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.
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Chapter 13: Brothers and Brass Rings
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Stepping out of the steam filled bathroom, Sam came up short at Dean's empty bed, the sheets still rumpled. Felt the too habitual panicked thud of his heart before he saw the triangle of sunlight coloring the room's floor that had him seeking its source. Quickly looking left, he saw that the motel room door was open and beyond that, Dean was there, was standing beside the Impala, hadn't gone far. 'Yet' slipped into his head like the hiss of a serpent, tainting his relief.
Swallowing down his fears, Sam crossed soundlessly to the doorway. Leaning his shoulder against the wood, his wet hair causing him to shiver a little in the fall air, he watched Dean slowly crouch down on the driver's side of the Impala, his motions careful, tentative. Knew when a wince contorted his brother's face that Dean was unaware that he was there, a spectator to his pain and his fingers' gentle trace of the Impala's scored metal.
Sam didn't speak, didn't want to disturb either inspection: Dean's inspection of the Impala or his own inspection of Dean. Biting his lip at his inspection's findings, Sam knew, as pale as Dean was in the morning sunlight, it was a marked improvement to his pallor from when he had re-entered the motel room at 4am, prescriptions in hand.
*** Six Hours Prior****
Slipping quietly back into the motel room, Sam instantly knew his internal debate on the ride back to the motel was obsolete. Because, deciding whether or not to wake Dean to give him the medication, to make him take a hit off the inhaler, it wasn't even a consideration, not when the first thing that registered with him as he crossed the room's threshold was the struggling hitch in Dean's labored breathing. But even with that urgency, he had settled his hand gently on Dean's shoulder, called his brother's name with soft entreaty, only gave the cold shoulder under his hand a small shake when no reaction came from Dean.
It was almost ridiculous that he felt such relief at seeing his brother opening his eyes, no matter how dulled the green pupils were from pain and confusion. And Dean's mumbled retort, "Sammy? Crap did you hook up with a nurse or what?" was priceless to Sam, the joke making it easier on him to rouse Dean fully from his sleep.
"Yeah, Dean, I decided to take your prescriptions out in trade," Sam sarcastically shot back even as he pulled Dean's covers down and slipping his hand around Dean's forearm. "You got to sit up for a minute," he gently ordered, giving a tentative pull on Dean's arm. When Dean growled low in his throat, closed his eyes again and seemed to settle more firmly onto the mattress, making it clear that he would not join his efforts to get him upright, Sam sighed. "Come on Dean. I didn't go to the hospital in the middle of the night just for kicks."
His entreaty earning him Dean's eye contact, Sam didn't know what Dean read in his eyes but he knew Dean was going to capitulate to his wishes even before Dean began to sit up. Quickly adding his strength to Dean's efforts, Sam saw the pain crease his brother's brow as Dean slid his feet over the side of the bed and sat up. Claiming a seat beside his brother, Sam felt Dean's eyes on him as he pulled the pill bottle and inhaler from his coat pocket, heard Dean's sharp intake of breath that was a forerunner to a protest…or would have been under better circumstances when Dean's lungs weren't bogged down by residual smoke.
Dean cursed as his protest at the inhaler turned into another painful round of coughing that bent him forward, had Sam wrapping an arm around his chest to deter him from falling on his face. When Sam's other hand began rubbing his back, he wanted to hate the gentle gesture. Told himself instead that he didn't try to elude Sam's ministrations because they had some healing properties attributed to them, that they helped him to remember how to breathe, that air was supposed to slip into his lungs not just leave it like the last train out of Hiroshima. But more than that, Sam's touch proved that he wasn't alone, not in his pain, not in the life he had chosen, the life that had been chosen for him.
Shifting closer to Dean, assuring that he had a good hold on his brother, Sam lifted his hand from Dean's back and reached blindly for the inhaler he had dropped when Dean seemed ready to pitch off the bed. Fingers latching onto the cylinder, he shook the inhaler. Then when the attack weakened and Dean sat up straight, he placed the inhaler in Dean's hand, boldly met his brother's resisting look. "I knew you would gripe about the inhaler but it's the quickest relief, Dean." When Dean's look didn't relent, Sam pulled out all the stops and resorted to little brother whining. "Dean, as much fun as it is watching you nearly being asphyxiated to death or coughing up a lung, I'm tired, man. I for one would like a little sleep tonight."
For a moment, Dean's expression remained impassive, as if his little brother's tactic had failed. Then, with ill grace but purpose, he lifted the inhaler to his mouth.
"You have to.." Sam began to instruct but Dean took the medication expertly, apparently even knew that he shouldn't talk right away after taking a hit on the inhaler, because he only gave Sam a closed mouth smile that charged, 'satisfied?' The knowledge that this might not be Dean's first time using an inhaler made his eyes sharpen on Dean, earning him a scowl of confusion from his brother. Shrugging his shoulders, Sam replied to the unvoiced question, "Nothing. Just seems you're familiar with this routine. Another gap in your medical history I don't know about?"
But Dean's smile morphed from challenging to lascivious and a spark grew in his eye. "A girl?' Sam laughed, understanding. "You dated a girl with Asthma? And you had deep meaningful conversations about her condition and her treatment." Dean's smile held but he didn't make a comment, still waiting out the medication's requirements. "You know what? I don't want to know," Sam deflected as he retrieved the pill bottle from the mattress, opened it and palmed out two pills. He matter-of-factly pulled the inhaler from Dean's grasp and replaced it with the two pills. "Antibiotics: two to be taken every day until they are gone. Gone, Dean. Not just until you think I'm no longer keeping an eye on you."
