Las Vegas, August 1967. The Sands Hotel was in chaos. Frank Sinatra’s relationship with the casino management had deteriorated to the point of war. Credit disputes, control issues, egos clashing at every turn, and Dean Martin was caught in the middle. They were supposed to perform together that night. A special Rat Pack reunion show that had been sold out for months.

 300 people in the showroom, including journalists, celebrities, and high rollers who’d paid premium prices. But Frank was in one of his moods. the dark moods that made everyone around him nervous. When Frank got like this, anything could happen. Dean arrived at the Sands at 6 p.m. for the 8:00 show.

 He went to his dressing room, started getting ready. His routine was always the same. Press the tuxedo, check the set list, have a light dinner, relax. At 7:00, Frank burst into Dean’s dressing room without knocking. We need to talk. Dean looked up from his dinner. About what? About you undermining me. Dean sat down his fork.

 What are you talking about? I’m talking about you meeting with Cohen behind my back, discussing staying at the Sands after I leave. Carl Cohen was the casino manager. The same man who’d called Frank a years earlier. Frank hated him, wanted nothing to do with him, and he’d made it clear he was leaving the Sands soon.

 I didn’t meet with Cohen, Dean said. That’s not what I heard. Then you heard wrong. I haven’t talked to Cohen about anything. Frank’s face was red. You’re lying. My sources told me you’ve been negotiating your own deal, planning to stay after I’m gone, choosing the casino over me. Frank, I don’t know where you’re getting this information, but it’s false.

 I haven’t negotiated anything with anyone. So, you’re calling my sources liars. I’m saying they’re mistaken or someone’s stirring up trouble between us, but I haven’t met with Cohen. I haven’t discussed staying here. I haven’t done anything behind your back. Frank stared at him, trying to determine if he was telling the truth. Dean stood up.

 Frank, we’ve been friends for 20 years. You really think I’d betray you? Go behind your back like that. I don’t know what to think anymore. Everyone’s got an angle. Everyone’s looking out for themselves. Not me. I’m looking out for us. The partnership, the friendship, that’s what matters to me. Frank seemed to waver. Then his expression hardened again.

 I want you to come with me when I leave to Caesar’s palace. We do this together or not at all. Okay. Okay. Just like that. Just like that. If you’re leaving, I’m leaving. I thought that was understood. So, you’ll turn down any offers from the sands? I’ll turn down any offers from the sands.

 Frank studied him for another moment, then nodded. All right, good. I had to make sure. I had to know where you stood. You should have just asked me instead of bursting in here with accusations. Yeah, well, I’m not always rational when I’m angry. I’ve noticed. Frank almost smiled. almost. I’ll see you on stage.” He left. Dean sat back down, but his appetite was gone.

Something was off about that conversation. Frank had been too aggressive, too ready to believe the worst. Someone was feeding him false information, trying to drive a wedge between them. But who and why? At 8:00, Dean and Frank took the stage together. The audience went wild. These were two of the biggest stars in the world performing together. It was magic.

They opened with the lady is a Frank sang lead. Dean harmonized. It was smooth, professional. You’d never know they had had a confrontation an hour earlier. They did their comedy bits. The old routines that always killed. Frank played straight man to Dean’s drunk character. The audience loved it. But Dean could feel something brewing.

Frank’s energy was off. His timing slightly delayed. He kept glancing at Dean with an expression Dean couldn’t read. Halfway through the show, during a break between songs, Frank grabbed the microphone. Ladies and gentlemen, I want to talk about my good friend Dean Martin here. The audience applauded. Dean smiled, but his guard was up.

 He didn’t like where this might be going. Frank continued, “Dean and I have been performing together for a long time, and I’ve learned a lot from him. Mostly, I’ve learned how to drink and still function. It’s a real skill.” Laughter from the audience. This was part of their usual banter. Dean played the drunk.

 Frank played the sophisticated one. Standard rat pack humor. But seriously, folks, Dean here has a gift. He can drink more than any human being I’ve ever met and still hit every note. It’s remarkable. Medical science should study him. More laughter. Dean went along with it, taking a mock bow. But Frank wasn’t done. Of course, it helps that half the time he’s actually drunk, not pretending.

