Bobby watched Sam as he carefully began to shovel soil into the grave. Sam's movements were stiff and jerky, his head bowed so that Bobby couldn't see Sam's face, just his hair, wet with sweat and tears. He'd tried to help, had offered to dig and give Sam a break. But the boy wouldn't take anything. He swigged from his hipflask, frowning to himself.

"You sure you don't want to give him a traditional hunter's funeral, Sam?" he croaked, pain roughening his voice. "Salt, burning. The whole nine yards?" Sam shook his head slowly.

"No. He's gonna need a body when I get him back." Sam sounded old, his voice rusty and low.

"Sam…" Bobby started and the younger Winchester held up a hand, although he still didn't look up.

"Save it, Bobby. I know what you're going to say and I don't want to hear it." Tears dripped off the tip of his nose, the only thing visible through his curtain of hair. He went back to filling in the hole, his sobs racking his tall frame. Bobby wasn't much given to outwards displays of emotion, but it was all he could do not to weep right now.

They had worked so hard to save Dean, to keep him from this fate of his own making. God, the boy had been so like his hard-headed father it was scary. And Sam had fought so hard to find a way out. Bobby didn't think they'd ever truly believed they'd fail. That Dean would actually be dragged into the Pit.

He figured this had been partly his fault. He was more a father to these two boys than John had ever been and he'd seen the look in Dean's eyes when Sam died. He'd known perfectly well what Dean intended to do and dammit, he should have stopped him. But he was grieving too and he'd convinced himself that it would be OK, that they'd find a way around the deal. So he'd as effectively sacrificed Dean's life on the altar of Sam's as if he'd done it himself. Which made him no better than John after all.

Sam was almost done. He'd fashioned a grave marker in the shape of a rough cross and was now hammering it into the ground with the shovel. The harsh ringing sound resonated around the copse of tree that surrounded the site they'd chosen. Then silence. Sam dropped to his knees and stayed there. Bobby walked painfully over to him, his hip grinding uncomfortably. He reached out and clasped Sam's shoulder, feeling the pain shuddering through him.

"Sam," he said. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know, Bobby. For tonight, I guess I'll head back to the motel, get some sleep. I'll think about tomorrow, tomorrow."

"I don't know, Sam. Maybe you should come back with me." Bobby said dubiously.

"I can't," Sam confessed. "I'm barely able to hold my head up right now. I'll see you in a couple days."

"All right," Bobby relented. "But you better show up, boy, or there'll be Hell to pay!" Sam's head came up, a twisted smile on his face.

"I think we're there already," he said desolately.

Bobby followed Sam as far as the motel, and wondered again if he should stay with the boy tonight. But he had other hunters out there who were relying on him, who needed him at the end of the phone and in truth there wasn't much he could do. Sam had made it clear he wanted to be left alone and Bobby needed to respect his wishes. At least for now. So he clapped the boy on the shoulder, and then roared off into the night.

Sam looked forlornly at the mostly empty bottle of bourbon he'd only opened an hour ago. Pain throbbed behind his eyes and the room began to swim. Oh, he'd overdone it but he didn't care.

"Sam," a sad voice said softly. He looked up and started at the sight of the Trickster leaning against the door.

"What do you want," Sam slurred, grief turning to icy anger in his veins. "Come to gloat?" The Trickster shook his head slowly.

"No, Sam. I just wanted to see if you were OK."

Sam stood up suddenly and lurched over to the diminutive demigod.

"No, I'm not OK. I'm never gonna be OK again!" He shoved the Trickster backwards and wheeled away from him, staggering towards the bed. A gentle hand on his arm guided him towards the mattress and he slumped down on it, tears running freely once more.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I am. I tried to get you to see that you needed to prepare for this. You know, I only wanted to help," the Trickster said.

"Yeah. And you were right," Sam admitted, his chest heaving. "But it didn't help. Nothing helps. I can't…" The Trickster climbed onto the bed beside Sam and looked down at the boy, the palpable sense of his loss making a lump in his throat.