Breaking his silence, Dean challenged, "When aren't you keeping an eye on me Sam? You're perfect stalker material." But he obediently tossed the pills in his mouth, picked up the water on the nightstand and chased the pills with a healthy swallow of it. Putting the glass back onto the stand with a thunk, he turned to Sam. "Are we done here? Can I get some sleep?"
Sam smiled, shook his head in amusement, stood up and headed to the other bed where his duffle bag sat. His head was down, searching for his sleep clothing, when Dean spoke.
"Sam…" Dean began, throat tightening up with emotions this time but when Sam lifted his eyes to his, he faltered. As much as he wanted to tell Sam that he wasn't going anywhere, that Sam was stuck with him, there was a part of him that warned that relief might not be Sam's first reaction, that disappointment or shame or frustration might be. That Sam might think he was a coward, that he didn't have the guts to carve out a life of his own, separate from him, separate from his father's wishes. 'I have a brain. I can think for myself. I'm not pathetic, like you.' Sam's words suddenly echoed in his head, cutting off his breathing, drying up his declaration. Because, no matter how many times he told himself it wasn't what Sam really thought about him, part of him knew it was. Sure, Dr. Ellicott had brought the matches to the party, but Sam had unknowingly provided the emotional kerosene.
Stilling, Sam looked to Dean, watched with heartbreak as Dean shut himself down in front of his eyes, bricked up the wall. A wall that, for a second there, Sam had sworn was down. "What Dean?" he asked gently, inside imploring his brother to meet him half way. Heck, to meet him in the doorway, just …meet him.
Pulling on a light smile, Dean said, "Thanks, Sammy, for the midnight medication run."
"Don't mention it," Sam demurred, but he felt sorrow sear into him, knew his smile was weak. Watching Dean crawl back under the covers and close his eyes, Sam felt his own eyes burn. No matter how he tried to express it, Dean couldn't see that he would do anything for him, that there was nothing too great…or too small he wouldn't do if Dean only asked him. That his rebellion was gone, over, done. His bid for freedom from his family at an end, that his notion of normal had changed to Dean and him in the Impala, hitting the road, taking on evil at each other's sides. That whatever evil he had inside himself, he would fight it…because Dean gave him the strength to fight it. 'And what happens if he takes you up on your offer? If he leaves you? If he chooses life…happiness instead of being your protector, your savior? How will you fight the darkness in you then?'
The answer was a resonating, 'I don't know.' Even as something deeper in him said the opposite, that he did know, knew only too well. Knew that, without his brother in his life, he would lose his way, that without Dean's easy smile and off color jokes and reassuring presence, his life wouldn't mean much. 'This isn't about me!' he internally snarled, ripping his nightshirt from his bag, 'This can't be about what Dean's leaving will cost me….it has to be about what staying has already cost Dean. Staying with Dad..and now staying with me.' Sam's eyes rose to land on Dean's now sleeping form and he remembered Dean in his coma, his stillness, his …absence. Sam understood in his gut that his Dad had, in his own way, paid back Dean's loyalty to him by dying in his place, by selling his soul to broker the deal. In comparison, he knew his own proposal to repay Dean was laughable, weak, a thousand times insufficient, 'Yeah, then why does the thought of it make me want to hurl, huh? Make me want to go on the worst bender of my life?! Make me want to beg Dean to let me stay with him, to be his gofer, his press agent, his racing manager..anything as long as I was at his side, that he was at mine, that we weren't traveling this life, alone…like we were strangers.'
*** Present ****
Shaking himself from the fears that had latched onto him in the darkness, Sam refocused on Dean as he continued his evaluation of the Impala. He was about to make his presence known to his brother when another voice spoke. The surprise visitor had him stepping toward Dean, protective instincts coming on line even when he was presented with a known ally. He wasn't willing to misjudge anyone's intentions toward Dean, not when his brother was hurt.
Having deserted his car at the motel office, Tim walked down the motel's parking lot until he came upon the familiar classic car, recognized Dean's bent down head as his young mechanic friend crouched by the driver's side door. "She doesn't look too bad," he judged, eyes assessing the car as he approached but Dean's slow, obviously painful ascent to his feet snagged his full attention. "Crap," he exclaimed, stepping closer to Dean, hand reaching out to grip the younger man's elbow to steady him. "Garner said your car needed repaired, he didn't tell me you were hurt," concern evident in Tim's tone, in his eyes as they met Dean's.
"I'm alright," Dean stated lowly, shifting back a step, dislodging Tim's hold on his elbow. Instantly he felt Sam's presence at his back, cursed himself for not sensing it before, wondered what he had let slip under Sam's silent scrutiny.
Tim let his eyes shift behind Dean, to the tall dark haired man who had posed as a reporter, who was looking at him with a deadly threat in his eyes. He watched as the man, having deserted his post at the door, quickly drew closer to Dean…to his brother. "So, you two are brothers," he drawled, his eyes moving from one brother to the other but his smile assured the two men that his words weren't an accusation just a revelation…like so much had been in the last couple of hours.
Guilt seeped into Dean and he cleared his throat before he spoke, "Tim, I'm sorry. Garner didn't want anyone to know who we were."
"Or what you were?" Tim pointedly said, leaning back against the Impala, his eyes on Dean now, on the person he thought he could read best. Seeing Dean's eyes slide to the right to meet his brother's, who had come to stand at his side, Tim wondered how they had done it, how they could have buried a connection that was like a live wire..even in silence. When Dean faced him again, he knew that, in that one shared glance, a decision had been made between the brothers.