 Actually drunk, right, Dean? The laughter was more uncertain now. The tone had shifted. Dean kept smiling. Whatever you say, Frank. No, really. Tell the audience. Tell them how much you drink before a show. How many drinks you have in your dressing room? How you steady your nerves with booze? The room got quieter.

 This wasn’t funny anymore. This was something else. Dean’s smile stayed fixed, but his eyes hardened. Frank, maybe we should move on to the next song. Why? Ashamed. Ashamed to admit that the drunk act isn’t an act. That Dean Martin is actually a drunk who happens to be able to sing. Dead silence in the showroom. Dean stood very still. Frank, stop.

 Stop what? Telling the truth. Everyone in this room knows it. Everyone in Hollywood knows it. Dean Martin drinks a lot. And we all pretend it’s part of his charm, part of his image. But it’s not image, folks. It’s reality. The man standing next to me is a functional alcoholic. The audience didn’t know what to do. Some people looked uncomfortable.

 Others looked shocked. A few journalists in the front row were taking notes frantically. Dean felt something snap inside him. Frank had crossed a line. Not just crossed it, demolished it. “You done?” Dean asked quietly. “I’m just getting started. See, I’ve been covering for Dean for years, making excuses, telling directors he’s just in character when he shows up smelling like a distillery, telling producers he’ll be fine for the shoot, but I’m tired of it.

 Tired of protecting someone who won’t protect himself.” Dean took the microphone from Frank’s hand. Frank tried to hold on to it, but Dean’s grip was firm. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Dean said, his voice calm, but carrying steel underneath. “Frank is going through a difficult time right now.

 He’s having problems with the casino, having problems with management. And apparently, he’s decided to take those problems out on me in front of all of you on stage during a show you paid good money to see.” Frank tried to grab the microphone back. Dean held it away from him. Frank just called me a drunk, called me a functional alcoholic, accused me of showing up to work intoxicated, and he did it publicly in front of 300 witnesses, so I’m going to respond publicly.

 The audience was riveted. Dean continued, “Frank, you’re my best friend. Have been for 20 years. We’ve performed together, vacationed together, raised our kids together. I’ve stood by you through divorces, scandals, career problems. I’ve defended you when people called you difficult, when they called you a hasbin.

 When they said you were washed up. I’ve always had your back. And tonight, you repay that loyalty by calling me a drunk on stage, by humiliating me in front of my peers, by spreading lies about my professionalism. Frank’s face was red. They’re not lies. Yes, they are. I’m not a drunk, Frank. I’m not an alcoholic.

 I don’t show up to work intoxicated. That’s a character I play, an image I’ve cultivated, but it’s not who I am. And you know that. You’ve known that for 20 years. I’ve seen you drink. You’ve seen me have a drink or two like a normal person like you do. Like everyone does. But I’ve never been drunk on stage.

 Never been drunk on a film set. Never let alcohol interfere with my work ever. Dean turned to the audience. I want you all to know something. The drunk act is exactly that, an act. I developed it early in my career because it gave me a character, a persona, something memorable, but it’s not real. When I walk off this stage, I don’t stumble to my dressing room and pass out. I go home to my family.

 I read to my kids. I live a normal life. Frank knows this. He’s always known this. But tonight, for reasons I don’t fully understand, he decided to weaponize my act against me. to take something I created and use it to hurt me. The room was completely silent. Every eye was on Dean. So, let me set the record straight. I am not a drunk.

 I’m not an alcoholic. I’m a professional entertainer who plays a character. And I’m damn good at it. Good enough that even my best friend apparently can’t tell the difference between the character and the man. He turned back to Frank. Why’d you do it? Why’d you try to humiliate me like that? Frank’s mouth opened and closed. He had no answer.

Dean pressed. Is it because you’re angry at Cohen and you can’t take it out on him, so you’re taking it out on me? Is it because someone told you I was negotiating behind your back and you believed them without asking me? Is it because you’re feeling insecure and you needed to knock someone else down to feel bigger? Dean, I Which is it, Frank? Because I deserve an explanation.

 These people deserve an explanation. You just called me a drunk in front of 300 people. You owe us all an explanation. Frank looked around the room at the faces staring at him, at the journalists writing furiously, at Dean standing there with quiet dignity, waiting for an answer. “I was told you were negotiating with Cohen,” Frank said finally.

