Chapter 2
It took Sam the better part of the day to connect the image of cave walls to his list of churches. Really, it all came together much faster than he'd expected.
Catacombs.
A large Catholic church upstate fit the bill. Just a few scant miles from one of the cathedrals they'd checked in Syracuse, Immaculate Heart of Mary in Liverpool, a mid-sized parish that supported a small school, was in the midst of a massive fundraising campaign to pay for a renovation project. The parish was old, built in the early 1800s and progressively added on to over the decades. But the most interesting part was the catacombs beneath the campus.
The church was an intricately detailed copy of an earlier church in Italy. The designers had painstakingly reproduced every aspect of the design, from the stone statues inside the cramped chapel, to the Latin inscriptions along the steps outside...to an exact replica of the catacombs underground.
The selling point, though, was the aerial photograph Sam found in a local newspaper article. The church campus was composed of five buildings—a chapel, a rectory, and three for the school—all arranged at equidistant points around an empty, vaguely circular field.
A perfect pentagram. Just like Samuel Colt's devil's trap in Wyoming.
That was the place; Sam would bet his life on it.
Liverpool was only two-and-a-half hours away. Sam had not driven alone since leaving Tennessee, but the lingering effects of his concussion didn't seem as bad as the morning went on, and even the headache from his vision was fading. Not to mention, Bobby was no longer an option but an obstacle. Sam was on his own.
Well, not much different than usual, I guess.
With the information in hand, and a reasonable certainty he'd find what he was looking for, Sam began packing. He covered it, making it look as though he were simply tidying up the room.
Bobby said little; the tension in the room was suffocating. Sam just waited for an opportunity.
Waiting took longer than the computer search. It was six o'clock before Wilkerson arrived with Bobby's Chevelle. Sam passed the time digging up as much information as he could online about Immaculate Heart's history, which wasn't much. He memorized the general layout of the grounds, but wouldn't be able to get the details until he saw the place in person.
Bobby was old friends with Wilkerson, whom Sam had only met once back when he was a kid. The two men talked out by the cars for a while, catching up, until Bobby stuck his head in the door and asked if Sam wanted to come with them and grab dinner.
"Nah, I'm not hungry."
"You sure?" the older hunter asked, visibly concerned.
Sam put on a forced smile that he hoped worked, but honestly, it didn't matter either way. "Yeah, I'll be fine. You go ahead."
He could see the doubt cross his friend's face, but the lie worked. Bobby and Wilkerson left in Bobby's car.
Sam gathered his meager belongings and loaded up the Impala. When he stopped to leave his keycard on the dresser, he paused.
Bobby had taken him and Dean in when their dad had died. Had taken Sam in when Dean had died. It was wrong to just run out on him without so much as a word. The older hunter was trying to help, even if he wasn't seeing the situation the same way as Sam.
He tore off a sheet of motel stationery and scribbled a note: I'm sorry, Bobby. I can't stop now. Thanks for everything.
He dropped his room key and enough cash to cover the cost of the room, then walked out.
Dean was waiting for him.
SPNSPN
The drive east was quiet. Sam had played alphabetically through Dean's collection of cassette tapes seven times during the past year and was due to put the second Metallica tape in, but he didn't. His mind was too busy rolling over the details of the church, Bobby's words, his Dean's last words, the other Dean's.…
Driving wasn't too stressful, at least, though keeping his eyes focused as the headlights of oncoming cars passed was somewhat difficult. They tended to blur when he moved his head too quickly. Sam compensated by staying in the slow lane and keeping his eyes straight ahead.
That wasn't difficult either. Every time he looked out at the slowly darkening landscape off the highway, his brain flashed back to the desolate world he'd spent the better part of a week driving across. Windblown trees twisted into craggy, burnt, skeletal versions of themselves. Drooping limbs, silhouetted against the sunset, took on the shapes of corpses, hung crucifixion-style, like the ones he'd seen near Clarksville. Thick gray clouds drifting in front of the sinking sun shifted and blackened, moving with sudden purpose, like the demons that had surrounded Dean's camp—
No, it was better to keep his eyes on the truck four car lengths in front of him.
