This is part two of the Apocalypse trilogy I wrote for Jeanne Gold's Blood Brothers fanzine. It appeared in BB3 in 2009. The first story is already posted.

NOTE: this is an AU after season 3. Dean went to Hell, Ruby's dead. Sam's on his own.

I was supposed to post this last summer, but due to unforeseen circumstances, I dropped the ball, and so I'm just posting it now. The GOOD news is, part 3 of the story, which was printed in 2010's Blood Brothers 4, is now available, and will be posted as soon as I get this one up. Some have been asking about this, and I am truly sorry that I made you wait.

Geminigrl11, Jeanne Gold, and K Hanna Korossy all helped with the edits. I own nothing, reviews craved.

SPNSPN

Out of the Fire and Into the Pan

(The second chapter of the Apocalypse series)

"Samuel told me once…whatever he found to get me out of Hell, he found it under a cathedral in New York. That's all he said."

It had all seemed easy enough at first glance.

There were only fifteen cathedrals in New York State, ten of which were in New York City itself and thus relatively close together. Even with the requirement that they'd all have to be searched, Sam and Bobby working together should have managed it fairly quickly.

It was that optimism that had carried them through the first two and a half weeks after leaving Gatlinburg. They'd scoured the cathedrals in New York City, then the two in Albany, then the ones in Syracuse and Buffalo. A close friend of Bobby's checked distant Ogdensburg, along the Canadian border.

Nothing.

Fifteen cathedrals, and not one clue to what the Dean from that other world had been talking about.

After a particularly difficult day searching the grounds of St. Paul's Cathedral in Buffalo and fighting the continuing symptoms of Sam's multiple concussions, Bobby had put his foot down, insisting they find a motel and regroup. Sam had relented, mainly because he'd been about to fall over by the end of the frustrating exploration.

Sam couldn't give up that easily, though. Sometimes people confused the words "cathedral" and "church," and he had no way of knowing if the other Dean was making the same mistake. Sam would simply have to search the other churches in New York and see if he had any luck on that front. It would simply be a matter of finding a list of churches in the state, then narrowing down the options.

There were 16,899 churches in the state of New York.

Sam blinked at the laptop screen. The listings in the online phone book were better than the 79,526 hits the map site had given him. Granted, that had included several surrounding states up and down the seaboard.

He tried dozens of variations on the search, checked dozens of websites for two days, even narrowed the search further to list only Catholic churches, since many of those were often older and had ties to the Old World…just the kind of place that might hide some secret key to getting into or out of Hell.

There were 2,209 Catholic churches in the state.

Better than 16,899, but still too many. Sam expected to have to search these places as well, and with that many churches, it would take years.

Sam didn't have years. It had already been a year. A year too long.

And he still didn't even know what he was looking for.

A book, a Devil's Gate, an artifact...it could be anything. Sam cursed as he raised a shaky hand, drained his whiskey glass, and slammed it down onto the table. He was getting nowhere, fast. Bobby was calling other friends, making discreet inquiries. The last thing they needed was for some overzealous hunter with a chip on his shoulder trying to prevent them from retrieving someone from the Pit.

Not that Sam would allow anyone to stop him. Not when he was so close.

His experience in the alternate universe—something Sam was still having trouble coming to terms with—had had one benefit. It had reignited his efforts to save Dean. Before seeing the darkness his counterpart had brought to that world and that other, desperate, version of his brother, Sam's research into breaking Dean out of Hell had been at a standstill, and he'd lost hope of ever accomplishing his goal. His Dean's fate seemed to have been just as sealed as that other Dean's he'd met. But when Sam had discovered that Samuel, his counterpart, had found a way to bust Dean out…

Blinking out of his reverie, Sam went back to scanning the Internet results. He knew it was possible to save Dean. He knew the solution was hidden in a New York church. Sam had the most important part of any hunt: A lead.

Everything else would fall into place. It had to.

