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: Instead of making one huge last chapter and making you wait longer for it, I've decided to split it up.
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Chapter 12: Repairs and Reassessments
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Parking the Impala in front of his motel room, Sam cut the engine and turned to his brother's silent, shadowed profile. Inexplicably he felt reluctant to enter the room, to abandon the safe confines of the car, its unintentional betrayal that night not withstanding. Selfishly didn't want Dean to have any room to roam from him, didn't want Dean to have space to think about his offer to let him go. Bleakly, Sam knew his barriers weren't fortified enough to endure the onslaught of pain if Dean chose to leave him behind. Because, though Dean had talked about being a team, those same words had been his words of goodbye at Stanford, had echoed in his ears even as he turned around, headed back to his apartment, to Jess, to a safe life, a life that had no room in it for his brother.
Sam's breath hitched at the comparison, at how unconceivable it felt to imagine not having his brother in his life, to not wanting his brother in his life. At his change in breathing, Dean looked to him, but Sam couldn't see his brother's face amid the darkness, couldn't read if there was worry and reassurance or sorrow and pity for him in his brother's expression. Found he didn't want to know, not so soon. Grimly, he got out of the Impala, headed to the trunk and retrieved the first aid kit. When he heard Dean's door creak open, he quickly snapped the trunk shut and stalked to his brother, watched with admiration and reproof as Dean pushed himself from the car onto his feet through willpower and stubbornness. Stalking forward, Sam stopped beside Dean and they shared a look before they headed for the motel room, Dean's slight limp disrupting their usual synchronized gait.
Unlocking the motel room, Sam swung the door open, nodded for Dean to proceed him into the room, watched as Dean slowly walked inside and headed toward the bed like he was completing the last steps on a thousand mile journey. "No, Dean," Sam softly denied, quickly stepping forward, wrapping his hand around Dean's right arm to stop his brother's exhausted motion. "Bathroom," he directed gently, starting to pull the wounded man toward that destination.
Without sparing energy to look to Sam, Dean mumbled in protest, "I don't have to go to the bathroom, mom," his exhaustion making the words slow and without bite.
"Good 'cause that I don't want to see," Sam returned, his lips turning up a little. Maneuvering a frighteningly docile Dean inside the bathroom and onto the closed toilet seat, Sam sat the first aid kit on the countertop and crossed to the shower. Pushing back the shower curtain, he turned on the hot water.
"I'm not showering, dude. I don't care how bad I stink," Dean rallied, finding the energy to put more firmness in his words, to dredge up some steel to put in his eyes as he watched Sam.
"I turned it on for the stream, to help ease some of the tightness in your chest," Sam revealed as he closed the bathroom door and came back to Dean. For a moment, he stood there assessing Dean.
Tilting his head up to view Sam's expression, Dean was determined to hold out, to let the silence stand, to beat Sam in the stare down. But a moment later, he grumbled, "What?" unable to bear the silent inspection.
"Where should I start? Head, ribs or leg? What hurts the most?" But as Dean opened his mouth, Sam held up his hand, forestalling his brother's bravado. "Nothing. Nothing hurts, right? You're just fine. Now the Impala, the car I should be worried about fixing," he shot back, voice rising with his frustration, with his brother's refusal to open up, to take care of himself, to believe that he deserved to be taken care of.
Hoping to defuse his brother's anger, Dean dredged up a smile. "Well, yeah, the Impala's older than me, can't handle the abuse as much anymore."
"You're not as young as you used to be either, Dean. There was a time when you would have done a better job dodging the car," Sam countered, finding anger surging in him at the memories of his brother foolishly playing matador to his classic black car, leaping out of its path at the last possible moment.
"Thanks for adding insult to injury," Dean muttered, eyes dropping from Sam's, embarrassed that his slow reaction time had caused him to lose some of his little brother's respect. If Sam didn't trust him on a hunt, if he thought he wasn't pulling his own weight….
Quickly pouncing on his brother's confession, Sam drawled "Ah…so you admit you are injured?" the concern in his eyes removing any sharpness to the accusation.
"The blood and the limping and the fact that I let you shove me around…those are pretty good clues even for a detective in training like you, Sammy," Dean sarcastically volleyed back. But he groaned when his words were rewarded by a smug looking Sam presenting him with two painkillers and a glass of water. Crap, he had fallen right into Sam's manipulations like a prize chump. Gauging the determined set to Sam's jaw, Dean realized that further protesting would only increase his headache, would do absolutely nothing to sway Sammy from his nursemaid routine. With annoyance, he roughly grabbed the glass of water and obediently took the pills, found it almost condescending when Sam took the water glass from his hand and put it safely back on the counter.