Sam's mind wandered again, and he glanced at his phone. He was in New York now, and he and Bobby had driven right past New Paltz on the way up to Albany. He hadn't spoken to Sarah for more than a year. It had barely occurred to him after everything that had happened, and when he'd changed his phone, he hadn't forwarded the new number to anyone but Bobby.
He caught himself when he reached for the cell; it wasn't the time. What would he even say to her? I saw you fighting for your life in another universe and wanted to check in? Oh, and we had a son, too. That was a good way to get hung up on. No, it was better to wait. Anything else right now would be distracting.
Sam held off on filling up the gas tank until he reached Batavia and the needle was about as far into "E" as it could get. He'd been too concerned with putting Buffalo behind him to fill up at the start of the trip. Pulling off the highway, Sam stopped at a brightly lit Citgo station.
The air was cool for May, breezy. A storm was blowing in from the west. Sam grabbed his jacket from the backseat and stepped to the back of the car to unscrew the gas cap. As his eyes drifted over the surroundings, he caught a glimpse of the man standing on the other side of the pumps…and did a double take.
"Dean?" The word was out of his mouth before he could stop it, and he stepped forward. It can't be… The short-cropped blond hair, the line of the shoulders, the—
"You talking to me?"
Sam blinked. The man at the other pump had turned to face him. He looked nothing like Dean from the front, and he was frowning at Sam the way one would at an escaped mental patient.
"Um…sorry. I'm sorry. You just looked like— Forget it," Sam stammered out, shaking his head and retreating back to the Impala.
The other man went about his business, but not before Sam heard him mutter "nutjob" under his breath.
Ignoring the barb, Sam filled the tank, recapped it, and went into the small convenience store. He'd need coffee if he was going to keep driving. His body craved sleep, even if it was plagued with nightmares, and he found himself slowing down even though it was only after eight o'clock. To stay alert, Sam had kept the window down in the car, despite the evening chill.
The store was cramped inside, served by a single cashier shielded behind Plexiglas. Comforting. Sam made his way back to the coffee machine and was filling the cup when he caught his reflection in the glass of the drink cooler.
No wonder that guy thought I was crazy... His hair was all over from having the window down in the car. There were deep bags under his eyes. When he ran a hand through his hair, he realized it was shaking. Sam didn't know why he hadn't noticed that earlier. Balling his hand into a fist to control it, he grabbed the coffee cup and headed to the register. The young cashier eyed him warily but took his money without giving him any grief.
Sam was back on the road in minutes. Traffic was thinning out now that night was falling. He fished the Metallica tape from under the pile of papers in the passenger seat and popped it into the radio. With fewer cars to keep him awake, he was going to need something else, and his brother's music was as good a choice as any.
SPNSPN
Immaculate Heart of Mary Church was larger in person than it looked in the newspaper photo.
Sam sat across the street from the main building, sipping at too-hot coffee from a fast food joint down the block. It wasn't helping. It was going to take more than one cheap fast-food cup of caffeine to cure the hangover he was nursing. He'd had a lot of time to kill in the motel the previous night.
Breakfast was a greasy disaster he'd abandoned after a few bites, but Sam wasn't all that hungry anyway. Nausea had bothered him for days after coming back through the portal, and it had more or less destroyed his appetite after that.
Operating hungover on a mostly empty stomach wasn't anything new to him, though, and this particular job would be fairly easy. Scope out the church, get a feel for the layout, find a way into the catacombs, then come back at night and look for some ancient book.
He and Dean had pulled off more complicated jobs in their sleep.
Sam frowned, shaking his head. Everything goes back to him... How could Bobby expect him to just let his brother go? His whole life had revolved around Dean, even when Sam was off at Stanford and foolish enough to think it didn't. No one could expect that to change just because of death.
Turning his attention back to the church, he checked his watch: 9:31 a.m. The small school was in session, the parents mostly gone except for one couple that had driven around the corner of the schoolhouse in the direction of the administration office.
To the left of the chapel lay the rectory, and beyond that, the fifth building on the campus, which Sam guessed was some kind of maintenance or generator shop. His casual drive around the block had revealed little else besides a city work crew digging up a water main on the sidewalk alongside that fifth building.