"So you know why Garner hired us?" Dean asked, testing the ground, wondering where his story had to begin to bring Tim up to date.
Tim shook his head but not in ignorance but disbelief, "I know …but I'm still having a hard time believing it. Ghosts?"
"Ghost. One," Dean clarified, and drew in a breath, hating to tarnish a sport Tim loved, to taint the things the older man believed in: sportsmanship, skill willing out, hope. He was surprised and thankful when Sam took up the story instead.
Having sensed Dean's dread, Sam announced, "Nelson Barton's ghost, actually," stepping forward, drewing Tim's full attention on him, away from Dean. "You already know that he was picked by NASCAR, that he was killed in a bike accident before his dreams of going pro could come true. Well, we found out that he died on the Smithfield track and, when people die with unresolved issues, strong emotions still raging in them…"
"They stick around…" Tim concluded, looking to Dean, wanting to see his expression, to see the truth in his eyes.
"Yeah," Dean agreed, sorrow in his eyes, apology in his tone. "He was keeping people safe on the track for a lot of years but then, when NASCAR was set to come knocking…his jealousy got the best of him."
"He caused the wrecks...used his…ghost powers and …he killed Troy. All of them. Rook," Tim stammered, horror creasing his face. But belief cemented into his soul, because, somewhere in the few days that he had known Dean, he had come to trust him, knew that, no matter how ludicrous it all sounded, Dean wasn't lying to him. Not anymore. Not about this.
At the mention of Rook, Dean dropped his eyes from Tim, shuffled against the Impala to lean against her, taking some measure of strength from the only home he had ever known. "Tim, I'm sorry about Rook," he began, forced himself to face the older man's judgment. "I knew what was going on. I should have stopped Rook from getting into that car, should have stopped everyone from getting on that track."
"You tried," Sam jumped in, conviction in his tone as he faced Dean, forgot about Tim, about anything but wiping away the guilt Dean was unnecessarily still bearing.
"Not hard enough," Dean shot back, eyes swinging to Sam.
"I saw you," Tim quietly said, his words solemn enough to send both of the brothers' focus to him.
Realizing that Tim's look was locked on him, Dean felt his breath trap in his chest, waited for the condemnation he knew he deserved. At his side, he easily sensed the tautness in Sam's posture, knew Sam was just as ready to defend him from any blame.
"You tried to get to Rook, would have climbed in that burning car to get him out…would have died trying to save a dead man," Tim recalled, remembered, amid his own shock at the accident, watching Dean run for the car, knew in his gut Dean was going to get himself killed trying to rescue Rook, knew just as certainly that Rook was already dead, was beyond saving. "You told Darien not to race, you told all of us to stay off the track. You honestly think telling us the truth, that some ghost was haunting that track, you think that would have changed our minds?"
Lowly Dean regretfully replied, "I don't know. I just wish I could have saved him."
Tim nodded sadly, "I know, I feel the same way. I feel it every single time a driver of one of my cars gets hurt, gets killed. And it doesn't seem to get any easier. But I guess it shouldn't, right?" his eyes probing Dean's, asking for forgiveness as much as giving it.
Swallowing, Dean nodded, knew that Tim did understand his regret for Rook's death, even shared it, just like Sam did, that he didn't bear the weight alone. Then something caught up with him, something that Tim had said. Tilting his head, he gave Tim a questioning look, "How did Garner know the Impala was damaged?"
The question surprised Tim and silently he looked to Dean's younger brother, had no intention of stepping over a line between the brothers. He had put enough pieces together since he had learned of their relationship to know that they were close, would go to extremes to protect one another.
Following the hint Tim was giving him, Dean turned to Sam, Sam who was wearing an uncompromising expression.
Before Dean could begin his interrogation, Sam went on the defensive, "Helping us repair the Impala is the least he owes us Dean," the steel in his tone matching the determination in his that told Dean he wasn't willing to relent on this one.
"So we're now doing this for the payday?" Dean challenged, feeling like they were crossing over into treacherous territory, that taking money tainted their intentions of what they did, why they did it.
"'Course not, Dean. But he's the one who offered to pay us and then reneged on it. He's the one who practically tied our hands while we tried to do the job, making us act like strangers, not allowing us to tell people they were in danger. And his pride wouldn't allow him to consider closing down the track even though he knew how deadly things were, how many people had already died before we even got here," Sam said, voice rising, his anger at Garner burning hotter the longer he talked, tallied Garner's numerous mistakes and prideful manipulations. And part of him knew the greatest charge he held against Garner was his insistence that he and Dean act like strangers, bury their brotherhood, put additional strain on their relationship when their father's death, his deathbed confession seemed nearly capable of severing it.
"Sounds just like Garner," Tim snorted, found he hated seeing the conflict flaring between the brothers enough to cross the safety line he swore he would not. "Egotistical, cold hearted and cheap, that's him. I've got to agree with your little brother on this one, Dean. The least Garner owes you is for him to hit his brother up to scavenge Impala parts from his salvage yard, lend you a garage and my able assistance to fix this classic beauty back to its prime condition." Straightening off the Impala, he walked around to the other side of the Impala and scowled as his eyes scanned the side of the car. "I mean, you can't tell me you're going to let her look like this. Barton's car looks better than this," he scoffed, then he slid his eyes up from his inspection of the Impala to Dean's nearly outraged look. Slowly, a smile pulled onto his lips.