"You'll get through this, Sammy," the demigod told him, tugging him forward and pressing the younger Winchester's head against his chest. Sam gave a wordless cry and wrapped his arms around the Trickster's waist, sobbing freely against his stomach. They lay there silently, Sam weeping and clutching at the Trickster. He was the last person Sam should want to see right now and yet strangely, his presence was comforting. A hand carded through his hair and Sam felt himself drifting before falling into a dreamless sleep.

Sam blinked his eyes open slowly, and turned his head to his brother's bed. His breath caught in his throat when he saw it was empty. Memory crashed into him and he closed his eyes again, trying to force the pain down inside himself. He opened his eyes again and pulled himself upright, then slowly got out of bed. He stared at the empty bourbon bottle on the table and frowned. Grief was still a heavy shadow on his shoulders, but given how much he had drunk last night and how quickly, he should be throwing up and half-blind with a headache right now. But instead, he was clear-headed and remarkably well rested. Even the injuries he'd sustained in the last few desperate days had healed. It was bizarre. A fluttering feeling in his chest accompanied the next wave of memories, the warmth and comfort of being cradled in the Trickster's arms as he bawled out his grief. The soothing presence of the demigod as he'd slipped into sleep. Had the Trickster healed him, and burned the liquor out of his system last night? It wasn't anything the creature had done before but he was powerful and apparently he'd been feeling generous and sympathetic to Sam's pain last night. If there had been a trick involved, Sam couldn't see it. Nor could he see any advantage to the Trickster's behavior, other than perhaps making Sam feel a little less harshly towards him. But he'd been softening his stance on the demigod anyway. In the final days when Dean's fate had been hurtling towards them, he'd come to see that as misguided as the whole Mystery Spot-Groundhog Day thing had been, the Trickster hadn't done it out of cruelty or enjoyment of inflicting pain.

Sam sighed heavily and headed into the bathroom. He gazed at himself in the mirror, skin pale and his eyes hollow. Dean was gone. He splashed cold water on his face and then turned on the shower. He had work to do.

"I didn't even have to show up, you know," the demon said viciously. "My master said none of us have to answer your call. Not after what you did to the last one who answered." She was an attractive Asian woman in her late forties by Sam's reckoning, and her eyes flashed red at him.

"So why did you?" Sam snapped. "Why come if you didn't have to and you don't want to make a deal?"

"I was curious," she admitted. "I wanted to know what you would offer up."

"And my soul isn't good enough for you, is that it?" Sam snarled.

"Pretty much," the demon said with a smile. "Look, I know my colleague told you we have exactly what we want. Dean Winchester burning in Hell. Why would you think we trade his soul for your considerably inferior one?" Sam flinched. "Azazel may have favored you, but many of us thought you were weak. And guess what? You are. Here you are bargaining for your brother's soul but you brought nothing to the table."

"So tell me what you want. Anything. I can get it," Sam said desperately.

"Like I say, we already got it. There's nothing you can offer. And anyway, even if there was something, the boss was clear. No deals for Sam Winchester. None. You are off-limits. Persona non grata."

"Why?" Sam yelled in frustration. "Why do this?" The demon shrugged.

"Well, you do keep killing my co-workers. That's why most of us won't even come talk to you. Me, I figure you're not planning to kill me, since that worked out so well for you last time." She looked thoughtful for a moment. "That's not the only reason though. I don't know the whole story, not for sure. What I do know is that the order comes from on high."

"How high?" Sam asked, a creeping sense of dread sending cold fingers across his spine.

"No idea. I'm quite low down the ladder, you know. Only on my fourth century."

"Way above your pay grade, you mean?" Sam said sarcastically.

The demon nodded. "Yes. We have a hierarchy, just like humans. Now, unless there's anything else?" Once upon a time, Sam might have had the dignity to dismiss her, or even try to kill her. But not now.