Behind the church, in the center of the quintet of structures, was a large, open field. Sam assumed the old catacombs mentioned in the article would be somewhere below that, right in the center of the disguised devil's trap. Like Colt's huge trap, this one was not readily visible from ground level. In the 1800s when the campus was built, it would have been perfectly disguised. But from whom?
A book that could retrieve someone from Hell would be a powerful tool, and if it opened some sort of doorway into the underworld… In the wrong hands, there was no telling what such power could do. The book was dangerous.
It was also Sam's only lead to save Dean. That overrode all other concerns.
He'd learned about all he could from the outside; it was time to go in and take a look around. Sam climbed out of the Impala, tossing his half-finished coffee into a nearby trashcan. He jogged across the street and tried to look as casual as possible as he approached the front doors of the church.
More than likely, any entrance leading down to the catacombs would not be in the main church. At the very least it would be concealed behind a wall or under the floor, or somewhere else entirely. Still, a cursory search was a good first step, and the church was likely to be deserted that time of day.
While the outside looked bigger than Sam had expected, the inside was more cramped. It had obviously been renovated many times over the years, but the basic brick-and-mortar walls and huge circle-top stained glass windows appeared to be classic Eighteen Century design.
The entrance door opened into a small foyer, separated from the main floor by four steps. The stairs led up to a small section of wooden pews that were divided from the main seating area by a line of ceiling supports. Beyond the larger series of pews was the sanctuary, with the altar and a large carved-wood crucifix. Sam figured the church could seat about 300 people.
Along the walls on both sides and sculpted into the supports between the large stained glass windows, were the Stations of the Cross, which Pastor Jim had showed him and Dean when they were kids. The fourteen carvings depicted the final journey of Christ to the Crucifixion. Sam wasn't Catholic—wasn't anything, really—but Pastor Jim had taught him about a lot of different religions and practices. Sam could pass as almost any denomination if questioned.
As he passed between the stone pillars and entered the main hall of the chapel, he glanced to his right. Against the wall were several wooden doors, apparently leading into traditionally designed, enclosed confessionals. To his left, a set of double doors, and what looked like a stairwell. Sam headed for those.
"Good morning, sir!"
Sam spun in his tracks, startled, hand darting to his concealed handgun. He stopped and covered the motion by thrusting his hand into his jacket pocket when he saw who had addressed him.
A smiling priest with thin, gray hair was approaching from the area behind the altar. "I can always spot a new face," he continued cheerily, extending his hand. "I'm Father McBride, the pastor here."
Hesitantly removing his hand from his pocket, Sam accepted the handshake. The priest's grip was surprisingly strong. "Sam."
"Welcome to Immaculate Heart of Mary's, Sam."
"Thanks," Sam muttered, feeling self-conscious for a reason he couldn't quite pin down. Oh, yeah, because I'm here to steal something from this nice priest, from his nice church. That's probably it….
"Are you new in town? I don't think I've seen you around."
Sam nodded too quickly. "Um, yeah. Really new, actually. I'm just settling in." Damn it, Sam, pull it together!
"Ah. Are you Catholic?"
"Not…really. I knew a priest…well, a Lutheran."
The older man frowned slightly.
Sam regrouped, finally pulling his mind out of the mud, and put on a congenial smile. The one he and Dean had turned into an art form over the years. "I'm sorry, Father. We, uh…had a family friend, a pastor. He was friends with my father and helped out with my brother and me. Taught us a lot about the Church and religion, but my father was always traveling, so we never practiced. He passed a few years back."
"Who?"
"Sorry?" Sam asked, perplexed.
"Who passed away? Your father or the pastor?"
It was Sam's turn to frown. "Uh, both, actually."
The priest nodded sympathetically.
Sam shook his head, chuckling uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, Father. I just met you and…I don't know why I'm telling you all this."
McBride grinned. "It's the clothes. They invoke confession."
Sam laughed. "Fair enough."
"Well," McBride folded his arms in front of him casually, "you said you're new in town. Are you in the market for a good church?"
