poised to roll over. "Dean!" Sam yelled for help, knew that he wasn't the expert driver that Dean was.
Hearing Sam's panicked call at their precarious position, Dean was about to shout out instructions when his end of the car angled higher into the air, reminding him too much of a tilt-a-whirl ride, without the safety bar. Finding himself a slave to the rules of gravity, he began sliding down the seat, his grasping hands unable to find enough purchase on the dashboard to stop his descent. "Ah Crap!" he growled out an instant before he toppled into Sam, hard, shoulders, ribs, hip bones and legs impacting harshly bone against bone.
It was only Sam's death grip on the steering wheel that allowed him to retain his hold as Dean slammed into him, jarring them both. But it seemed the only good news. For the view outside the car tilted farther and Sam felt his shoulder press harder against the door, was almost resigned that the car would roll, would viciously toss them around in the seatbeltless interior. Amid his dark predictions, the sound of Dean's voice was a life line to him, steadied his nerves, made him believe that things were going to be OK. Had to be.
Knowing instinctively what Sam needed from him, Dean tersely instructed, his voice confident but low with pain, "Turn left, hard, and give it a little gas!" Glad that he could do something because Lord knew he couldn't move, couldn't find a way to peel himself off of Sam's side, to fight and win the only increasing pressure of gravity as the car rested even more on its two left tires.
Without hesitancy, Sam followed Dean's advice and jerked the car to the left, his foot tapping the gas pedal, nearly forgetting to breathe. The car obeyed his commands, swung left, sped up only to continue moving forward on two wheels like some General Lee stunt. When Sam was sure he couldn't hold his breath a second longer, the right side of the car began to descend, slowly, as if in protest. But, with a few more rotations of the tires, the leverage won out, had the right side of the car dropping rapidly back onto solid ground with brutal force.
The brothers simultaneously grunted at the punishing impact that tossed them around the interior like they weighed nothing. With the car firmly on the ground once again, Sam slammed on the brakes, wanting off the ride, badly. Though the wide tires skidded on the blacktop, the car soon shuddered to a stop, leaving the rumble of the '57 engine the only competition to the brothers' harsh breathing.
Turning to Dean, Sam saw that his brother was no longer meshed against him, was instead sprawled across the seat, his head inches from the passenger door, was a shadow among the dark interior of the car. "Hey, you alright?" he asked, hand coming to rest on Dean's hip, needing the connection as badly as he wanted Barton stopped, wanted safety.
Dean's reply was a gruff "Help me up," but the tone was too deep even for Dean, told Sam that Dean wasn't alright but was pushing through the pain, was determined to still be the unstoppable hunter, the always reliable big brother. Before he could suggest that Dean stay lying down, Dean's hand slid between his hand and his brother's hip, gave his hand an impatient squeeze.
"Sam, help, now!" Dean barked, wanting to be ready for Barton's next attack but admitting, if only to himself, that getting up on his own, though possible, wouldn't be quick…or quiet. When Sam's hand tightened in his, he tried to prepare himself for the pain, tried to turn his groan of pain into a sound of frustration, of anger when Sam levered him to an upright position. Arm pressed against his ribs, hoping his breath wasn't as ragged and loud as it sounded inside his own head, Dean maneuvered in the seat until his back rested against the seat. Realizing that his brother was still holding his hand, was still lending support, he pulled his hand free from Sam's grip.
"This guy is beyond pissing me off," Dean lowly growled, his eyes not on Sam but looking outside the windshield, at the Impala which had stopped yards ahead, sat there idling, waiting. But he could feel Sam's eyes on him across the dark, assessing him, worried for him, understanding how this particular battle hurt him …understood it better than Dean wished he did.
It wasn't the first time his car had been used against him, the woman in white, Constance, had used it to try to make him and Sam roadkill. And then there were the times the supernatural screwed with her and her engine just cut out. But this, this felt like a betrayal, like a family dog that had gone rabid, had to be put down, no matter the 'If found return to Dean Winchester' tag it virtually wore. Was like a gun of his in someone else hands, his responsibility, his guilt if it took a life…couldn't imagine how he would live if it ended up taking Sam's life. And that was what was at stake, what Barton had turned the Impala into: a weapon, a threat to Sam, to him. It couldn't matter that the Impala was the closest thing to home he had since he was four years old. That it is was the only thing truly ever his. That, in a life of fear, it was his sanctuary. Was all he had when Sam had left for college and he ended up hunting alone, having parted ways with his father when being together was too hard, too hurtful, too detrimental to them both.