After thoroughly washing his hands, Sam pulled his needed supplies from the first aid kit and crossed back to Dean, his plan of action set. Slipping between his brother and the bathtub, Sam claimed a seat on the tub rim and sat his supplies on the floor. "Turn toward the countertop," he calmly ordered, wasn't surprised that it earned him a token disgruntle look from Dean before his brother followed his instructions. Reaching up, he gently parted the patch of Dean's hair that was stiff with blood, bent close to inspect the source of the bleeding wound. "Cut doesn't look deep, probably doesn't need stitches," he narrated his exam, lightly skimming his fingers over Dean's scalp to further assure himself that the cut wasn't serious. But instead of relief, a scowl sprang to his features. "You've got a big goose egg back here though. Do I want to know what you hit your head on?"
"Impala's windshield," Dean supplied quietly, barely kept himself from wincing when Sam's fingers pressed on the unmistakable source of his agonizing headache.
Internally flinching at the information, pretty sure he knew when the contact had been made, Sam forced his inspecting fingers to venture over the rest of Dean's scalp even as he hoped he came up empty. "Well it's only the one spot," he breathed out in moderate relief, hands falling from Dean's head.
"Yeah, goody," Dean mumbled, able to breathe a little better when Sam's fingers left his head, removed the slight pressure they generated to a skull that was threatening to explode.
"Alright bend your head forward, let me wash it out," Sam quietly instructed, coming to his feet to tower over Dean, the antiseptic bottle in hand. Watching Dean obediently do his bidding, Sam again parted his brother's hair and squeezed some of the antiseptic into the wound. Though the solution bubbled, Dean was rock steady, no reaction to the burning, to the pain. But Sam wasn't sure if he admired his brother for his stoicism or felt like a chasm was again opening up under his feet, that Dean was again fortifying his walls, was planning to again board himself up…away from Sam, from the pain of their life, of their father's death. Sam dropped his hand onto Dean's shoulder, gripped it, unconsciously trying to hold onto his brother, to not be shut out, to not be left behind.
Surprised by Sam's uncharacteristic grip on his shoulder, Dean jolted slightly at the touch. He preempted Sam's worried call of his name with a gruff, "I'm fine…"
Having stilled his actions at Dean's startled reaction, Sam hesitated, stood there, wishing he could see Dean's hidden face, wished more that he could just know what his brother was thinking, what he wanted from him, wondered bitterly if he would give it to him even if he knew. Shaking himself from his dark thoughts, Sam recapped the antiseptic bottle and sat it on the floor, braced himself for what came next.
"I'm going to look at your back…" Sam warned, watched as his brother sat up straight, bent his head down and began working to undo the buttons on his shirt. When Dean began shrugging out of the shirt, he had to clench his jaw from protesting, from making the offer to help which he knew Dean would reject. Unable to coldly watch as Dean's efforts obviously racketed up his exhaustion, Sam reached out, pulled on the cuff of the long sleeve shirt to free Dean's arm from the fabric, was rewarded with a typical rebuttal.
"I got it," Dean groused, hating that Sam perceived him as helpless, that he felt helpless, that the simple act of removing his shirt was a study of agony as his muscles screamed in protest, as his head seemed willing to roll free when he shifted it a little, as his ribs seemed to be coiling around his insides, constricting his lungs, restricting his ability to just breathe.
Knowing that Dean would only accept so much help from him, Sam retreated, dropped his hands from Dean, knew he had bigger battles to win. His logic didn't make it any easier for him to watch as his brother struggled to remove the shirt. When the long sleeve shirt was off, he almost breathed a sigh of relief until he saw Dean grip the bottom of his t-shirt, knew Dean was going to try and pull the shirt over his head, regardless of the agony that action would cause him. He obstructed that grim show by biting out, "Leave it on, Dean."
"Thought you wanted to see my back? You add X-Ray vision to your superpowers, Sammy?" Dean tauntingly challenged, hating that his words were coming out breathless, that the small action of removing his shirt had hurt like a mother, had squandered away whatever free flowing air he had in his chest.