That wasn't really helping with the research, though. Sam stared unseeingly at the listings, not having any clearer idea of where to begin than he'd had a moment before. Frustration ate at him as he let his eyes wander across the darkened motel room.

Why the hell didn't I ask Dean where it was? What was I thinking?

He hadn't been thinking. Sam had been overwhelmed. They'd just barely escaped the attack by Samuel and his demons, Sam had been hit on the head for the third time in a matter of days, and his brother from the other world was all but pushing him through the portal to return here. To this world.

The one where Dean was still in Hell.

Why didn't I stay there?

"I thought I told you to rest?"

Sam's head snapped up to find Bobby glowering at him from the doorway of the motel room. He immediately regretted it when a wave of vertigo hit. He'd been dizzy for days; the head injury wasn't healing quickly, and the stress of the past two weeks had probably prolonged the effects.

"You've got a concussion, Sam. A bad one. You should be resting, not burning your eyes out staring at that computer."

Frowning, Sam looked back at the screen. "I'm fine. I need to work on this."

Bobby closed the door and dropped one of the paper bags he was carrying onto the table. "You're not fine. You look like you're gonna fall over any minute."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed back bile. To him, it seemed an even bet which would face-plant him first: the dizziness or the nausea. Neither had been pleasant companions in the weeks since leaving Tennessee. Painkillers had worked at first. Sam had initially insisted on reaching New York as soon as possible, but reality caught up with him fast. He'd barely slept while in that other world. Despite what the clocks and calendars insisted, Sam was five days older than he'd been before the incident in Gatlinburg, not the two he'd been told. Five days with little sleep, three knockouts, and a run-in with an evil Doppelganger, followed by two weeks on the move.

Secretly, he was grateful Bobby had made him stop. If the older man hadn't left his car behind and driven up with Sam, he never would have made it this far. He couldn't bring himself to admit that out loud, though, so he changed the subject. "What's in the bag?"

Bobby didn't answer immediately, prompting Sam to cautiously crack his eyes open. The dizziness spiked almost immediately, and he covertly grabbed the table leg to steady himself. The older hunter either didn't see the motion, or chose to ignore it.

"Some ice packs. Your face still looks like a Rorschach test." Bobby moved to unload another bag in the room's small kitchenette.

Sam smirked as the crusty junk dealer passed. "Don't hold back, Bobby. Tell me what you really think."

"Boy, you don't want to know what I really think," the other man warned. From his tone, he wasn't kidding.

That irked Sam. Bobby still wasn't convinced Sam's experience in Tennessee was anything more than an alcohol-and-concussion-induced hallucination. Suddenly angry, Sam saved the search on the laptop and grabbed one of the ice packs out of the bag.

Reaching the bed was a challenge, mostly because the damned room had started spinning again, like it had the last time Sam had stood up. He settled against the headboard with a grunt of discomfort, and pressed the ice pack against the tender skin of cheek, where the rifle had struck him. The effort dulled his anger a little, and he kept quiet and watched Bobby's movements with one open eye.

Sam's thoughts drifted to the other Dean, the one who'd been so angry and defeated, the one who'd still trusted him even when there'd been no reason to, who had placed Sam's safety above his own and returned him home.

The one who had faced certain death in that other world, and for all Sam knew, was lying dead in a ditch along some empty stretch of road. The thought made Sam wish the whiskey bottle wasn't out of reach on the table.

He reined in his thoughts, trying to focus on his world. The one where Dean still had a chance, even if it was a slim one. But it would help if Sam had an ally who didn't think he was delusional.

"Why don't you believe me, Bobby?" The quiet words slipped out before Sam could stop them. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer but was committed now. Best to just get the conversation over with.

Bobby frowned, pausing only briefly in unloading the groceries he'd bought. "I didn't say I didn't believe you."

Sam huffed silently at the blatant lie. True, Bobby hadn't said it, but every concerned—pitying—sidelong glance he cast in Sam's direction communicated his disbelief clearly enough.