"Please," he begged. "Please, tell me, what can I do? What can I offer to make a deal."

"I told you, nothing," the demon said testily. She considered him for a moment. "Nobody will make a deal with you. I promise you that. But maybe there's another option."

"Anything," Sam said gratefully.

"The Devil's Gate," the demon said. "If you could re-open that, maybe you could go get your brother yourself."

Sam stared at her in horror. "Break into Hell and bust Dean out? You're insane!" She laughed at him.

"I didn't say it was smart. Or even possible. But it's the only way I can think of now. Unless you're willing to give up and accept that your brother's in Hell and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it. Wallow in your powerlessness and pain. We'll all enjoy that."

"No!" Sam barked. "No. There must be a way. There has to be." He pulled Ruby's knife from his pants and the demon backed away but she didn't look too scared.

"Well, that's my cue," she said sweetly. "Have a nice life, Sammy." With that parting shot, she smoked out of her host and the woman slumped to the ground.

The cemetery where the Devil's Gate was located was as dilapidated and spooky as it had been the last time Sam had been here. The day the Devil's Gate had been opened and they had finally gotten their revenge on the bastard who'd killed their mom, killed Jess and almost destroyed Sam's life. But they'd been too late to stop Jake opening the Gate anyway, and setting off this whole terrible series of events that had led to Dean literally in Hell and Sam in a metaphorical Hell of being without his brother. His phone buzzed at him and he saw there were more missed calls from Bobby. He sighed and dialed his voicemail.

Sam? It's Bobby. Again. Look, kid, I haven't heard from you in weeks. I just need to know you're OK. I… I heard from Rod Baker that he saw you in Denver two weeks ago, but that you didn't even say hello. Sam, please. I'm worried about you. Call me.

Sam shoved his phone savagely back into his pocket. Bobby didn't understand. Nobody understood. He wasn't deliberately avoiding them. Well, OK. He was. But only because they all kept telling him to move on. That he couldn't bring Dean back and even if he could, maybe he shouldn't. But he had to. It was the only way he could keep going. If he gave up on bringing Dean back, he might as well just lie down and die here and now.

A sound like someone clearing their throat attracted his attention and he looked up to see the Trickster leaning against the Devil's Gate. His breath caught.

"Uh, hi. What are you doing here?"

The demigod grinned at him. "Hey Sammy. Just thought I'd pop in, say hello. See how you're doing." There was a tension to his stance that belied his casual tone.

"I'm… OK," Sam said cautiously. "I wasn't expecting to see you." The Trickster shrugged.

"I was in the area, noticed you were here," he said easily. He looked around critically. "This isn't the cheeriest spot for a reunion. Wanna get out of here, go get something to eat maybe?" Sam stared at him in utter astonishment.

"No, I'm good, thanks," he replied. "I… Why are you here, really?"

"Why Sam," the demigod said, sounding wounded. "It's almost as if you don't trust me."

"I don't," Sam said firmly. "So?"

"I'm worried about you, kiddo," the Trickster said. "You're standing on the edge of the abyss, and you know it and you don't care! Dean's gone. I'm sorry about that. But there's nothing you can do. And entering Hell through this Gate, on a rescue mission? It's suicide. It's worse than suicide, because you won't be able to close the Gate behind you. Which means you'll unleash all kinds of horror on this earth while you're down there and that's assuming you could make it back and close the Gate again. I can't let you do it, Sam."

"You're going to try and stop me?" Sam yelled. "Who the Hell do you think you are?"

"Someone who can stop you. I already have, Sam. Give it up." The Trickster walked over to Sam and laid a hand on his arm. He looked up into Sam's eyes and his amber gaze was so infinitely sad that just for a moment, Sam felt like here was someone who actually understood what he was going through.

"I do understand," the Trickster said softly. "I really do. And that's why I can't let you do this. Please think about it, Sam. Think about what you're doing and just walk away."