Worry hiked in Sam's own chest at the distressed sound of Dean's intake/outtake of air. Knowing from experience that showcasing worry to Dean, expecting his brother to forego his big brother, invincible facade was a hopeless wish, Sam returned smart aleck comment for smart aleck comment. "Yeah, and I found out what I always knew…you're the man without a brain." Knowing Dean was distracted by the need to parry his playful insult, Sam took that moment to carefully push Dean's T-shirt up. "Oh crap, Dean," he exhaled in sympathy and concern at the livid bruising that covered his brother's back like a perverse tattoo.
"Does it look like that crappy spin art picture you did when we were at Wildwood?" Dean sallied, trying to lighten the mood, to remove the concern so evident in Sam's tone.
Swallowing, putting his concern, his regret under more layers, Sam did what Dean needed him to: he made light of his pain, of the brutal cost of doing the right thing, of the stark knowledge that they could have died tonight doing their 'job'. "No, it looks more like your 7th grade art picture of a tiger, you know the one I said my puking on it would be an improvement to."
"Jealously doesn't become you," Dean lowly shot back, grateful for Sam's barb, that his brother was giving him the diversion he needed to keep the pain at bay.
Wanting to prepare Dean for his next actions, Sam informed, "I know you said your ribs are just bruised but I'm going to check them when I check your back, just to make sure." Expecting a protest from Dean, Sam stilled at the silence. "You still with me?" he hurriedly asked, hand shooting out to wrap around Dean's right bicep.
"Ah, yeah, Sam. I'm sitting right here," Dean mockingly answered, raising his bowed head, knowing that any movement from him would reassure Sam that he was OK, would help take away that scared note he heard in his brother's voice. "What, you think I'm off astroplaning again?"
Whatever succor Dean's initial response gave to Sam the astroplaning joke shattered. The joke cut too deep, the question conjured up memories that Sam struggled, daily, to bury. Memories of Dean lying in a coma while his 'spirit' went on walk about, taking on reapers, almost leaving him behind, forever.
Easily hearing the audible catch in Sam's breathing, Dean sat up straighter, realized too late that some things were too raw for jokes. "Sorry, didn't mean to go there," he sincerely apologized, surprised and touched that his time in the coma still had an effect on his brother.
Biting his lip a moment to make sure he didn't speak, that a sound of weakness didn't escape him, Sam nodded his head, though Dean couldn't see the reaction. With hands steady from long experience of testing and tending to injuries, Sam slid his hands under the front of his brother's shirt and carefully traced each of Dean's ribs from back to front with his fingers.
At his seemingly aloof inspection, he couldn't help clenching his teeth, afraid of what further injuries he would uncover, hating the pain he was meting out to his brother, dreading the flinch that was bound to come, straining to hear the raw catch in his brother's breathing that could erupt any second. Preparing to let Dean's pain wash over him like it meant nothing, to think he could shut it out, would not react, would not skitter away, it was a study of futility, was proven that when his fingers brushed against his brother's deeply bruised ribs and a shudder of pain vibrated through Dean. Instantly he jerked his hands from his brother, removed his hurtful touch, clenched his hands into fists as self loathing ran rampant through him.
It seemed a Winchester curse, that every action taken by any of them to heal each other only ended up in causing further pain…his taking Dean to the faith healer, him loading Dean and his father into that Impala to get them to the hospital, him practically forcing Dean to open up to him about their father's death. Spectacular successful failures, all of them in their own insidious way. Made him doubt that he could do right by Dean, that he could ever do anything other than hurt the ones he loved….his mom, Jessica, his dad….Dean. Consciously and unconsciously, he had hurt them all.
"What? Did my insurance coverage run out? Thought this was a free clinic?" Dean drawled, unsettled by Sam's quiet, somehow hurt by the quick withdraw of his brother's touch, worried at the rising tension coming from the presence at his back.
Tears almost sprang to Sam's eyes. That was his brother for him, always throwing out life rafts for him, always building bridges across expansions that seemed impassable, always forgiving him for whatever harm he caused, intentional and unintentional alike. "It's a cheap clinic but not a free one," Sam returned, finding his voice, finding his path again as he settled his hands onto his brother's wounded body, turned his ministrations onto his brother's livid back. "I figure you're going to owe me about six hours of music of my choice." His fingers coming to rest on the discolored, bruised skin, he felt Dean's body go taut under his touch. But Dean didn't skitter away from the upcoming pain, merely bowed forward further, trustingly offering up his curved back to his brother's capable hands.