 “I was told you were planning to stay at the Sands to choose them over me, and I got angry. I wanted to hurt you the way you hurt me.” “But I didn’t hurt you. I didn’t negotiate with anyone. I told you that an hour ago, and you chose not to believe me. chose to believe whoever’s feeding you lies instead of believing your friend of 20 years. I know.

 I realize that now. So, you decided to destroy my reputation based on a lie someone told you without even confirming it, without giving me the benefit of the doubt. Frank had no answer. Dean’s voice softened slightly. Frank, I love you like a brother, but you can’t do this. You can’t lash out at people when you’re angry.

 You can’t use your power and your stage to hurt people who’ve stood by you. It’s wrong and you know it’s wrong. I’m sorry. Tell them not me. You humiliated me in front of them. You apologized to them. Frank looked at the audience. He was Frank Sinatra. He didn’t apologize. Didn’t admit mistakes. It went against everything in his nature, but he did it anyway.

 Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize. What I said about Dean was wrong, untrue, and cruel. I was angry about something unrelated and I took it out on him. That’s not acceptable. Dean Martin is a professional, one of the best I’ve ever worked with, and he’s my friend. I should have treated him better. The audience didn’t applaud.

 They just sat there processing what they’d witnessed. Dean handed the microphone to the band leader. We’re going to take a break, 15 minutes, then we’ll finish the show. I apologize for the disruption. He walked off stage. Frank followed. Backstage. Dean went straight to his dressing room. Frank tried to follow him in, but Dean blocked the door. Not now, Frank.

 Dean, please let me explain. Not now. Dean closed the door, locked it, sat down on the couch, and put his head in his hands. 20 years of friendship, 20 years of loyalty, and Frank had tried to destroy him on stage in front of everyone. There was a soft knock on the door. Dean, it’s Sammy. Can I come in? Dean unlocked the door. Sammy Davis Jr.

entered, his face full of concern. You okay? No, that was brutal. What Frank did, I’ve never seen him like that. He’s been like that before. Just usually not with me. Usually I’m spared. Sammy sat down. What are you going to do? I don’t know. Finish the show, I guess. Then figure out what’s next.

 You still going to leave the Sands with him? Go to Caesar’s palace? Dean thought about it. I don’t know anymore. How can I work with someone who will turn on me like that? Who will believe lies about me without even asking? who will try to destroy my reputation because he’s having a bad day. He apologized. Because I made him, not because he wanted to, not because he realized on his own what he’d done. I had to force it out of him.

Sammy nodded. You’re right. That’s not a real apology. That’s saving face. They sat in silence for a moment. Finally, Sammy spoke. For what it’s worth, everyone in that room knows Frank was wrong. Everyone knows you’re not a drunk. You handled it with incredible class. You defended yourself without destroying him.

 That takes real strength. Doesn’t feel like strength. Feels like betrayal. I know. But you showed everyone who the real professional is, who the real man is. That matters. If you love Dean Martin and his stories, make sure you like and subscribe. Dean finished getting himself together and returned to the stage 15 minutes later.

Frank was already there looking contrite. They finished the show. It was professional, but cold. The chemistry was gone. The easy banter felt forced. The audience could tell something had broken between them. When it ended, the applause was polite but not enthusiastic. People filed out quietly, already discussing what they’d witnessed.

 Dean went straight to his car and drove home. Didn’t talk to Frank. Didn’t talk to anyone. His wife, Jean, was waiting up for him. How was the show? Frank called me a drunk on stage in front of 300 people. Jean’s face went pale. What? Dean told her everything. The accusation about negotiating with Cohen, the confrontation in the dressing room, the public humiliation during the show. That son of a Jun said.

 She rarely cursed, which showed how angry she was. After everything you’ve done for him after all the years of friendship, he does this. He apologized. I don’t care. You don’t apologize for something like that and expect everything to be fine. That’s not how it works. Dean knew she was right. What do I do? You protect yourself.

 You protect our family. You make sure this never happens again. The next morning, Dean’s phone rang at 7:00 a.m. It was Frank. Dean, we need to talk. I don’t have anything to say to you right now, Frank. Please, just give me 5 minutes. Let me explain. Dean almost hung up, but 20 years of friendship made him hesitate. Fine, 5 minutes.