"I can't," Sam confessed, his knees wobbling. "I can't go on like this." He dropped down onto the ground, his head bent as grief forced his throat closed.

"No. You can't. You need to live, Sam. You need to find a reason to live that doesn't revolve around Dean." The Trickster knelt down in front of him and tilted his head up. He stroked his fingers along Sam's jawline and despite himself the young hunter shivered.

"Come on, Sam. I'm taking you out of here." Sam nodded dumbly and then his head whirled for a moment and they were in his motel room. He looked around in surprise.

"Don't worry, I brought the car too," the Trickster assured him. Sam sat down heavily on the bed. "Get some sleep, Sam. Things will get better, I promise. But you have to let yourself heal."

The next morning, Sam did not feel better. And he decided that, no matter what the damn Trickster wanted, he was going to have another go at that Devil's Gate. He packed up the car and drove back to the place where he'd parked last night. It was one Hell of a hike from here but he had no choice, the road was impassable to anything but the most rugged of all-terrain vehicles and the Impala, beautiful that she was, was not up to the task.

After a few hours, it became very clear that something was wrong. Sam pulled out the map of the area he'd meticulously annotated and then checked his compass. He could see where he was supposed to be, based on how long he'd been walking, but none of the landmarks he'd identified were in sight. He sighed. He must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out where. He turned around and started to retrace his steps, back to the large oak he'd noticed about a half-mile back.

When he hadn't reached the oak after twenty minutes of walking, he was certain something was seriously wrong. Even if he'd made a mistake earlier, he'd just turned around and gone back the way he had come. It was impossible for him to have missed the tree. Someone, or something was screwing with him. And he knew exactly who to blame.

"Damn you," Sam whispered. But there was nothing he could do. Hopefully, the tricksy son of a bitch wouldn't make it difficult to get back to his car.

There was a note on the driver's seat when he finally reached the Impala.

Sam. I have to say I'm disappointed. Not surprised, but disappointed. I'm sorry I had to do this to you but you forced my hand. I can't allow you to destroy the world in your grief. I hope one day you will understand.

There was a symbol inscribed under the note, but Sam didn't recognize it. He didn't even know what kind of symbol it was, it looked like nothing he'd ever seen before. He tucked the note into his pocket and flopped into the driver's seat. After a moment of staring down at the steering wheel, he cranked the engine and drove away.

Someone was following him, Sam realized. He cursed under his breath, he was getting sloppy. Dean would have his head for letting anyone tag along behind him unnoticed for so long. He ducked into the nearest store which sold outdoor supplies, and knelt down by one of the racks, pretending to inspect bottles of insect repellent. It positioned him close to the window so he could see if his tail walked by. After a moment, he heard the door open and someone entered the store. He waited.

"Can I help you?" the store owner said.

"Sure," a voice replied, taut with strain. "I just saw my friend enter your store, he's really tall. Hard to miss. But I don't see him now." There was a pause. Sam wished he could see the two men.

"Are you sure he didn't leave again?" the owner asked. "I don't see anyone else here." Sam bit his lip. There was a security camera pointed directly at him, which meant the store owner was lying. He wondered why. "He could have gone out the side entrance," he continued.

"Ah. I didn't see that door," the voice said. "Thanks." Sam heard footsteps and then the creak of a door.

After a moment, the store owner spoke up, "The coast is clear." Sam stood up tentatively.

"Uh, thanks," he said gratefully. "You didn't have to cover for me."

An African American man in his late fifties grimaced at him. "Huh," he said. "The days I start ratting people out to demons is the day I eat my pistol. My name's Garrett Crobin, and you are Sam Winchester." Sam blinked. "Don't look so surprised, boy. You're about ten feet tall. You don't exactly blend in."

"You're a hunter," Sam surmised. Garrett shrugged and gave him a crooked smile.

"Was a hunter," he corrected. He limped around the counter and offered his hand to Sam. "I knew your Dad." Sam shook it and thought hard. The name wasn't familiar.