Reaching out to grasp the edge of the bathroom's countertop, Dean braced himself for the heightened pain to come. Knew Sam had barely touched him, that he had to bear down if he didn't want to convey to Sam just how badly his examination hurt him. Aware that he had to protest, that it was what Sam expected out of him, needed from him, he refuted, "Six, no," his voice a low rumble, pain and his bowed head distorting his usual baritone. "Two. Two hours."
At his brother's counter offer, Sam forced a snort from his dry mouth. Then, resolutely, he began to press on the bruises marring his brother's torso, to determine the extent of the damage, even as he prayed that he wouldn't uncover any indications of internal injury. Felt insane gratitude for Dean's rock steadiness during his inspection, felt shame at needing that coddling, that deception from Dean just as sharply. A few minutes later, he removed his trembling hands from Dean's back, exhaled. "I couldn't feel any breaks or internal injuries." Surprised when his announcement didn't garner an 'I told you so' reply, Sam stilled, let his heightened senses uncover what had his heart racing. Then he heard it, above the splash of water against the shower floor: Dean's ragged breathing.
Cursing, Sam came to his feet, quickly skirted around Dean and bent down beside his brother. His hand unconsciously sliding onto Dean's knee, Sam took in his brother's profile, saw that Dean's eyes were closed, that his face was slick with sweat, his hands were braced against the side of the sink's countertop in a white-knuckled grip and his every breath was nearly a wheeze.
"Oh man, I'm sorry. I should have let you lie down. Come on," the words rushing from Sam as he wrapped his hand around Dean's right wrist. But it was a moment before Dean released his death grip on the countertop and allowed his arm to be pulled over his brother's shoulders. Sliding his left hand low over Dean's left hip so as to not make connection with any bruising, he stood up, pulled Dean with him. Stepping toward the shower, he lowered Dean to sit on the bathtub's rim and leaned him back cautiously against the wall beside the faucets. Claiming a seat on the rim in front of Dean, keeping one hand on Dean's right shoulder, he used his other hand to draw the curtain back and around them, to enclose them into the steam cocoon of the shower.
Sam cupped the left side of Dean's neck with his hand as much to keep Dean upright as to offer a connection to Dean, a kindness, a gentleness. Saw Dean's eyes slip open at the gesture, could see the green gaze was hazy with pain, with exhaustion but met his own gaze unerringly. "Dean, did the hospital give you any medication? Do you have a prescription for anything?"
"No," Dean managed to get out, felt pride at the accomplishment because it felt like the Impala was parked on his chest and he was holding onto consciousness by the most tenuous grip.
"No, you don't have any medication or no, you didn't fill the prescription?" Sam pressed, knowing his brother well enough to know that there were loopholes in the one worded statement.
Dean tried to smirk, but by Sam's hard swallow and worried look, he knew the gesture had failed. He tried instead to reassure with words. "No …to both," he croaked out, fighting the tickle in his throat but his resistance only made his first cough sputter harder from his tight chest, made the other coughs follow on its heels, bowing him forward as they tore any tendril of air from his lungs.
Frantically, Sam slid close enough to catch his brother in his arms as Dean tilted forward, allowed his brother's head to rest on his collarbone as the coughs ripped unmercifully through his brother's frame. One arm bracing Dean's lower back, Sam's hand cupped the base of Dean's neck, holding onto his brother, praying for the attack to pass. "Easy, Dean, easy. The steam will work, alright, we have just got to give it a little more time," he soothed, hoping he was right, that his brother's pain would soon be gone. "Crap you sound like that time Dad made you smoke that cigar…for medicinal purposes," he joked, desperate to refocus Dean's attention, to refocus his own panic into something useful, something that could help Dean.
But Dean couldn't join in on Sam's trip down memory lane, not when his latest batch of coughs were becoming longer, made him wonder how long he could go without air before he was asphyxiated. 'I'm not going out in a bathroom. It ain't happening like that.' Fisting his hand onto the sleeve of Sam's shirt, he anchored himself to Sam, drew strength from his brother's presence.