'It's not all I have anymore. Sam's sitting right beside me,' he chastised himself as the decision loomed over him like a life was in the balance. 'One is: Sam's, Your's,' he answered angrily, like he couldn't see the handwriting on the wall, didn't know the value of a human life versus a machine's fate versus his sick, pathetic attachment to the vehicle. In dread, he watched the Impala do a 180 on the track, taking a layer of rubber off her tires as she turned to face them, her headlights catching them in their beams as the engine revved. But Barton held her back, wanted to build the tension, to savor their fear, to relish in his victory.
"Crap, here we go again," Sam cursed, hand reaching out to put the '57 Chevy into reverse, to evade the Impala's …no, Barton's next attack. But Dean's hand wrapped around his wrist, halted him. His eyes flew to Dean's, in worry and confusion but Dean's eyes were fixed on the Impala, on his car, on the one possession that was Dean's and Dean's alone.
"Take her out, Sam," Dean said quietly, lowly, his eyes then swinging to hold Sam's. "Take out the Impala."
Whatever Sam expected Dean to say, it wasn't that, it would never have been that. Eyes latched onto Dean, unable to look away, even to see if the Impala was attacking, Sam breathed, "Dean…" half plea, half hurt, all denial.
"It's not like we have a lot of options, Sam," Dean tried to return lightly, logically, a bitter, sad smile turning up his lips.
"But Dean it's the Impala.." Sam protested, didn't even want to think about destroying the car.
"Yeah, and it's her or us, Sam," Dean returned, conviction in his tone, resolve gleaming in his eyes. "I know you've tried to go easy on her …for my sake. And I ..I appreciate that Sam, I really do. But it's time to face facts. Barton isn't going to stop until we're dead…and apparently he's not as emotionally tied to his car as I hoped he would be."
"Dean, if we can just get off the track…get past the parking lot…" Sam said, needing another answer, for Dean, for himself.
"Trouble is we have to get past Barton and the Impala first. And we can't do that if we keep the kid gloves on...can't do it if we're dead, Sam," Dean reasoned, held Sam's eyes, tried to convey in his look that he wouldn't hold Sam responsible for any harm to the Impala, that he was asking Sam to do this, needed him to do it.
Reading the conviction, the appeal, in Dean's eyes, Sam nodded silently, let his hand slip from the gear shaft. They weren't going to run any more. "Dean, I'm not sure how…" he began quietly, eyes dropping from Dean's, hating that he needed help, that he needed Dean's help to do this, that this couldn't be something he did on his own for Dean, so Dean wouldn't have to.
"I'll talk you through it," Dean reassured kindly, grimness in the set of his jaw but not in the words he spoke to his brother. He knew it wasn't Sam's fault, the situation, the corner they were backed into. No, he rested the blame on his own shoulders for not foreseeing this happening, Barton using a car as a weapon, even using the Impala against them. Blamed Barton for clutching too tightly to a dream that was as dead as he was.
At the kindness in Dean's voice, Sam raised his eyes, met Dean's eyes without worry of reproach for his inexperience. He knew that tone of his brother's, knew it from his childhood, trusted that tone, inexplicitly. It was the tone in which Dean had taught him…practically everything, with gentleness, patience, encouragement. Was the tone Dean would use to teach him how to survive today..like he had taught him how to survive a thousand before. Reading the question in Dean's eyes, Sam nodded, was ready to let his brother guide him without question, without debate, without doubt. It was the level of trust his father had demanded of him and never got, had never earned.
At Sam's nod, Dean began to formulate his counter attack. "Alright we're going to stay in the inside. Give her some gas then let off then give her some gas again, fake Barton out, make him think we're playing wounded."
"Ok," Sam replied, unable to stop his gut from clenching at the knowledge that their fate was resting in his hands, in his driving skills, that, though Dean would be instructing him, it fell to him to perform the tasks. With one last look at Dean across the headlight lit interior, seeing the faith in his brother's gaze, he drew in a deep breath and sent the '57 forward. Then, the next moment, he let off the gas and then accelerated slowly again. Like they had waved a red flag at a bull, the Impala bound forward, Barton apparently predicting where their paths would intercept. Continuing to give the car some gas and then let it drift a second or two, Sam couldn't help but look to the approaching Impala as the distance between them shrank. "Dean…" he called out in near panic when the Impala's grill was only a few yards away from hitting them.