"I'm sorry, I don't remember hearing your name before," he admitted. Garrett gave him an easy smile.

"Not a surprise. We kinda had a falling out. You would have been a little kid at the time."

"Yeah. he did that a lot," Sam agreed. "What did he do?" Garrett jerked in surprise.

"Do? Nothing. We just had a disagreement. We were working this weird job in Hollis, near Portland. Maine, that is, not Oregon. There was this bridge over the Saco River, and for years dogs had been hurling themselves off it. Sad, but not really enough to attract the attention of a hunter."

"Dog suicide bridge? I've heard of those. There are a few of them around, here in the US and I think I even heard of one in England," Sam said. Garrett nodded.

"Yeah. Most theories are mundane, like colonies of minks creating smells the dogs go crazy over, ghosts, poltergeists. You name it. But nobody really knows what's going on. This bridge in Hollis was like that, until people started diving off it too. You can't exactly blame the smell of minks for that."

"So what was it?" Sam asked him. Garrett gave him a solemn look.

"No idea. We never figured it out. The final victim was a young mother, she jumped off with her two boys. And then after that, it stopped. After a week of no more jumpers, I wanted to leave. It was frustrating, but there were no more leads and whatever was causing the suicides had clearly moved on. Your Dad was livid. Accused me of abandoning those people to their fate. But what could we do? So I left, and we never spoke again. I heard from Bobby when he passed. I'm damn sorry about that, kid. Your Dad was a hardheaded son of a bitch, but he was a fine hunter and a good friend." Sam frowned as he tried to remember any entries in his Dad's journal about a suicide bridge but nothing clicked.

"So why are you being followed by demons, Sam?" Garrett said sharply. Sam shook his head.

"I'm not sure. I've… exorcised a few of them recently. Maybe they're just pissed at me."

"Bah!" Garrett said with feeling. "Demon's ain't sentimental. Even if you sent one of their buddies screaming back to Hell, they don't exactly cry into their beer over it. But they're also not real good at working together, trust issues don't you know?" He barked out a laugh. "But that demon was not working alone."

"How do you know that," Sam asked. Garrett shrugged.

"His reaction at losing you. If this was a personal vendetta, he'd have been pissed. But he wasn't angry, he was scared. Which means he's working for someone else. Someone more powerful." Sam felt a chill down his spine.

"Demons are plenty scary on their own. I don't want to know what scares them."

"Indeed," Garrett agreed. "I didn't know the black-eyed bastards were even capable of being scared. But he was terrified."

Back in his motel room, Sam thumbed through his father's journal. There was only one entry that could have referred to the case Garrett had mentioned. It described arriving in Hollis, ME and meeting with the local sheriff. But the next page was dated almost three months later, and the location listed as Tarrytown. NY. Had his Dad removed the pages or had he just not written the case up because he never found out what was causing the suicides? There was no way to tell. Bobby might know, but Sam wasn't sure he was ready to face Bobby just yet. He'd just have to take Garrett at his word, and hope that he was on the level.

His stomach growled at him and he sighed. He really ought to eat. He could order a pizza, but there was no liquor in the room, since he'd polished off the bourbon last night. There was a bar within walking distance. That would do. He slouched out of the room, letting the door close behind him.

The bar was quiet and the food options were limited but Sam didn't care. He ordered the fried chicken and asked the server to leave the bottle of whiskey. He swallowed three fingers of liquor in one go, enjoying the burn as it went down. Easy there, boy, a voice in the back of his head said that sounded suspiciously like Bobby. He snarled to himself. Everyone just needed to fuck off and leave him alone.

When his food finally arrived, he'd made his way through half the bottle, and his appetite had died. He forced himself to pick at it and swallow down a few bites, but the chicken was tasteless and rubbery and he shoved the remainder away. The french fries were more edible, and he listlessly chewed a few of them while he pondered his next move. He was out of ideas. His phone buzzed and he looked at the caller ID but it was blocked. Bobby, most likely. He let it go to voicemail.