"You're a lying jerk," Dean retorted with a laugh, recognizing that the other man was purposely goading him. "Barton's ride is ready for last rites but my baby just needs a little buffing and some bumpers and she's good as new," he said, hand coming to rest on the Impala's hood as he eyes met the mechanic's over the car's roof.
Tim walked to the back right panel, crouched down and spoke even as he was hidden from view. "This panel's rubbing on the tire. You drive much further and the frame and the tire will be toast."
"No way," Dean contested but he was already hastily making his way around the car to where Tim was crouched. As Dean crouched down, Tim stood up, met Sam's look across the car and gave him a conspiring wink.
Surprised by Tim's well-meaning manipulation of Dean, Sam couldn't help smiling. Found that it felt good to have an ally against Dean's stubbornness, to know that someone else was looking out for what was best for Dean. In that moment, a spike of shame went through him at his earlier resentment of the older man's friendship with his brother. 'Crap, Sammy, jealousy really don't become you,' he snidely thought, sounding so much like Dean that he smiled wider. "Yeah, now that you mention it, I thought I smelled rubber burning when we were driving her home last night," he called over the car to his unseen brother, adding ammunition to Tim's plot. He couldn't help laughing as Dean's disembodied voice exclaimed, "You did not!" but a moment later worriedly asked, "Did you?"
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Standing outside one of the garage bays of the Smithfield track, Dean, Sam and Tim all stared at the Impala, as if assessing a patient on an operating table. But Dean couldn't ignore the pull of the race track behind him, could hear a car shifting through its gears as it maneuvered around the track. Tim's voice brought his mind back to the Impala, to his car, to the life that was his.
"I'll call Garner, make sure he's talked to his brother, then we can go pick out the parts we need," Tim planned, eyes moving from the car to Dean's profile, found he couldn't read the other man's expression or his silence, maybe didn't want to. Hoping to get some more insight, he looked to Sam, but Sam was also watching his brother, a worried look in his eyes.
"Dean, if you're not up for this…" Sam gently began, uncertain what had brought on Dean's silence but not liking it.
Breaking himself out of his thoughts, Dean turned to Sam, reassured, "I'm fine, Sam. I can start working on buffing her out." Putting action to words, he started to head for the tool chest but Sam's hand coiled around his forearm, halted his progress. Looking to Sam with surprise, he read the plea in Sam's eyes, knew where the conversation was headed, knew just as certainly that he wasn't going to let Sam win this bout. "I said I'm fine," he gruffly repeated.
The sound of the garage door being pulled down disrupted the sibling confrontation like a gunshot in a library, had Dean and Sam swiveling around to see Tim lock the garage door in place before he stood up and faced them.
"What the…" Dean began, stepping forward, anger in his tone and stance.
"My help comes with conditions," Tim cut Dean off, came forward to stand toe to toe with Dean.
"I didn't ask for your help. Now open that door," Dean growled and he felt Sam slide to his side, honestly didn't know if Sam was there to be his reinforcement or to hold him back.
To Sam's surprise, Tim looked to him, directed his earnest question to him, even as Tim remained a physical roadblock to Dean's advancement. "Is he up to working on the car?"
"I'm right here!" Dean snapped, stepping forward, earning him Tim's hand on his chest to halt him getting further into his personal space.
Knowing that to answer Tim's question honestly would be like taking side against Dean, Sam felt the blood rushing to his ears, heart pounding in his chest, even as he lowly said, "No, he's not."
"Sam!" Dean exclaimed in outrage, turning to his younger brother but Sam turned to him, eyes ablaze.
With his frustration only coming in second place to his worry, Sam ticked off his brother's injuries. "Your ribs are screwed up, your leg is bruised from calf to hip, your lungs are still battling the smoke inhalation and I can tell your head's still killing you, Dean! What part of any of that makes you "fine", should make me believe for one second that you should be working on the Impala!?"
"I can do it! I've friggin' hunted feeling worse than this!" Dean heatedly countered.
"Well Dad isn't here anymore!" Sam shouted back, leveling blame on who would have expected Dean to hunt while he was hurt. But the words ripped the air out from both he and Dean. The topic of their Dad had been off limits for nearly the whole hunt, his death, his sacrifice, all of it had been put on the back burner.
Seeing the hurt flash in Dean's eyes, Sam's next words were gentle. "It's just us now, Dean. And you've got nothing to prove to me. What I want is for you to stop being so reckless with your life…with your health. I've only got one brother and I'm kinda attached to him, would like him to stick around," Sam ended lightly, a smile turning up his lips but there was a seriousness in his eyes, the telltale signs that he was bearing his soul, was speaking the only truth that mattered to him.
Unprepared for Sam's declaration, Dean opened his mouth then closed it, shifted on his feet but when he saw his brother's worry spike at his silence, he sighed. "Sam, I told you I'm not going anywhere," his voice gentle, quiet, convicted.
Biting his lip, Sam nodded, knew Dean was talking about his oath to not die, to not leave him as the only family member alive, knew just as certainly that it was not an oath to stay at his side, a pledge that he would not choose a life separate from hunting, from him. Focusing on the bigger picture, the most important one, he sharply challenged, "Prove it." At Dean's raised eyebrows of confusion, he expanded, "For once in your life give yourself a break. Wait a few days to work on the Impala."