 I was fed bad information by someone who wanted to drive a tight wedge between us. I should have talked to you first. Should have trusted you, but I didn’t. And I’m sorry. Who fed you the information? Carl Cohen. Dean sat up. Cohen told you I was negotiating with him. Yes. He said you’d approached him about staying at the Sands, about signing a separate deal.

And I believed him because because he knows I hate him. He knows the best way to hurt me is to turn you against me. And you fell for it. I fell for it. I was stupid and paranoid and I let him manipulate me and then I took it out on you in the worst possible way. Dean was quiet processing this.

 Frank continued, “I know saying sorry doesn’t fix it. I know I damaged our friendship, maybe permanently, but I need you to know that I know I was wrong, completely wrong, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make it right.” You called me a drunk in front of 300 people, Frank. journalists, photographers, people who will spread that story all over Hollywood.

 You attacked my reputation, my professionalism, everything I’ve built over 40 years. I know. Do you? Do you really understand what you’ve done? Because I don’t think you do. Then explain it to me. Dean took a breath. My whole career is built on trust. Audiences trust me. Directors trust me. Studios trust me.

 They trust that I’ll show up, do my job, be professional. That’s what separates me from actors who flame out. That’s what’s kept me working for four decades. And you just told 300 people that I’m a drunk, that I show up to work intoxicated, that the professional image is fake. Even though you apologized, that story is out there now.

 Those journalists are writing about it. Those people are gossiping about it. And every time someone hears it, they’ll wonder if it’s true. I’ll fix it. I’ll call those journalists. I’ll make sure they print retractions. You can’t fix it, Frank. You can’t unring that bell. The damage is done. So, what are you saying? That we’re finished? That 20 years of friendship means nothing? Dean felt his anger rising.

 I’m saying you don’t get to blame me for the consequences of your actions. You did this. You chose to believe Cohen over me. You chose to humiliate me on stage. You chose to spread lies about me. Those were your choices. And now you have to live with them. Dean, I need time. Frank, time to think about whether I can trust you again.

 Whether I can work with you again, whether this friendship is worth saving. Give me that time. How much time? I don’t know. Weeks, maybe months, maybe forever. I honestly don’t know. Frank’s voice cracked. I can’t lose you, Dean. You’re my best friend, the only person in this business I really trust. You should have thought about that before you called me a drunk.

Dean hung up. Over the next week, the story was everywhere. Every newspaper in America covered it. Sinatra calls Dean Martin a drunk on stage. Rat Pack falling apart. Dean Martin defends himself against Sinatra’s attack. Most of the ES coverage sided with Dean. Praised him for his dignity and restraint.

 Condemned Frank for his behavior. But the damage was done. Dean started getting questions from journalists. Is it true you drink before shows? How much do you actually drink? Is the drunk act based on reality? He answered the same way every time. The drunk act is a character. It’s not real. I’m a professional.

 I don’t drink on the job. But he could see the doubt in their eyes. Frank had planted a seed and seeds grow. Two weeks after the incident, Dean got a call from Jack Entratter, the entertainment director at Caesar’s Palace. Dean, I heard what happened with Frank. I’m sorry. Thanks. I want you to know that our offer still stands.

 We want you at Caesar’s palace with or without Frank. You’re valuable on your own. I appreciate that. Have you made a decision about leaving the Sands? Not yet. I’m still thinking about it. Take your time, but know that we’d love to have you and we’ll treat you right. No drama, no games, just professional respect.

 After he hung up, Dean sat with that conversation. Caesar’s palace wanted him. Without Frank, that was significant. For 20 years, he’d been Frank’s friend, Dean, part of the Rat Pack, part of the gang, but rarely seen as a standalone star. Now, he had the chance to step out of Frank’s shadow to be just Dean Martin to prove he didn’t need Frank to be successful.

 It was tempting. A month after the incident, Frank showed up at Dean’s house unannounced. Jean answered the door. “Frank, what are you doing here? I need to talk to Dean. He doesn’t want to see you. Please, Jean, I’m begging you. Just 5 minutes. Jean looked back into the house. Dean was in his study reading.

 She could protect him. Send Frank away or she could let him handle it himself. She stepped aside. 5 minutes then you leave. Frank found Dean in the study. You shouldn’t be here, Dean said without looking up from his book. I know, but I had to come. I had to see you face to face. We talked on the phone. You said your peace. That wasn’t enough.