"You should eat something. You want a sandwich? I bought some roast beef," Bobby offered, awkwardly changing the subject.

Sam let him. "Fine."

Bobby handed him his food, then settled with his own at the table. They ate in silence.

Sam couldn't stay angry with the older hunter. He knew his story sounded insane. Like aliens and Bigfoot, alternate universes were the stuff of amateur folly, stories created for science fiction fans. If someone had told Sam three weeks ago they'd been sucked into some parallel world, he would have laughed.

But he was the one with that story, and it wasn't funny.

He chewed absently for a few minutes, then set what was left of the sandwich aside and took the pain pills Bobby had laid on the plate. His head was hurting again, from the injuries or the stress, he wasn't sure.

Sam wordlessly slid down onto the pillow and rolled toward the room's window. Fatigue gnawed at the edges of his consciousness, coercing him to sleep. He hated sleep. Sleep brought dreams. Dreams of two different but equally dead brothers he'd failed and couldn't save. He wished he had more than a vague, flimsy hope to keep the nightmares away.

But then, Sam and hope were long divorced, so he didn't expect much anymore.

SPNSPN

Sam knew he was broken. He wasn't quite sure how or why the small voice in his head that sounded so familiar kept whispering that to him, but he knew it was true. Month after month of pain, cold, fear, and hopelessness had taken their toll. When they came back, he wouldn't resist. He didn't care if he lived or died. He didn't care if anyone ever found him; he was pretty sure no one ever would anyway.

It wasn't like there was anyone looking for him. Not after so long. Only one person would, and he was long gone. Suffering in Hell forever because Sam had never been strong enough. Here in his own private hell, Sam was glad for it. Better that Dean never see him like this: sobbing, begging, screaming. That was the extent of his vocabulary, now.

Almost six months. Sam's little mental clock, which had served him so well as a hunter, had mercilessly kept track of every passing moment. Every second of every beating, every minute of pain, every hour of starvation he endured, all were tracked by his cruelly infallible sense of time. It told him it had been six months since he'd been brought to this hellhole.

And he knew tonight was the night. When they entered his cell, he would be ready. He'd do whatever they wanted: answer any question, perform any task, speak, beg, walk, run, kill, destroy…anything.

Except die. They'd never let him do that.

When the door cracked open and boots clomped into his small prison, Sam smiled. It was finally time.

Sam jolted awake, drenched in sweat, a gasp on his lips. He jackknifed off the pillow, only to drop back when the headache hit. His skull felt like it was splitting apart right down the center.

The images of the nightmare stayed with him as he shook himself awake. A small, filthy room, darkness, people who punished him for little or no reason day in and day out. Nothing he was familiar with, yet something felt off about it. Like it was more than just a crazy nightmare.

A vision? Of what? His future…or someone else's?

The sound of sheets rustling made him turn. Bobby lifted his head and looked over from the other bed. "Sam? You all right?"

No seemed to be the only answer that made sense. But Sam wasn't sure what was happening, so he didn't dare risk trying to explain it out loud. Not when Bobby already had doubts about his sanity. He shook his head and wiped sweat from his eyes. "Yeah. Just…need a drink." He smiled weakly, though the other man probably couldn't see it in the dark. The look Sam could just barely make out on his friend's face told him Bobby indeed didn't see the smile. "I'm kidding."

"Funny. You always so entertaining at four in the morning?"

Sam frowned. He didn't know how to answer that. For much of the previous year, he'd been alone at that hour, Jim, Jack, and Jose silent companions. Little by way of conversation. At a loss, he lowered his head back to the pillow. The pain of the dream—vision—receded slowly.

"You sure you're all right?"

He shook his head. The answer was still no to that one. "It was nothing. Go back to sleep, Bobby. Sorry to wake you."

The remaining few hours before sunrise passed slowly. Sam alternated between shutting his eyes and staring blindly at the patterns in the stucco ceiling. It reminded him vaguely of those 3-D posters that had been popular when he was in high school. If he stared long enough, he could just see his brother's face in the shadows.