But Dean waited until the Impala draw even closer to them before he ordered, "Gun it!" knowing that they had to cut it close. As the '57 Chevy obeyed his brother's command and surged forward, he felt himself pressed back into the seat, watched as they sped out of the Impala's path. "Stay in the inside lane, Sam. It will force Barton to take the next turn on the outside. When he pulls up beside you, gets his nose level with my door, send him into the wall."
"Got it," Sam responded, heart tripping in his chest as he saw Barton had recovered quickly and had the Impala speeding toward them. The Impala slammed into their rear and Sam struggled to keep the '57 under control. Another neck snapping impact almost tore the wheel from his hands.
"You're doing good, Sammy, the turn's coming up so he'll make his move soon," Dean encouraged, eyes ahead to the turn, knowing in his gut that Barton wanted a challenge, wanted to feel the sensation of racing again, to outsmart, to outdrive his opponent. That he would not miss his chance to feel the Impala zing along the turn like a living thing that he alone could control. No, Barton would not want to push them through the turn, he would want to race them through the turn.
Sparing a glance in the rearview mirror, Sam watched as the Impala slipped right and knew that Dean had predicted correctly, Barton was making his move. Hands tightly wound around the steering wheel, Sam looked left out the passenger window, saw Dean's focus was also trained on the track beside them. Then Barton was there, pushing the Impala forward, trying to out pace them as they headed into the turn. Breath trapped in his throat, to Sam it seemed like everything was in slow motion as the Impala's nose inched forward, got level with the '57 Chevy's passenger door.
When Sam yanked the car right, as the '57 impacted with the '67 Chevy, Dean was both pleased and horrified by the scream of metal on metal, by the sight of the Impala being strong-armed toward the wall of the turn. But when Barton willingly sent the Impala to the right, toward the wall, Dean foresaw his opponent's next move. "Go left, speed up and slam into her again, now!"
Having felt the easing of the resistance of the Impala against them, Sam didn't question Dean's instructions, simply did them. Found that when he hit the Impala again, the force spun the Impala around, had her impacting with the wall head on. Finding himself free of the Impala's shadow, Sam sped up, sent the older Chevy flying expertly out of the turn.
"Stay in the middle of the track for the straight stretch, when Barton comes up to try and get even with you, block him a few times, then put on your brakes a little and let him pass. When he's in front of you, hit him with as much force as you can on the side, back by his rear tire," Dean laid out his plan, knowing the outcome the actions should have, had to have if he wanted to save Sam, to save himself.
Understanding came to Sam, and he shot a look to Dean. "Dean, maybe there's another way."
"Just do it," Dean said with quiet strength, eyes meeting Sam's. "Keep us alive, Sammy." And there was absolute faith in Dean's eyes, unshakeable trust and unveiled affection, all directed at Sam.
It was everything Sam needed from Dean, mended the rift that had come between them on this particular job, helped to heal the scars that their father's death had caused, made it clear that they were in this together. Made him believe that they were an impenetrable, undefeatable, united force. Was a force that Barton should never have challenged, that no one should ever seek to tear apart, not even the brothers themselves.
Abandoning his misgivings, Sam manhandled the car to the center lane of the track and waited for the Impala's approach. He didn't have to wait long. He swerved into the Impala's path, felt the '67's front end mesh with the '57 bumper but he didn't relent. As the Impala sought to slip past him on the right, he dodged that way, again blocking her progress, causing another collision of metal upon metal. He shadowed the Impala's dodge left, giving Barton absolutely no window to gain on them.
"Alright Sammy, he'll fake you out, go right but dodge left almost instantly, just let 'em go by," Dean said, having watched Barton in action enough to know the other driver's tactics. And there was grim satisfaction as Barton sent the Impala right and then swung it wildly left and Dean could feel the '57 Chevy under him ease off the gas as Sam let the Impala start to streak by. He didn't need to shout out an instruction, Sam was already reacting, was plowing the car unmercifully into the Impala's left rear wheel. The impact lifted the Impala's passenger side wheel off the ground in a mimic of their earlier crisis.