 I need you to understand how sorry I am, how much I regret what I did. Dean finally looked at him. Frank looked terrible, thinner, older, like he hadn’t slept in weeks. “You look awful,” Dean said. “I feel awful. I’ve felt awful since that night. I can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t focus on anything except what I did to you.

” “Good. You should feel awful.” Frank sat down uninvited. I talked to Cohen, confronted him about lying to me, about manipulating me. He admitted it. Said he wanted to drive a wedge between us. Wanted to break up the rat pack because we were too powerful together. And you’re just now figuring out he’s manipulative. I should have known.

Should have seen through it, but I was angry at him about other things. And I let that cloud my judgment. Dean set down his book. Frank, here’s what I don’t understand. You’ve known me for 20 years. In all that time, have I ever betrayed you? Ever gone behind your back? Ever chosen anyone or anything over our friendship? No.

 So, why’d you believe Cohen so easily? Why was your first instinct to accuse me instead of talking to me like a friend? Frank was quiet for a long moment. Because I was scared. Scared of what? Scared that you were leaving me, that you were moving on, that you didn’t need me anymore. And if you didn’t need me, what did that say about me? About my value? Dean stared at him.

 That’s the most honest thing you’ve said to me in years. It’s true. You’re successful without me. Your TV show, your movies, your solo career. You don’t need the rat pack. You don’t need me. And that scares me because I need you. Why? Because you keep me grounded. Keep me human. When I’m with you, I’m not Frank Sinatra superstar. I’m just Frank, your friend.

And I need that. I need you to see me as just a person, not an icon. Dean felt something shift inside him. This was real vulnerability from Frank. The kind Frank never showed anyone. You hurt me, Frank. Really hurt me. I know. And I’m not sure I can forgive you. Not completely. Not right away. I understand.

 But I’m willing to try to see if we can rebuild what we had. It’ll take time, and it’ll require you to be better, to trust me, to communicate instead of lashing out. Frank’s eyes got wet. I can do that. I will do that. I promise. Don’t make promises you can’t keep. I’ll keep this one because losing you would destroy me.

 You’re my best friend, Dean. The only real friend I have. Everyone else wants something from me. You’re the only one who just wants to be my friend. They sat in silence for a moment. Finally, Dean spoke. I’m leaving the Sands, going to Caesar’s palace. I know. So am I. But we’re not doing this the old way.

 We’re not joined at the hip. We’re both going to have our own shows, our own deals, our own identities. And sometimes when it makes sense, we’ll perform together. But I’m not going to be Frank’s friend Dean anymore. I’m going to be Dean Martin. And you’re going to be Frank Sinatra. Two separate stars who happen to be friends. Frank nodded slowly.

 I can live with that. Can you? Because it means sharing the spotlight. It means me having top billing sometimes. It means not always deferring to you. Can you really handle that? I’ll have to because the alternative is losing you completely and that’s not acceptable. If you love Dean Martin and his stories, make sure you like and subscribe.

 Dean stood up, extended his hand. Frank shook it. We’ll try this, Dean said. But Frank, if you ever do something like that again, if you ever publicly humiliate me or spread lies about me, we’re done permanently. No second chances, no third chances. Done. Understood. Understood. They stood there, two old friends who’d been through hell and come out the other side.

 “You want to stay for dinner?” Dean asked. “You mean it?” John’s making pasta. “There’s plenty.” Frank smiled for the first time in weeks. “I’d like that.” Over dinner, they didn’t talk about the incident, didn’t rehash the hurt, just talked about their kids, about golf, about the new casino they’d be headlining. It felt normal, almost like before. But something had changed.

Dean had set boundaries, had established that he was his own person, not just Frank’s sidekick, and Frank had accepted it. Their relationship would never be exactly what it was before, but maybe it would be better, more honest, more balanced. In September 1967, Dean and Frank both signed with Caesar’s Palace.

Separate contracts, separate deals, separate shows, but they did a few shows together. And when they did, the magic was still there. the chemistry, the timing, the friendship. The audience couldn’t tell anything had happened. Didn’t know about the confrontation at the Sands. Didn’t know about the hurt and the anger and the long process of forgiveness.

 They just saw two friends having fun on stage, making music, making people laugh, and that’s what mattered. Years later, in 1986, Dean and Frank were honored at a Kennedy Center tribute. They hadn’t performed together in several years. Both were older, slower, their voices not what they used to be. But they stood on that stage together, accepting the honor, and it was clear the bond was still there.