"Or how about you sit in the corner and supervise me while I do the work," Tim entered the conversation, his tone light but his offer genuine as he stepped to the brothers. Smiling at Dean he prodded, "I've been itching to take a serious look at her and you've been chaffing at me ordering you around. I figure this is a chance for us both to get what we want. Unless you don't trust me with her….."
Sam held his breath, Tim's offer seemingly an answer to prayers but he knew Tim's last volley had cut to the heart of the matter. Trust. Dean wasn't long on trust, had been hurt too many times to offer it to many people, had offered it to him, to their Dad and they had both taken advantage of it, used it for their own means, their own agendas. "I'll help," he breathlessly offered, watched as Dean's eyes slid to his. "You told me I had to…last night. I mean, I did most of the damage, it's only fair I undo it."
"Sam, you had no choice," Dean refuted, didn't hold Sam responsible in any way for the condition of the Impala.
But Sam shrugged, "I still feel guilty. Besides a little hard labor for penance will do my soul good," he joked, was rewarded with a smirk from his brother, which gave him hope that Dean would agree.
Turning from Sam back to Tim, Dean pointed his finger at the mechanic, "All original Impala parts, no racing modifications and no changes to things that aren't broken."
Tim's smile was wide and innocent, "Course, I wouldn't think of improving her."
A laugh broke from Sam at Tim's taunt. Even Bobby hadn't offered one word of advice to Dean when he was rebuilding the Impala, had told Sam that he valued his life more than that.
"Shut up," Dean muttered to Tim and Sam, watching as Tim's smile grew as he looked to Sam, saw that the co-conspirators were gloating in their perceived victory.
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Sitting on the stands side by side, the Winchesters divided their attention between the car on the track and Tim's phone conversation with Garner about Impala parts. Sam's head snapped right as Dean stood up.
"I'll be right back," Dean said, not giving Sam a backwards glance as he made his way down the stands.
Tracking Dean, Sam knew when Dean headed toward the track's outside fairgrounds where his destination was: the church, holy ground, Pastor Pete's sanctuary that they had destroyed last night. He didn't pull his attention from Dean even after Tim disconnected his call, claimed a seat on his left side. The mechanic's small chuckle had him turning to the other man. "What?"
Leaning back against the stands until his back and elbows rested on the foot rest for the next level up, Tim squinted up at the sun. "It's just so obvious now that I'm feeling really stupid for not seeing it before."
Brows furrowing Sam pressed, "What's obvious?"
Rolling his head toward Sam, Tim stated, "You two being brothers."
Taking the statement at face value, Sam mumbled, looking away, "Yeah, we have the same coloring though Dean's never going to get over the fact that I'm taller than he is."
"No, not that. I mean, yeah, there's the physical resemblance…sort of. But I'm talking about the connection between you two. I can see why you two didn't spend much time together at the track. That you couldn't risk giving anyone the tip off that you knew each other, were brothers," he pointed out, unprepared for his words to earn him Sam's intense inspection, almost as if the younger man was trying to call him on his bluff. Shifting upright again, he scoffed good naturedly, "Come on, the way you guys look at each other, track each other's movements, have complete conversations without uttering a word, argue. Classic brother traits, through and through. My two cousins were like you guys, would go at with each other like pitbulls but as soon as someone else came at one of them, you better call in the ambulance because the other one would wade into the fight with all they had."
Sam swallowed, felt choked up at Tim's observations even as he discounted them. "Dean and I have fooled a lot of people over the years." The proof was irrefutable that their connection wasn't always so blatant, could be covered up, buried, denied.
"For periods of how long?" Tim challenged, turning fully to face Sam. "In what roles? As strangers?! Because that I don't believe."
"Not usually as strangers…well, never as strangers, not for more than two seconds at a shot," Sam answered, remembered the con they had played in Rockford in the bar. That they had played adversaries, right before everything went sideways at the asylum. Before he went all dark and brooding and shot his brother in the chest with rocksalt.
"Knew it," Tim smugly returned. "I admit, you guys are good but, if you are in each other's presence for more than five minutes, your 'we're strangers' con would unraveled, fast. So I advise you to not try it again."
"I'm in total agreement it's Dean that has to be convinced," Sam returned, knew Dean's earlier oath wasn't as binding as he needed it to be.
"Nah, he doesn't," Tim said with conviction. Then he switched gears, gave Sam a devious smile. "Anyway, I've been meaning to ask you…how did you get Garner to agree to fix your car?"
"He didn't tell you?" Sam drawled and at Tim's shake of his head, he smiled brazenly. "I just threatened to call NASCAR up, give them the full scoop on the happenings at the track they chose to visit on Sunday. Freedom of the press and all that."
"Ah, yeah, that would work," Tim scoffed half in admiration and half in disbelief that Sam had the guts to manipulate Garner like that. "No wonder Garner was so pissed when he called me up in the middle of night, ordered me to fix your car and get you out of his life. Was upset enough to even come clean with me about what was going on at the track, about you guys working for him."
"Yeah, I'm not anxious to run into him. And I really don't want him and Dean to go another round," Sam admitted, his worry causing him to look again for his brother. Across the fairgrounds, he saw Dean slid inside the church tent.
Gathering his courage while Sam's gaze was not on him, Tim hesitantly began, "Sam, there's something I wanted to talk to you about."
"If it's something about the Impala, you're going to have to ask Dean," Sam distractedly replied, eyes scanning the fairgrounds, making sure Garner wasn't in sight, hadn't seen Dean.