Knowing in his heart that he didn't want to destroy the Impala, because it was something Dean loved, was a part of Dean, was therefore a part of him, Samboth hoped and dreaded that the Impala would go into a roll.
Dean cringed, nearly shut his eyes as the Impala lurched to the side, that it seemed likely that the driver's side would crash against the unforgiving track macadam, that the thing he valued most in his life would be destroyed. 'I told Sam to do it! I told Sam to do it! It's the Impala or us! Get your priorities straight!' flew through him in that instant even as the Impala teetered between destruction and survival. As they passed the Impala, Dean couldn't help turning in his seat. He groaned in pain at the motion, hand coming to press against his chest for his effort but from out of the back window he saw that the Impala hadn't toppled over, was still upright. His relief was soon distorted with disappointment when Barton put the Impala back into motion and he saw it coming again toward them with menacing speed.
Torn by relief and dread at the sight in his rearview mirror, Sam pointed out, eyes switching from the rearview to Dean, "Dean, even if I do take out the Impala, it won't stop him." Felt desperate for another plan, for something that saved them and didn't steal away even more from his brother than Dean had already sacrificed.
Eyes meeting Sam's, Dean saw the desperation in his brother's moonlit features and it kicked in his brotherly instincts, his desire to protect Sam, made him wrack his brain for another solution, one that didn't leave Sam feeling guilty for destroying the Impala, for hurting him. His eyes sparked as Plan B came to him, sharp and clear. "I got an idea. Get us off the track, Sam. Here, go through the pit area," he instructed urgently, pointing to the break in the pit area wall, knowing that Barton was moments away from being beside them, from blocking their escape.
Without question, Sam turned the wheel hard, sent them sliding into the pit area, barely got the car straightened out to make it through the wall without scraping the sides. "Now what?" Sam tersely asked, ready to follow his brother's lead as the car left the track and entered the garage area, saw that the Impala was also following Dean's lead, was again seeking to overtake them.
"Drive through that tent," Dean supplied, pointing to the white tent set up on the left side of the track fairgrounds.
"Pastor Pete's Tent of Repentance?!" Sam couldn't help explaining, a tinge of 'you've got to be kidding' in his tone, even as he sent the car sliding to the left, kicking up dirt as they once again abandoned blacktop for grass.
Dean shrugged, as Sam's eyes collided with his. "It's holy ground…kinda." At Sam's raised eyebrows, he defended, "Hey, crossing holy ground sent Cyrus's ghost packing."
Putting unshakeable trust in Dean, Sam pushed the '57 Chevy harder, sent it barreling over the uneven fairgrounds on a straight route to the makeshift church tent. Behind them the Impala went nearly airborne as she came out of a small valley in the ground but as her tires hit the ground, she leapt forward like a wild thing, gaining on them, again her grill inching toward the '57. "Hang on!" Sam ordered as he plowed into the tent's side. The '57 struck chairs, sending some crashing onto the hood and others flying left and right like the parting of the Red Sea. "Crap!" Sam cursed as the podium was dead center in his path. As he turned the wheel left, the big car fishtailed, hit the podium on it's rear left panel but continued to slide out the other side of the tent. Righting the wheel, Sam sank his foot against the gas pedal, sent the car tearing away from the tent and the Impala in its midst.
Turning around in his seat, regardless of the pain it evoked, Dean watched the Impala follow them out of the tent, its grill nudging theirs and then the Impala started to drop back, was losing its momentum. His eyes shooting to the driver's side, he saw that the car was empty, knew, when the Impala coasted to a stop, that Barton was no longer in possession of his car. Was most likely gone, forever.
Watching the same event in the rearview mirror as Dean, Sam brought the '57 Chevy to a stop and put it firmly into park. Turning in his seat, he leaned against the seat beside Dean and they both watched the Impala warily. Looking to Dean, he posed, "You think that's it? That Barton's gone?"
"Yeah, I think Barton's gone off to that big racing track …down below," Dean lowly returned, a bitter yet pleased smile on his face as he turned around, sank back again the seat in relief. Giving the Impala one last inspecting look, Sam turned around too, gave a sigh as he rested his head back against the '57's seat, his pose matching Dean's. For a minute companionable silence enveloped them, too many emotions overlaying each other to convey their victory, their survival.