Fear racketed higher in Sam as Dean shook harder in his arms, as the coughing continued to erupt from his brother in unrelenting waves, allowing no air to seep into his brother's lungs. Abandoning compassion and first aid knowledge and everything except his own needs, he pushed Dean off his shoulder, cruelly slammed Dean's back against the wall. The choked cry of pain from Dean at the impact was a victory of sorts, as it cut off a lung starving cough. Fisting his hands in Dean's shirt, Sam pulled Dean up straighter against the wall, knocked him against the wall again but with less force. "Stop screwing around and breathe, Dean!" he snarled, felt vindicated for his rough treatment when Dean drew in a labored but real breath of air and his green eyes opened, met his own. Felt himself go weak with relief when Dean's gave another breath, this one wheezed but full, unmarred by a cough, Dean's eyes remaining fixed on his as he rested limply back against the wall. Settling his open palm over Dean's heart, keeping Dean in place even as he kept himself together as he encouraged, "Yeah, just keep breathing, Dean. Take shallow breaths. It will get easier, I promise."
A small cough mingled in Dean's following breath but his next was unfiltered, sounded better to Sam's ears than anything had. "As soon as you stop acting like a girl about to faint, I'm going to fill the prescription I know the hospital gave you. And whatever it is, you're taking it, Dean." At Dean's weak but visible look of protest, Sam cut in, "Shut up Dean, you're taking it." Sliding his hand to Dean's neck, he took his pulse.
"'m still alive?" Dean croaked out, the wane smile on his white face like a fireworks display for Sam.
Sam couldn't help smirking and shaking his head, sliding his hand down to Dean's chest he gave it a gentle pat but didn't speak. They were both going to live.
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"Sam, I'm fine," Dean insisted, his words edged with irritation, as he struggled to sit up on the bed, his movement shifting the icepack from his leg.
"Yeah, cause nearly dying in the shower, that was just for kicks," Sam shot back, standing at Dean's bedside, cruelly letting Dean think he was making progress before he put his hand on his brother's shoulder, easily pinned him back to the mattress. Giving the shoulder under his hand a gentle push, he removed his touch, looked down at Dean, his gaze inspecting, unknowingly biting his bottom lip in indecision.
"I didn't nearly die in the shower, drama queen," Dean denied heatedly, eyes burning into his brother's.
"Right, it was on the rim of the bathtub," Sam countered, refusing to downplay his panic or the seriousness of his brother's attack.
"Sam…" Dean growled in warning, in exasperation.
Knowing that he honestly couldn't win, not when Dean's defenses were slowly rebuilding themselves from the coughing attack two hours ago, Sam loosened his stance over his brother, shook his head in defeat and annoyance. "Ok, you're fine, I'm fine. So you'll be just great while I go out for awhile," he said as he turned around, snatched his coat off the other bed.
Watching Sam head for the door, Dean demanded, "Where are you going?" his voice still husky from abuse.
"To hook up with some hot chick…" Sam shot back without slowing his pace for the door. Dean knew exactly where he was going, that he was going to do what he had threatened to do.
"Bars are all closed, Sammy."
Hand on the doorknob, Sam froze, heard, not a challenge in his brother's voice but a sigh, almost an entreaty for the truth. Turning around, Sam saw Dean hadn't abandoned his prone position on the bed, was conceding to Sam's wishes and his body's. But Dean had rolled his head to track his motions and Dean's eyes met his own unflinchingly. "You know where I'm going, Dean," he quietly said, didn't want this to be an argument but knew just as certainly he wouldn't change his mind.
"I don't need it," Dean briskly reassured but Sam looked away from him, the gesture calling him on the lie better than any words his little brother would dare utter. "I am better, Sam," he stated, knew that, at least, was the truth.
At the admission, Sam met Dean's eyes again, knew his brother was trying his best to settle his little brother's fears. "What if our roles were reversed, Dean? Tell me you wouldn't be leaving right now to get me medicine," his words soft yet unyielding, his eyes imploring Dean to see his side of this, inviting him to read his fear that had not totally dissipated, would only when Dean's breathing was unstilted, was nearly inaudible again.
Sam's logic reminded him of the Pastor's logic, invited him to imagine Sam in the hospital, Sam in a bathroom, desperate for breath. Neither image did one dot of good loosening the tightness in his chest. And Sam's imploring look…Dean had little defenses against it, never had. "It can wait until morning, Sam. It's what.. 3am," Dean lightly countered, giving in slightly, watching Sam's body language for an indication of Sam's reply.