"No, actually, it's about Dean…" Tim cautiously clarified, capturing Sam's full, intimidating attention. And he remembered who he was dealing with, the guy who nearly jumped in a burning car to save his brother, the guy that blackmailed Garner to get what he wanted for his brother. Suddenly his bright idea dimmed, seemed like a mistake of the greatest kind. Dean wasn't a boy, was a man, a dangerous, capable man. And so was Sam. They didn't need his interference in their lives, his help…except some part of him thought that they did.
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Slipping through the torn canvas of the Smithfield race track church, Dean, in one glance, took in the broken and strewn chairs, the Bibles and Hymnals littering the ground and Pastor Pete, standing in the midst of the destruction, stunned by the damage. The Pastor, sensing his presence, looked to him and gave a sad smile.
"Doesn't look like much of a church now?" the Pastor lightly scoffed, bending down to pick up a Bible off the ground. Standing up, he ran his hand over the tire tread that marred the Bible's soft cover.
Shame and guilt seared into Dean, knew that it was his fault and he should take the blame for it. Stepping toward the Pastor, he put his hands in his pocket, felt his shoulders drop to match his low tone as he spoke, drew the Pastor's gaze again to him. "I'm sorry."
Sighing, Pastor Pete off handedly absolved, "Not your fault." Putting the Bible down on an upright chair, he crossed to the wooden pulpit that lay on its side.
"Yeah, actually it is," Dean confessed, crossing to where the Pastor now crouched by the pulpit. He didn't shy away when the Pastor's surprised, confused gaze snapped up to him.
"I don't understand. You did this? You were the one joy riding in Barton's car?" disbelief saturated the Pastor's words, shadowed his eyes as they met Dean's.
"Yeah but…it's more complicated than that," Dean said, unfamiliar with feeling guilty at property damages, of the aftermath of one of their successful hunts for the innocent people on the sidelines.
Stunned, Pastor Pete simply looked at Dean, found that he could read the truth in the younger man's eyes, could just as easily read the guilt and regret. Not knowing how to feel let alone what to say, he turned to manual labor, began to hoist the pulpit upright.
Stepping forward, Dean grabbed the other side of the pulpit, wanting to help the Pastor, to make some small restoration to the damage he had caused. But the pulpit weighed more than he guessed and, at the first pull he made to lever the pulpit upright, he knew he had misjudged the strain his ribs would take.
Dean's muted cry of pain had Pastor Pete instantly abandoning the pulpit and scrambling to the young mechanic's side. Gripping Dean by the upper arms, hoping to keep the younger man on his feet, his eyes clashed with Dean's and he saw what his own misery had blinded him to: the paleness of Dean's complexion, his stiff stance, the dulled depths of his eyes. "You're been hurt again. Worse," he breathed, hated himself for not seeing it before Dean had tried to help him, had maybe done more damage to himself. "Here, take a seat," he said, steering Dean backwards and pushing him back into a chair that survived the carnage unscathed.
Crouching down by Dean's chair, Pastor Pete surveyed Dean, saw that he was wrapping his arm around his stomach, seemingly bracing against pain. "Is your brother here? Should I go get him?" he hurriedly asked, watched as Dean's eyes flew to his, the surprise sparking for a moment before it was buried.
"My brother? Why would you think he's here? I didn't end up calling him when I was in the hospital," Dean backpedaled, pulling on a scoffing smile, maintaining the lie.
Unfazed by Dean's denial, Pastor Pete gave a gentle smile in return. "I'm talking about Sam. Are you going to tell me he's not your brother?"
Blinking, Dean looked at the Pastor, felt decidedly off his game now that his cover had been blown. "How…" he began, knew Sam wouldn't have told him any more than Garner would have confided in him.
"In my profession, I end up trying real hard to hear things that need to be heard…even when people aren't saying them, can't say them," Pastor Pete vaguely stated, earning him a raised eyebrow from Dean which clearly asked for further clarification. "You almost called Sam by name in the hospital. And then everyone was talking about how 'the reporter' pulled you from the burning car after your accident."
"So? That's hardly a case for fraternity," Dean countered, a glimmer of steel in his gaze, wondering if he was getting played.
Sensing that he had come up against Dean's self made wall, Pastor Pete stood, found another untouched chair, sat it in front of Dean and claimed a seat. "Sam talked to me after the church service." Dean stilled, his eyes not giving anything away but Pastor Pete softened his next words all the same. "He said he had recently lost his father and he felt, sometimes like he was going to also lose his brother." Left unsaid the rest of Sam's sentence, "And losing my brother isn't something I can survive. He's always been there, you know. The strong one, the one I could count on, no matter what was happening, or what I did."
Sitting back further in his seat, Dean said nothing, having been in enough interrogations in his life to know reacting was always a mistake. But something inside him twisted at the knowledge that Sam was scared enough to open up to a stranger, to voice his fears that he would be left alone, the last Winchester standing.
Seeing that Dean was shutting down tighter, Pastor Pete changed tactics, sat back in his own chair and smirked, "You say the same things, you know." And that got a flash of surprise slipping from the younger man's fortifications. "When I suggested that he talk to his brother about how he was feeling, he said he did already. Said he 'didn't need his brother to come hold his hand…to worry about him more than he already did.' Same thing you said in the hospital when I suggested that you call your brother." Noting a marginal easing in Dean's stiff posture, he continued, voice mixing with somberness and admiration, "And then I saw him stop you from reaching Rook's burning car," his eyes unflinchingly meeting Dean's before the younger man dropped his head, hid his gaze, tried to conceal his weakness, his guilt.