With a grimace, Dean sat up straighter and looked at Sam's shadowed profile, watched as Sam's head rolled toward him, could envision his brother's curious expression that the darkness hid. "Before I see the full damage to my baby…great driving, Sammy!" Dean praised, patting Sam's chest with his left hand. "Looks like more than one Winchester could be a NASCAR contender."
Sam laughed and lightly scoffed "Yeah, right," but he felt warmth flow through him at the compliment, at the tender pride in his brother's words. Then he heaved himself upright and opened the car door, causing the interior lights to come on. Turning in his seat to fully face Dean, he saw Dean for the first time in unfiltered light and felt his face crumble with concern at the pallor of his brother's complexion, the dullness in his eyes and the way he held himself, as if everything hurt.
Easily reading Sam's distraught, worried, expression, Dean reassured, "I'm alright," but his tone was pained, slightly breathless and inexplicably tired, the adrenaline leaving him as quickly as it had come.
Spotting the smear of blood on the passenger headrest, Sam reached over and gently touched the back of Dean's head, felt the cut there, watched as Dean stoically didn't react. Running his hand along Dean's ribs, he jerked when Dean groaned. "Sorry," he breathed in apology, hating that his touch had caused his brother further hurt. "Broken or cracked?"
"You talking about my head or my ribs?" Dean joked back, a wan smile turning up his lips.
"Ribs. I know you're head's broken, been broken for years," Sam countered, the light banter relieving some of the tension and worry…just like Dean had planned. But he didn't relent on the question, kept his intense gaze locked with Dean's.
Knowing by the look in his brother's eyes that Sam wasn't going to abandon his line of questioning, Dean qualified, "Just bruised." The statement earned him a glare from Sam. "Sam, I know the difference."
"Bet you do," Sam grumbled, hating that Dean was a walking encyclopedia of medical emergency procedures…many learned by his own personal experience. "How are your lungs? Your breathing sounds labored."
"Gee, I can't guess why. This gig has been all about rest and relaxation. And playing hit and run and bumper cars with the Impala, it's been awesome," Dean sarcastically deflected. But at the look of heightened concern in Sam's eyes, he threatened, "Sam, I swear if you lay your head against my chest to listen to my breathing, I'll pull a clump of your hair right out. I mean it, man," his eyes confirming his sincerity.
For a moment, Sam considered pressing the issue, suggesting a hospital trip, but he knew right then and there he didn't have any leverage against Dean's stubbornness. "Fine. Let's go check the Impala, make sure Barton's really gone," he placated as he got out of the car, started to walk to the Impala. But his pace was worthy of a tortoise as he looked over the roof of the car, waited to see Dean's departure of the car, was geared to fly to his brother's side and help him. He wasn't ready to hear his brother's voice to come from the '57 vehicle in a whinny, growl.
"Door's wedged," Dean grumbled as he pulled more forcefully on the doorknob. Without thought, he slammed his shoulder into the door. The impact did nothing for the stuck door however, the contact reverberated though his body, had him clenching his teeth, crossing his hands over his chest and bowing forward in his seat.
Quickly stalking over to the passenger door, Sam scowled at the scrapped and dented metal on that side of the car even as he reached for the door handle. At the sight of Dean's hunched posture, he instantly put his hands against the passenger window, leaned down as close to his brother as he could with the window and door a barrier. "Dean, are you alright? Are you having more trouble breathing? Are you feeling sick?" he asked in a rush. Dean's weak, almost petulant one word reply of "no" wasn't all that helpful. "No, you're not alright?!" his panic skyrocketing.
Dean shook his head, but it was the only movement he offered as he mumbled, "No to your other questions."
Not believing Dean for a second, anger surged in Sam at his brother's deflection, at Dean's notion that he needed to maintain his barriers around him. Lifting his left leg and positioning it against the side of the car, Sam wrapped his hand around the door handle and pulled, drawing on the energy of his raging emotions. When the door gave way, swung open, he stumbled backwards, almost fell.
At the creak of the fifty year old metal, Dean raised his head to see the door swing open, watched as Sam agilely kept himself upright. With tiredness seeping into every muscle he owned, it was an effort to move his right leg from the car, to turn in his seat. Before he could even contemplate standing, Sam was there, his big hand wrapping around his right bicep, lending his strength as Dean came to his feet. Wincing at the ache that went up his left leg, Dean latched onto Sam's right arm to steady himself, saw the deep concern evident in Sam's eyes even amid the weak moonlight. Mentally brushing that aside, Dean asked, looking around the quiet, still fairgrounds, "Getting any vibes, ghost whisperer?"