Pulling the written prescription from his pocket, Sam waved it in his hand, "It's already waited, Dean. You were supposed to fill this two days ago. Heck, you are probably still supposed to be in the hospital," his voice rising at the thought that his guess might be right.
Deflecting, Dean accused with a smirk, "And where did you get that prescription? Rifling through my personal possessions is a no-no, Sam."
"Maybe I wouldn't have to if you were upfront with me, Dean. I don't need you to be invincible dude. What I want is for you to take care of yourself, for you to admit that this…" Sam broke off his words, unintentionally treading where he hadn't planned to go. But Dean's eyes held his with confusion, prodded him on. "It's not a betrayal, Dean, wanting something better for yourself, for your life. Not to me."
Unprepared for the change in topic, Dean ripped his eyes from Sam, focused on his hands lying on his stomach but he could sense Sam stepping back towards him, determined to have this conversation that he honestly couldn't handle right now. "Dad wouldn't…" he croaked out, eyes burning at the thought of his Dad, at his father's sacrifice for him, to make sure he saved Sam, continued hunting.
It was the objection Sam had been waiting for but the sound of Dean's broken voice was something he hadn't guarded himself against. "Dad was proud of me, right?" he countered, his own voice rough, owing no credit to smoke inhalation. His words got Dean's eyes flying to his, intrigued. "You said he was proud of me even though I went to college, abandoned hunting…the life he wanted me to live. And he still checked up on me, right? When I was at college. Still cared about me…about my safety. I was still his son…even though I chose a difference path than he would have chosen for me."
"That was
different.." Dean refuted, looked away again, words echoing in his
head, words in his father's voice. 'Sam, he's clearly
John's favorite. Even when they fight it's more concern than
he's ever shown you.'
"How Dean?" Sam demanded,
stepping closer to Dean. "We are both his sons…" but then he
saw it, the jump in Dean's jaw, the hit the words had. His breath
caught in his throat, made his next words low, gentle, "I know he
didn't always treat us the same way…."
Dean couldn't help give a small snort at the understatement of the year but he didn't look to Sam, couldn't. Didn't know what he would see in his brother's expression, what truth or what lie.
Stilling at Dean's reaction, Sam let out a held breath. "He loved us both, Dean. And he would want us both to be happy…."
Eyes sliding to Sam's, Dean couldn't hold back his scolding retort, "Happy, yeah, that was on the family agenda."
"It was what Mom wanted for you, for us," Sam quietly lobbed back, saw Dean's flinch and almost felt regret at his choice of weapon even as he pressed his advantage. "Dad said that when you were sad, she did whatever she could to get a smile out of you…sometimes made you your favorite food."
Dean had no defense against Sam's words, had never developed a true defense against memories of his Mom, leaving them with the power to hurt him and heal him alike. He remembered that about his Mom, her warm smile, her tickling him, her bad jokes, her surprising him with his favorite food when he was sad, when he had fallen and scrapped his knee, when he was upset he couldn't go with his Dad to the hardware store. And he knew in his gut, that Sam was right, his mother wanted him to be happy, had always wanted her sons to be happy, for her family to be happy. "But Mom…she's not here, Sam," he said, voice a raw sound, eyes meeting Sam's in sorrow and bitter acceptance.
"It doesn't change what she wanted for you, Dean. It doesn't. And it doesn't change what I want for you. I don't want you to go, God knows I don't want you to go. But I just want….I want you to live your dream, Dean. I want you to be …happy," the word stuck in his throat, at the notion that Dean wasn't happy…couldn't be happy with him.
"Sam…" Dean gently began, hearing the catch in his brother's voice, seeing the tears gathering in Sam's eyes.
"I'll be back," Sam cut in, turning on his heels, stalking for the door, not up to hearing Dean's words, of facing a future without Dean at his side.
The door slammed shut in Sam's wake. Leaning heavily back on the mattress, Dean sighed, "Ah Sam," love and worry and irritation in the two words. How could Sam not see what was so blatant?! Sure, he loved racing but he would never love it more than he loved Sam. His mother had done more than cheer him up when he was sad and make him his favorite foods, she had told him that he should always treasure the people he loved, that having a family was a blessing. A blessing Dean Winchester had no intention of throwing away, not for racing, not for a safe life, not for anything in the world.
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TBC
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Thanks so much for the reviews from last chapter!!
And thanks to everyone out there still reading!
Have a great day!
Cheryl W.