"Not bad for a Preacher," Dean quietly returned, striving to put mirth and respect in his tone.
"I have my moments," Pastor Pete off handedly gloated, watched Dean's bowed head jar a minute with a snort of laughter. "I don't get to see it much in person these days, a bond like Jonathan and David's, a brotherhood that's so strong."
At the reference to the Sunday's sermon, Dean looked up, faced the Pastor. "Jonathan protected David like he was his brother…went against his own father to save him."
"Yeah, he did. I don't relish him the choice. Goes to prove that sometimes our earthly fathers aren't right, sometimes we can't follow their advice…or take their side. Jonathan was one strong guy, certainly a good guy to have on your side."
'Am I a good guy for Sammy to have on his side?' Dean wondered, had some doubt about his strength because he had failed Sam before, too many times. Looking down at his hands, he spoke lowly, "I've spent my whole life following my Dad's orders, justifying his actions…his mistakes, to Sam, to myself." Raising his head, he was rewarded with a look of understanding in the Pastor's eyes instead of sympathy. "Tried to believe that Dad had all the answers, that he wasn't lost, that I wasn't lost."
"And now?' The Pastor gently prodded.
Dean gave a weak smile that had nothing to do with happiness and snorted as he shook his head. "Now…everything's screwed up. What I believed. What I want to believe. It's all changed and I can't blindly follow his orders anymore. I won't. Because…he's not right, what he thinks will happen, what he wants me to do if things go wrong."
"I think for Jonathan, his choice was clear, he chose the brother of his heart. It doesn't mean it didn't nearly kill him to go against his father, that it was easy. But it was right and with his actions, he honored his brotherhood with David when it counted most," Pastor Pete quietly said, eyes on Dean, wanting to ease the hurt in the young man.
In his heart, Dean had no doubts that saving Sam was the right thing to do. And he knew that, if push came to shove, he would never kill Sam, would never obey that order from his father. Because as much as Sam thought obeying their father was his number one instinct, Sam would be wrong. Protecting his little brother was, always had been.
Tilting his head, Dean gave the Pastor a probing look. "So Sam really didn't say my name, didn't say any more about my Dad's death other than that he was worried about me?"
"Seems like that's a lot," the Pastor returned softly. "I could tell it wasn't easy for him, to voice his concerns for you. Guess you're alike in that way too, cut off…even sometimes from each other."
"Have to be sometimes. A lot of the time, actually. Things rattling around in my head…" Dean shook his head rueful, "Its better if I keep my gameface on."
"Better for who? You or Sam? Because by what I can tell, some days he feels like he's already lost you," Pastor Pete questioned, remembering the same hurt, confused look on Sam's face when he talked about his family, about his brother, about trying to keep his emotions under control, of not unloading them on his grieving brother, who had enough weight on his shoulders.
"He hasn't lost me," Dean refuted gruffly.
"Might be nice if he knew that," Pastor Pete drawled, a smile softening his words.
"Dean?" came though the canvas a moment before Sam strode inside but came to a halt, not at the destruction but at the sight of his brother and the Pastor talking. "Oh…I'm sorry…didn't mean…" he stammered, looking like he was about to make a hasty retreat.
Pastor Pete watched Dean stand up and face his brother without an outward show of pain, knew that the younger man wore many masks, kept himself behind more walls than he could identify. Wondered how he could bear the weight, could chose to be closed off, even from those who loved him as strongly as his brother apparently did. He was surprised when Dean turned back to him, meet his eyes and let him see gratitude and apology in his gaze.
"About your church…" Dean began, wasn't sure how much he wanted to say in front of Sam, how much he wanted to reveal to the Pastor about ghosts and holy ground and his church used as a sacrifice.
Standing, Pastor Pete met Dean's eyes. "Don't worry. I'll get it cleaned up. A church isn't really about a building or a tent anyway. It's about the people."
"Then you will do fine…'cause people, you know," Dean stated, knew that he honestly didn't have to worry about the Pastor, the man's flock would follow him onto the race track infield if they had to. Turning around and beginning to head to Sam, he saw Sam give a nod and smile to the Pastor before they both headed out of the tent, side by side.
Shooting Dean a worried look as they made their way across the uneven ground, Sam asked without accusation, "You told him that we wrecked his church, didn't you?"
"Yeah," Dean admitted, eyes forward.
"You tell him why?" Sam pressed, wanting Dean to have defended himself.
Looking to Sam, Dean replied with a soft smile, "He never asked."
Relief flooded Sam, knew that whatever had taken place between the Pastor and Dean wasn't about guilt or condemnation, was maybe about forgiveness. But when Dean's eyes slid to him, there was a question in them, made him nervously wonder if he somehow had come up in conversation between the two men. "What?"
"Nothing," Dean deflected, looking back to the track, to the car taking the turn in the inside lane.
Following Dean's line of sight, Sam also watched the car for a moment, knew that what he was about to offer to Dean, it was the right thing to do. Was about giving back some of what Dean had freely given to him all his life: Normalcy, a chance at a dream, a few earned moments of true happiness. "Tim said that Garner agreed to have drivers from all over the state race on Saturday to see which 25 drivers will be in the race Sunday when NASCAR's here."
Dean snorted but didn't pull his eyes away from the race track, "Man, that ought to be a blood bath, all vying for a chance at the gold ring. Talk about no holds barred."