"Not talking to your friends tonight," the waitress asked. Sam flicked a glare at her. "That bad, huh? It's a pity, you're too pretty to be so sad." Sam looked away silently. "OK. Suit yourself. Can't blame a girl for trying." Sam ignored her and poured more whiskey into his glass.

When he finally stumbled out of the bar, he was really, really drunk. The cool night air hit him and his head began to swim. He reeled about for a moment, disoriented, before settling on the most likely direction to his motel and staggered off in that direction. If he'd been sober he might have noticed he was being followed again.

When he reached his door, he fumbled for his key and leaned heavily against the door as he searched through his pockets. Finally his hand closed around it and he pulled it out in triumph. It took several attempts to get it in the keyhole, but finally he managed to slide it home and turn it, pushing the door open. He had only a moment before he was attacked from behind. His assailants quickly pinned his arms behind his back and pulled Ruby's knife from his belt. Fuck. This was not good.

"Thanks for keeping this warm for me, Sam," one of them said, a woman by the sound of her voice. He frowned.

"Ruby," he said in a hard voice.

"It's nice to be back," Ruby said. The woman she was possessing was older than her last meatsuit, but the same arch tone and petulant expression meant Sam would recognize her anywhere. "Where I was, even for Hell, it was nasty." Ruby was saying. "I guess I really pissed Lilith off. Imagine my relief when she gave me one last chance to take it topside. And all I had to do was find you and kill you." So this was it then. He'd failed utterly. Himself, his brother, his father, Bobby. Everyone.

"Fine," he said in resignation. "Go ahead! Do it." He didn't care, not anymore. He was tired and heartsore and any remaining will to live was draining away. So he wasn't prepared for it when Ruby thrust the knife past him and into the other demon holding his arms.

"Grab your keys," Ruby told him. "We've got to go." Sam looked stupidly at her, unable to comprehend what was going on. "Now!"

In the Impala, Ruby was almost giddy. "You know what sounds good?" she asked rhetorically. "French fries. I'm starving. I just escaped Hell, I deserve a treat." She gave him a sidelong glance. "You know, a 'thank-you' would be nice."

"Who asked for your help?" Sam snarled. Ruby gave him a withering glance.

"You have no idea what I've been through," she complained. "When Lilith gets pissed, she gets creative. You want to hear about the corners of Hell I've seen, Sam?" Sam's lip curled in contempt.

"No. I don't," he told her.

"And the things I had to do to convince her I was sorry?" Ruby continued, ignoring him. "That I could be trusted?" Sam sighed in irritation.

"Well, this'll definitely get you a fat Christmas bonus," he said sarcastically. Ruby glared at him.

"Very funny," she said acidly. "For you, Sam. I took all this risk to get back to you, so yeah, I deserve a damn 'thank-you'" Sam rolled his shoulders.

"Again, who asked you to save me?" he pointed out.

"I'm just trying to help," Ruby explained. Why was everyone interfering in his life? Bobby, Ruby, even the damn Trickster. He turned to her with one raised eyebrow.

"Can you help me save Dean?" he asked bluntly.

"No," she admitted. "Nothing I know of is powerful enough to do that." Sam suddenly swung the car off the road and brought it abruptly to a stop.

"Then I have no use for you," he said baldly. Ruby gaped at him.

"What?"

"Get out," he told her.

"Sam," she began but he cut her off.

"Whose body are you riding, Ruby?" he asked. She frowned in confusion.

"What do you care? You've never asked me that before." She looked down at herself and then met his eyes again.

"I'm asking now," Sam said firmly. She gave a lazy shrug.

"Some secretary," she said, unconcerned.

"Let her go," Sam told her. Her mouth dropped open.

"Sam-" He made an impatient gesture.

"Or I send you right back to Hell." She climbed out of the car, casting him a disappointed glance. He ignored her and rammed the car into drive as soon as the door closed, roaring away into the night.