Ignoring Dean's name calling, Sam shook his head, quietly replied, "Nothing. Course I didn't feel Barton on the track before he showed up either."
"Freakin' eavesdropping ghosts. Hate them," Dean mockingly growled, a smile doing a hit and run on his face before his eyes fell onto the immobile Impala. Then a grimace settled on his features. "Ah man, I don't even have the heart to look at her right now."
"You don't have to, just sit back down here and I'll…" Sam said quickly, gently, ready to guide Dean back to the '57's interior. But Dean's one handed grip on his left arm tightened, stopped any motion he would have made.
"No, I need to see the damage…" Dean quietly insisted, eyes on the Impala, on the thing that had nearly been the instrument of his death, of Sam's death. He released his grip on Sam and started to pull out of his brother's hold.
Stepping into Dean's path, Sam vowed, "We'll fix her, Dean," his eyes holding Dean's, wanting to give Dean that reassurance first, before Dean saw the damage, felt heartbreak at the abuse something he loved had taken in their newest battle. Wanted to make it clear that the Impala wasn't going to be added to the tally of the things Dean had lost, had sacrificed for the good of the fight
"We?" Dean challenged, a quirk of his eyebrows.
Having already foreseen Dean's argument, Sam shrugged, a smile in place, "I'll scavenger for parts, use my 'puppy dog eyes' to barter on the prices."
"And help me pound out the dents, and replace the parts we need and do test drives with her," Dean insisted with a light in his eyes, wanting his partnership with Sam to be better, to be stronger, to be more about brotherhood than rank and roles.
Finding himself smiling from ear to ear at his brother's insistent words, Sam was internally mocking himself for feeling so pathetically happy at getting coerced into repairing a car. But down deep Sam knew it was about repairing more than that, was about repairing something invaluable to him, apparently invaluable to Dean, was about repairing them, their bond, their brotherhood.
Sam slipped to the side then, allowed Dean to do a slow walk to the Impala as he paced him, hands ready to lend their support should it be needed. Reaching the car, Sam was selfishly grateful that it was too dark to see the true extent of the damage to the Impala.
"Call Garner, Sam. Tell him Barton Nelson's been permanently banned from racing," Dean instructed as he stepped closer to the Impala, began running his hands down the side of the car to assess the damage by touch.
"Dean.." Sam began in protest, not giving a crap about calling Garner, about easing that man's mind, not after his treatment of Dean. Even relished the idea that Garner would continue to live in fear, wondering when the next attack would come. It wouldn't be a fair exchange for him laying blame on Dean's shoulders for Rook's death but it would at least be a start. But when Dean's eyes came up to meet his, Sam knew, even amid the '57's highlight beams, that Dean would not choose to be that callus, didn't want him to be that callus. That Dean held grudges against people, sure, people that hurt his little brother, his family, innocent strangers, but never people that hurt him. For those people he had a seemingly endless well of forgiveness. Sam knew that first hand…just like his Dad did. "Fine," he grumbled ill-naturedly and stalked away, wanting the conversation to be private, to not be regulated by Dean's perception of how Garner deserved to be treated.
A few minutes later after disconnecting his call to Garner, Sam strode back to the Impala. He found Dean crouched down by the driver's side door, hands almost caressing the war wounds as he apologized tothe car.
"Sorry, baby, but sometimes sacrifices have to be made so we can fight another day. Hey, I know you've already sacrificed a lot but so have I. But we're both still here, still running and that says…"
"Are you consoling a car?" Sam laughed, hands on his hips as he looked down at his obviously unbalanced older sibling. But Dean's voice had been quiet, soothing, struck a chord within Sam that made his throat tighten. Reminded him of the times when he was hurt or scared as a kid and that sound, Dean's voice, was enough to make him believe everything would be alright. 'It still does,' he realized, smiling wider at Dean, sure his affection for his brother was there in his eyes for anyone to see.
Without looking up at Sam, Dean snapped, "Shut up."
At Dean's comeback, Sam felt more of his worry and tension slip away because that tone he remembered too. It reassured him that Dean would be alright, was battered and bruised but he wasn't going anywhere.