'Crap, Dean! You're not helping!' went through Sam, his brother's words, the truth of them, the scenarios they conjured up in Sam's head crumbling his resolve. He couldn't voice his offer then, bit his lip instead. 'Dean would do it for me, has done it for me. Allowed me to risk everything for my dreams. Let me walk away from him because he could see it was something I wanted in life. Thought I wanted more than I wanted my family.'
Snagging Dean's arm, Sam brought them both to a halt. He faced Dean, wanted him to see the earnestness in his eyes, to realize that his offer was genuine. "Tim has a way for you to get in Saturday's race, to use one of Garner's cars." Dean's expression broadcasted his surprise, had Sam's next words rushing out. "But I told Tim you couldn't race Sunday, no matter what. That there were….reasons you couldn't end up on the front page of the local paper…or on a NASCAR team. But you could win a spot here, at Smithfield, or some other race track higher up on the food chain. Tim said he still has connections, could…"
"Sam," Dean patiently interjected, astounded, touched by his brother's offer, his scheme even as he was about to shoot it down, deny it's temptation.
"No, Dean," Sam refuted, shaking his head, "Don't tell me this isn't what you want, that you don't deserve it, that you shouldn't do it. You do deserve it, Dean. All of it, NASCAR, the fame, the fortune, the adoring women fans…" he smirked, saw Dean frown loosen. "But this …I know it's a small consolation prize but it's all I can offer Dean. At least now. Maybe if we can get your name cleared, can get you off of America's Most Wanted…."
Gently but firmly Dean protested, "Sam I don't need…"
"Well maybe I do, Dean," Sam choked out. "Maybe I need to see you smile more, maybe I need to know that something can make you happy. Maybe I need to see you cross that finish line almost as much as you do. Hunting isn't who you are, Dean! You're not just the guy who saves people's lives..you're also the guy who makes kids smile, who turns every woman's head, who knows how to fix a car for the race circuit, who knows how to comfort someone who's lost someone they love, who knows how to talk to someone like Phillips and prove to him that he's not crazy, that one car wreck doesn't mean he should lose his nerve to race again. And you can drive a car…better than anyone I've ever met, Dean. Better than these guys on this track, and that's not just my opinion, that's Tim opinion too. What's so wrong about doing what you're good at Dean? With taking one day out of your life and doing what you want to do?"
"We have more important things to do, Sam," Dean firmly returned, appreciated the offer, Sam's words but could live without the victory. He had come to realize that he would always count other victories greater in the bigger scheme of his life.
"Well not on Saturday we don't," Sam uncompromisingly countered, saw a weakening in Dean resolve and latched onto it. "Dude, you're racing. So shut up and let's go check out the car Tim's got lined up for you." Then he tugged on Dean's arm like he was that little brother again, tugging his big brother toward the Ferris wheel, never entertaining the idea that his brother wouldn't go along with what he wanted.
Giving Sam a fabricated exasperated look, Dean gave way to Sam's tug on his arm, began walking toward the garages, Sam at his side. "It won't change anything, Sam," he quietly said, shot Sam a look. "No matter what you think, I wouldn't choose racing over hunting, over our lives." 'Over you.'
Sam forced a smirk, instilled teasingly lightness in his tone but kept his eyes from Dean, knew his brother was too adept at reading his emotions. "You say that now but once you cross over that finish line…" he nearly stumbled as Dean stepped in front of him, as he tried hard to not body slam into his brother's abused body.
Resting his hand on Sam's chest to stop his brother's progress as much as to connect them, Dean met his brother's expressive eyes that showed him what the offer was costing his little brother, the fear that Sam carried that his big brother would do something worse than kill him: would leave him. And he couldn't stand to see that fear, that hurt, that doubt in Sammy's eyes, not anymore. "I said I wasn't leaving you and I meant it. Family comes first, before everything else. And I wouldn't have it any other way. Not for all the trophies in the world, Sammy."
Immeasurably touched by his brother's vow, Sam felt himself tearing up. Giving a watery look and offering up a tremulous smile to Dean, he rashly adopted one of his brother's 'how to avoid a total chick flick breakdown moment' tactic. "Not for all the beautiful, swooning women race fans in the world?"
"Well….now that's different, Sammy," Dean drawled, a cocky smile on his face, hand coming up to pat Sam on the chest before he turned around. But he waited until Sam was at his side before he took one step forward, felt contentment wash over him as Sam paced him, purposely matched his slower gait. Seeing the easy smile on Sam's face, feeling a tension ease in Sam that had been so prevalent since their Dad's death, he knew that, though Sam was willingly giving him a chance to race, Sam didn't want him to go, was relieved that he wasn't going to trade up their hunting lives for the race circuit…for even NASCAR. Begun to realize that Sam valued him …might value him as much as he valued Sam.
It was a strange trade off for Sam, putting his fears second to Dean's wants, finding peace washing over him at his capitulation. The last thing he wanted was for Dean to be in danger, to be hurt worse than he already was, for him to be involved in another car accident. But matching that fear, was his desire to see Dean excel, for Dean to realize that he was great at a thousand things, to see himself the way Sam saw him, as a man to be respected, to be honored, for his choices in life as well as his skills. Wanted Dean to know in his soul what Sam knew at four years old, knew so much better now at twenty seven: That anyone would be proud to have Dean for a brother…whether he was a ghost hunter, race car driver, firefighter or small town mechanic.
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TBC
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Ok, so I really wanted Dean to get his shot at racing..even if it's not to go to the pros. I think the man deserves it.
Thanks for all the encouragement in your reviews!
Have a great day!
Cheryl W.