Dreaming about himself had surprised him. For a year now, he'd had nightmares of Dean: Dean being dragged away. Dean in Hell. Dean blaming him for his failure to save him.

The past few days had brought nightmares of the other Dean, broken by Samuel's cruelty, dying alone in an already dead world. The last thing Sam expected was to see himself in his nightmares, let alone himself broken in captivity.

What did it mean?

Giving up on rest, Sam rose silently and made his way to the bathroom in the early morning gloom. He showered and changed, then quietly found a protein bar to munch on. He sat at the table and turned the laptop screen so the glow wouldn't wake his still-sleeping companion.

Okay. Sam drummed his fingers silently on his forearm. How can I narrow down 2,209 Catholic churches…?

SPNSPN

The stone walls were rumbling around him, black magic spinning its invisible tendrils all around the room, cracking open the very ground beneath his feet. He could feel the heat blasting up against his legs and chest.

A few feet in front of him, a shadowy figure clutched a thick, aged book and uttered incomprehensible chants.

Abruptly, an eerie calm fell over the scene. Stillness. Quiet. The calm before a storm.

When the last incantation was complete, chaos ensued. Sulfuric fumes shot out of the cracks, preceding a veritable explosion of black, roiling smoke as demons of all sorts poured up into the room. One column of undulating demons carried precious cargo.

Dean was dumped at his feet, naked, trembling, drenched in blood.

The blindly panicked and contorted face was all he could focus on.

"Howdy, Dean."

Dean didn't, or couldn't, answer.

"Clean him up."

"Sam!"

Sam's eyes snapped open at the sound of Bobby's panicked voice. He was looking up at the bearded man's face and could see the underside of the table and the ceiling beyond. Sam blinked, trying to get his bearings. His head was killing him. "W-what? How did—?"

Bobby loomed over him, checking Sam's pulse and pupils. "You tell me. I got out of bed and saw you sprawled out under the table."

Sam tried to remember. He'd been…using the laptop. Searching. Then…

A…cave? A book. Demons. Dean.

A cave. Or a crude basement. He'd had another vision. Had to be.

He tried to push himself up, Bobby gripping his arms when he almost flopped backward. Sam nodded gratefully and let the older man help him into a sitting position. "I, uh…I think it was a vision."

Bobby frowned. "Vision? I thought you weren't having those anymore."

"I wasn't," Sam admitted. "Not until…not until I went through that portal. I had one when I was on the other side." Sam tried hard to ignore how absolutely bug-nuts that sounded. One glance at his friend's face confirmed it. "Don't look at me like that, Bobby."

The older man huffed a laugh. "How—? How am I supposed to look at ya? Do you have any idea how you sound? How crazy that story is? Do you, Sam?"

It was hard to keep the hurt out of his voice. Much easier to let the anger bleed through. "I'm not lying! Damn it, Bobby, I've never lied to you."

"I'm not saying you have," the other hunter shot back, irate. "But, Sam…Jesus. You go off half-cocked, drunk, and hunt down a demon who's dealing with some wild black magic. I find you two days later, knocked out, beat half to hell, and spouting stories about another universe, another Dean. What am I supposed to think?"

"You saw the portal," Sam retorted. He had no other answer. A little faith would have been nice, the benefit of the doubt. Bobby had followed him this far, all the way across New York. Was Sam really asking so much? Was anything too much to ask if it could free Dean from Hell?

"We don't know what that demon was doing."

Sam cursed and climbed to his feet. He had to brace himself against the table to keep his balance, but adrenaline was helping douse the vertigo. It took every ounce of self-control he had to keep from just cussing the older man out and leaving right there. Sam owed Bobby a moment of mostly civil debate, though, so he took a deep breath before he spoke. "I saw it, Bobby. I got sucked into that thing. I saw the other side."

