Title: No Answer

To say it's been a long and disappointing summer would be the most colossal understatement of Sam's life. He's covered hundreds of miles of blacktop in the Impala. He's tracked down leads so remote that access necessitated four-wheel drive and a power winch. The mere thought of one five-mile stretch back in June, up a trail that wasn't much more than a ledge against a sheer cliff— on horseback—can still break a cold sweat across the back of his neck.

But this is Sam's last stop. He studies the small cabin wedged back in a thick stand of Ponderosa pine. He's in a valley somewhere in the mountains of New Mexico, but he's not sure exactly where. The dirty, crumpled map that led him here, hand-drawn on the back of a diner receipt, wasn't that clear about the location and Sam figures that was deliberate. The old building looks abandoned, desolate even, the wood weathered gray and dry. Nothing about the place particularly inspires confidence, but Sam's almost glad of it as he climbs the splintered steps. His soul's rubbed raw; it can't take another brush against the sharp edges of shattered hope. He'll either find the answer here or he won't.

Butch Priest meets him at the door unarmed, which tells Sam he got the word that Sam was on his way. Butch is a hunter from way back, laconic and unforthcoming like most hunters Sam's known—and he's met more of them in the last few months than he has in his whole life before. It's ironic. He can't help thinking that Dean would have gotten along with these guys a lot better than Sam ever will—kindred spirits and all that.

The impression just gets stronger when Priest wordlessly offers him a whiskey and Sam accepts. He picks up the glass and knocks it back without a flinch, pushes it back toward the bottle for a refill. It's just one more thing that changed when Dean died. Nothing's like it was.

Priest eyes him from across the table, but Sam's learned some things in the last few months—about hunters and about patience—and he just waits. Finally, Priest sighs heavily and speaks.

"I know what you're here for, Winchester," he grates, rusty-voiced but not unkind. He pauses like he doesn't want to say the rest, but then he says it anyway.

"I don't have it."

Sam swallows hard and studies the grain of the scarred wooden table. He figured as much, but actually hearing the words is worse than he expected. They thud hard onto the air, like dirt clods on a coffin. He wants to say something to clear his head of the image, ask a question maybe, but for the life of him he can't come up with one. Look at me, Dean, he wants to say. I finally quit asking.

Priest just waits patiently for Sam to speak, to ask. When he doesn't, the old hunter takes a slug of whiskey, considers a moment, then continues.

"Son, you can't just yank your brother out of hell by force of will. There's only one will that can do that—God's."

Sam's stomach twists and his head jerks up. Some of what's burning inside him must show in his eyes, because Priest suddenly looks more alert, on guard. Sam figures the guy's about two seconds away from pulling whatever weapon he's got stashed under the table and he forces a calm he doesn't feel.

"God," Sam says. He clenches his teeth until they start to throb, then nods slightly. "God's will."

Priest eyes him narrowly, like he's not sure which way Sam's going to jump. Sam holds his gaze for a minute, then chokes out a dry laugh.

"So I guess next you're gonna tell me I have to have faith."

Priest cocks his head, considering.

"It ain't a bad thing to have. We all need a reason to keep goin'."

Yeah, well my reason's burning in hell right now. Because of me.

Sam stands up a little abruptly and Priest hunches defensively. But Sam just clears his throat to speak.

"I guess I'll be going," Sam says, and then adds, "Thanks for your time," but it's just a reflex.

Priest gets up and follows him to the door, but apparently he's said his piece because he doesn't speak again.

As he gets back in the Impala, Sam's actually a little surprised he's not more disappointed. He must be further gone than he'd thought because all he feels is a cold numbness, like all this was inevitable. He sits in the driver's seat of Dean's car and it almost seems logical somehow. He finally gets it. There was never any way he was going to save Dean. It's the goddamned story of his life: Too Little, Too Late. Should carve it in capital letters on his fucking tombstone, assuming he ever gets one. And why would he? There's no one left to care about it anymore, because he's let every last one of them die. Except it's even worse than that. He hasn't just let them die; he's been the cause of death. It's his destiny, like he's suspected all along.

Sam starts the car and drives away, watches the dust boil up and obliterate the cabin in the rearview. Pulling back from the end of the line.

The road's barely a track and he has to take it slow or risk a rock through the Impala's oil pan. It's going to be a long ride down the mountain listening to nothing but his thoughts. They're shitty company these days.

Faith.

Sam's not even sure what the word means anymore. He's spent so many hours of his life reading religious writings, poring over tomes, tracts, and dusty books. Looking back on it, he's amazed at how little most of it has mattered. In the end the things that have helped him, really made a difference, were the ones he could touch—silver and salt, water and iron.

We gotta go with what we know, with what we can see…

…and oh shit, that one unwary thought is all it takes; it's like Dean's right there in the car with him. The force of it sears across him like a flash burn, leaves his skin feeling sore and tight. And even though it's not the first time it's happened, not by a long shot, it still makes his breath hitch and his hands shake.

Sam grits his teeth and sets himself to maneuvering around the biggest chunks of rock, willing his mind to settle. He remembers when he thought there was Someone running the show, that there was a plan for good. He'd needed to think that there was something bigger than himself out there. Yeah, Sam had had faith once. But the thing is, he's had plenty of time to think about it and he knows exactly where—and when—his faith failed. After everything he's been through, all he's seen—false healers, demon deals and counterfeit angels—it had taken losing Dean, losing the only thing he had left, to finally kill the last seed of Sam's belief, the hope that maybe Somebody somewhere was on his side. But then that's the whole fucking problem.

God might let him down, but Dean never did.

Sam's lost in the dark now. The black hole of Dean's absence sucks in all the light. It's just a matter of time until the things that live in the dark come for him. That's not new. Sam's felt like he had a target on his back for most of his life, but without Dean it just feels so much worse. It's tender and raw, like it's carved into his skin.

Sam's come to the end of the road. The sun flashes off the hood as he turns east onto the highway. He knows what he has to do now. God might be in his heaven but he hasn't been taking Sam's calls for quite a while, and nothing's been right with the world for two months, three weeks and five days. And Sam's never thought that right and wrong were as simple as black and white, but at least he'd always had some sort of measuring stick for choosing right before. He'd always had Dean.

But now there's only Sam and he's done. He's through worrying about what the world thinks of him, or even the things beyond this world. He'll make his own right, and be damned to the rest. It's time he depended on himself.

And God won't enter in.