Switching his inspection from the Impala to Sam, Dean gave a short laugh. Enjoying Sam's crinkled forehead of confusion, he came to his feet, not protesting Sam's supportive grip on his right elbow. "Dude, with that gunpowder on your face you seriously look like a demented clown: Ronald McDeath or Smokey the Clown. Oh no, I got your show biz name: Now entering the Big Top, Cinder Sam!"
"Yeah, funny, I'm laughing on the inside," Sam deadpanned back. He kept his hold on Dean's elbow as they both stood looking at the Impala. "Is it bad?" he asked quietly, gently, like he was asking about the condition of a relative in the ER.
"Sides are scraped up, grill's a little dented, bumper and trunk are fine. Didn't check the engine but we can both attest that she wasn't showing any problems," Dean revealed, chagrin and pride and humor shifting in his tone.
"Ah, no, clean bill of health on that area," Sam agreed. Turning his look from the Impala to Dean, he began to apologize, "Dean, I'm sorry. I should have…"
Bringing his full focus onto Sam, Dean interrupted, his voice gentle but firm, "Don't apologize for saving our lives, Sam."
"I didn't do it alone, Dean," Sam returned instantly, eyes meeting Dean's, needing his brother to realize that he couldn't have done it without him.
But Sam's devotion only made Dean feel ten ways a fool for his actions on the job, for treating it like a solo gig, for pushing Sam aside so he could reach for a dream that wasn't meant to be. He shuttered to think what would have happened tonight if he hadn't pulled his head out of his butt and worked together with Sam, was the partner Sam expected him to be, deserved him to be. "Yeah, about that, I'm sorry I've been such a jerk, going it alone…"
"It's alright, Dean. I know what racing means to you," Sam softly said, forgiveness in his eyes even as jealous and fear of abandonment sprang to life in him all over again. His offer to let Dean go was still on the table, the outcome having been pre-empted by Barton.
At his brother's words, Dean pulled his look from Sam, dropped his eyes again to the Impala's war wounds, couldn't face Sam, not even in the weak light. "Yeah? You want to explain it to me?" Dean replied, a bitter, vulnerable laugh coming from him. He felt that familiar confusion surging in him, about a million things: his father's death, his place with Sam, his place in the world without Sam, his worthiness to even be alive.
"Dean…" Sam gently said, protesting, pleading, just hurting at the catch in his brother's voice, the lost look in his eyes. Then Dean looked away and he wished he knew how to heal what was broken in his brother.
Not wanting Sam to feel the need to play his therapist, to be his champion, Dean cut in, eyes coming again to alight on Sam, "What I do know, Sam, is you and me, we make a pretty good team."
"Yeah, we do," Sam readily returned. "We always have," he added, knowing in his heart how true the words were, knew that there was no one he would rather have at his side or have his back than Dean, no matter the situation. "But the next time stunt driving is required, you're the designated driver, Dean."
Laughing, Dean smiled. "You got yourself a deal, little brother…as long as the next gig that takes place in a plane, you do solo," he qualified, earning him a raised eyebrow of protest from Sam. Before Sam could reply, he gave Sam's ribs a nudge with his elbow, "You going to drive me home or is your taxi service over?"
"What?!" Sam exclaimed, totally caught off guard by the request. "You want me to drive?!...The Impala?!" But the next moment, panic flared in him. If Dean was asking him to drive, just how hurt was he?! "I thought you said you were alright?!" he nearly accused, stepping in front of Dean, worried eyes scanning Dean's as his other hand latched around Dean's elbow, securing his hold on his brother.
"I am alright…" Dean stubbornly insisted with a scowl but, an instant later, a smirk began emerging on his pale features. "But you need to start re-earning the Impala's trust as soon as possible. Everyone knows, there is nothing more deadly than a woman scorned, Sammy," he taunted. When Sam groaned, hastily released him and nearly stomped over to the Impala's driver's side, his smirk blossomed into a full wattage smile. Though he and Sam had each traveled some solitary roads to get where they were going, they were finally back on track, together, like it was meant to be.
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TBC
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Well, I have a few loose ends that I would like to tie up. Hope you'll join me for it.
Thanks for reading and reviewing!
Have a great day!
Cheryl W.
PS: For anyone waiting for an update to 'It's in the Genes', I plan on working on the next chapter this week.