"Sam, maybe we should get a doctor to check you out. Make sure that concussion of yours is getting better. Then we can—"

"What?" Sam interrupted. "Then we can what? Have a shrink take a look at me? Make sure those blows to my head didn't knock out any screws?"

The older man hesitated.

Sam noted the brief look of doubt that crossed his face and pressed forward. "Why isn't my word enough?"

"You charged in after that demon alone, Sam. You didn't wait for me…."

Sam frowned. "And?"

"How much did you have to drink before you went in? You were working your way toward a four-alarm hangover when I saw you the night before."

Back to that. Sam ran his hands over his face in frustration. "What does my drinking or not drinking have to do with anything?"

Bobby cast an incredulous look at him. "It has everything to do with it! These creatures we hunt down, this black magic they can use…it can play with your head enough as it is. You go in half in the bag…there's no telling what that demon or its spells could make you see!"

Trying once more for reason, Sam held up his hands. "Okay, you're right about the drinking. I might not be as clear-headed on hunts as I need to be. I get that. But I know what I experienced wasn't a delusion. Hell, I got knocked out twice with a rifle while I was there. Plus, I was there for almost a week. I couldn't have been dreaming in all that detail."

"You weren't gone a week, Sam. It was only two days."

"It was two days here, Bobby!" Sam exclaimed, the logic—or lack thereof—not escaping him, but he had to make his friend understand. "Look, I can't explain that. Just like I can't explain how I was somehow…several years in the future there. I mean, who knows how this stuff works?"

"Sam—"

"Bobby…listen, I know this sounds crazy. It sounds crazy to me and I saw all of it. But…I have a lead on a way to help Dean. Isn't that what's important? I've finally got a clue on how I can save him, and I need your help to find it."

"I'd like nothing else than to do that, Sam," Bobby replied wearily. "But this 'lead' you have…the one given to you by your dead brother in an alternate universe? Even if I could get past that part of it, the 'clue' is so vague, it's meaningless. Something under a cathedral in New York? We've searched all fifteen of them and came up with zip. Now what? Search every church in the state? That'd take years, kid. A lifetime."

"It's worth it!"

"No. It isn't, Sam."

It was like getting slapped. Sam stood open-mouthed for a moment. "How can you say that?"

"Sam…Dean died so that you—"

"Dean died because I was stupid enough to turn my back on someone who was trying to kill me! He died because I didn't have the guts to finish Jake off when I had the chance!"

"He died," Bobby shouted back, "so that you could have a second chance. Because he valued your life over his—"

"He was wrong! Don't you get that?" Sam exploded, flipping the dinette chair into the wall with enough force to dent the plaster. "He was counting on me to find a way out of the deal! He needed me to save him, and I couldn't! I owe him everything! It doesn't matter how long it takes, I have to save him!"

Bobby shook his head, and Sam saw pity in his eyes. It enflamed his anger even more. Pity wasn't going to help anything. It wasn't going to help Dean.

"He didn't want this for you, son. And you know that. Your brother didn't want you to throw your life away chasing after him. Maybe you could have saved him back then, before his year was up, and maybe not. I hate being the one who has to tell you this, but Dean's been gone a year and it's time to let him go."

That was it, then. Sam stared at his father's friend, unable to think of anything that could break the impasse. Finally, he shook his head. "Well, I can't." He watched Bobby for a moment, meeting the older man's sympathetic gaze with a steely one. Neither could budge. It reminded him faintly of the arguments he'd had as a teenager with his dad. Two immovable, opposing points of view. No compromise. Stubbornness and hurt feelings.

In the end, it was all they ever had.

With a sense of finality, Sam righted the chair he'd thrown and placed himself in front of his laptop. "I'm going to work on this for a while."

Bobby looked like he wanted to say something more but just nodded awkwardly. He gestured toward his cell phone. "I'm gonna…call Wilkerson. See if he can drive my car up from Gatlinburg."

Sam nodded, then turned his attention to the computer screen. There was nothing left to say.

TBC