A journalist asked them backstage, “What’s the secret to a friendship that’s lasted this long?” Frank looked at Dean. Dean looked at Frank. “Forgiveness,” Dean said simply. “And boundaries,” Frank added, knowing how far you can push before you damage something precious. Did you ever damage it? Your friendship? They both smiled.

Once Frank said, “I did something stupid. Said things I shouldn’t have said. Hurt Dean in a way I swore I’d never hurt him. And and he made me work for his forgiveness. Made me prove I’d changed. Made me earn back his trust. It took time, but we got there. Was it worth it? The work?” Frank put his arm around Dean’s shoulders.

 Dean Martin is the best friend I’ve ever had. So, yeah, it was worth it. Dean smiled. Even when you’re a pain in the ass. especially when I’m a pain in the ass. They laughed. And in that laugh, you could hear 40 years of friendship, of fights and forgiveness, of loyalty and love. When Frank Sinatra died in 1998, Dean Martin had been gone for 3 years.

 But those who knew them said that Dean’s death in 1995 had taken something essential from Frank, that losing Dean had broken something in him that never healed. At Frank’s funeral, they played a recording of Dean and Frank singing together. The best is yet to come. Their voices intertwined, harmonizing perfectly the way they had for so many years.

 Nancy Sinatra spoke at the funeral. My father had many friends, but Dean Martin was special. Dean was the person who made my father better, who called him on his behavior when he was wrong, who forgave him when he didn’t deserve it, who loved him anyway. They had their fights. I remember one in particular in 1967 where my father said something terrible to Dean, called him a drunk in front of hundreds of people.

 I thought their friendship was over. But Dean forgave him, not right away, not easily, but eventually. Because that’s what real friends do. My father never forgot that forgiveness. Never took it for granted. He knew he’d been given a gift, a second chance, and he spent the rest of his life trying to be worthy of it. That’s the real story of that night in August 1967.

 Not that Frank Sinatra called Dean Martin a drunk. Not that Dean humiliated Frank in response, but that two friends had a massive falling out, did the hard work of reconciliation, and came out stronger on the other side. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t simple. Dean had to decide if Frank was worth forgiving, if the friendship was worth saving.

Frank had to face his own insecurities, his own capacity for cruelty, his own need to control everyone around him. Both of them had to change to grow, to be better. And they did. They established new boundaries, new understandings, new ways of being friends that respected both of them as individuals, not just as a unit.

 Frank Sinatra called Dean Martin a drunk in front of 300 people. Dean’s response put Frank on his knees, not through revenge or cruelty, but through honest confrontation and the demand for accountability. And then Dean helped Frank stand back up. He didn’t do it immediately. Didn’t make it easy. Made Frank work for forgiveness, but he did it because that’s what real friendship looks like.

 Not the absence of conflict, but the willingness to work through it. Not perfection, but the commitment to be better. Not blind loyalty, but conscious choice. Dean chose Frank after everything, after the hurt and the betrayal and the public humiliation. He chose to forgive, to rebuild, to give their friendship another chance. And Frank chose to be worthy of that choice, to change his behavior, to respect Dean’s boundaries, to be a better friend. That’s the lesson.

 That’s the legacy. That’s why the story matters. Because it shows us that even the deepest wounds can heal. that even the worst betrayals can be forgiven. That friendship isn’t about never fighting. It’s about fighting and finding your way back to each other. Frank and Dean fought, really fought, but they found their way back.

 And their friendship, tested by fire, came out stronger than before. That’s not a Hollywood ending. That’s a real one. The kind that requires work and courage and humility from both people. The kind that matters. The kind that lasts. Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin. Best friends for 40 years. Not because it was easy, but because they both decided it was worth it.

 Even when it hurt, especially when it hurt. That’s friendship. That’s loyalty. That’s love. And that’s why decades after they’re both gone, we still tell their story. Because it reminds us that the relationships worth having are the ones worth fighting for. That forgiveness is possible. That people can change.

 That friendship, real friendship, can survive anything. If both people want it badly enough, Frank and Dean wanted it. They fought for it. They earned it. And in the end, they kept it until death parted them. That’s the real story. That’s what matters. That’s Frank and Dean.