Good. Back to the cover story. Sam was grateful to be on track again. What the hell is wrong with me? He glanced around the chapel. "Yeah, actually. Like I said, I'm not Catholic, but there's…something about this place. I think I could find what I'm looking for here."
McBride smiled again. "Well, may I show you around? We've got a small church here, but we're proud of it."
"Sure." Sam nodded, returning the smile. Now they were getting somewhere.
SPNSPN
Lying was never a part of the life Sam enjoyed. It was necessary. He was decent at it—so long as he wasn't trying to pass something off on Dean or Bobby or his dad, then he sucked at it—and it got things done. But it was never easy.
Spewing out a twisted mix of truth and fiction to a priest, in God's house…well, Sam felt like he needed a shower. He had to keep reminding himself of his endgame. It was all for Dean. He'd move the Earth with his bare hands for Dean.
Father McBride showed him every inch of the church, visibly proud of his parish. The church was bigger than Sam had guessed from the outside. Besides the main floor, there was a balcony above the back half, and a rather extensive, musty library below, filled with positively ancient school texts and reference books. Sam could swear he remembered a few of them from the smallest, least-funded schools he'd attended growing up.
Sam searched every inch of the library for anything that looked out of place. There was no way to know if an entrance to the catacombs would be obvious or hidden—though Sam bet on hidden—so he discreetly examined every closed door and askew book he saw, but found nothing. Father McBride's curious stares were countered with a story about how he used to spend days on end satisfying his voracious reading habits in Stanford's libraries.
Not everything was a lie.
The tour ended in the priest's small office, off beside the row of confessionals. Sam settled in next to the window as McBride finished a funny story about one of the junior priests and his run-in with some malcontent prankster named Tommy.
"Would you like some water, Sam?"
What he really wanted was a drink, but Sam didn't say that. "Sure."
They sat for a few moments, and Sam had to admit the water helped his thirst; rummaging through those dusty books had left a dry spot in his mouth.
"I feel like I've been talking this whole time, Sam," McBride began, draining his own glass.
Sam smiled but said nothing. He had let the priest go on for a reason.
"I've shown you just about all there is in this part of the campus. School's in session next door, but I can show you around if we stay quiet. Do you have children?"
"Ah, no. But, uh, there's always hope," Sam stuttered. The image of Sarah and little Sammy sprang to the front of his mind suddenly. He couldn't shake it, nor could he help but think of the fate that awaited them both in that demon-conquered world.
"Are you married?"
"No, not yet," Sam replied, deciding to put his errant mind's eye to good use. "But, me and…Sarah have…something special."
Well, well, you still got the hots for her on your side, too. Who woulda thought?
Sam squirmed a little in his seat, remembering the conversation and his brother's voice all too well. Shut up, Dean. He cleared his throat. "But, I don't want to take up any more of your time—"
"Nonsense! We're always looking for new members, Sam. If I don't persuade you to join our flock then I'm not doing my job. Come on."
McBride led Sam to the back of the office and out a side door. They walked together along the concrete walk, the priest continuing his history lesson while Sam scanned their surroundings for anything that might be an underground entrance. McBride offered little more than Sam already knew.
When Sam tried to turn the conversation onto the subject of the catacombs, McBride's face shifted, so subtly, Sam almost missed it.
"Well…I'm afraid that's getting too much attention. It seems there were plans to recreate the catacombs when the settlers built this place, but they never actually built them. I think the only thing anyone would find down there would be a sewer drain."
It was a struggle for Sam to keep his face neutral. The priest was lying to him. He was certain of it.
"The ground was so unstable that they couldn't even build the church on the spot they picked, so they built it all around the periphery. That's why the campus is laid out the way it is."
And that was a bald-faced lie. Sam could see it all over McBride's face. The priest knew full well why the campus was designed the way it was, and it wasn't because of geology. He plastered on a clueless smile.
They reached the school. After a brief tour, they stopped at a bay window on the second floor overlooking the open field between the five buildings. McBride pointed out the outdoor equipment, and Sam nodded, paying just enough attention to respond when necessary.
"We host a number of community events, in addition to the school's activities. The school's planning committee was looking at that area over there for some newer bleachers."
Sam followed the priest's point with his eyes, toward the far side of the field, past the church, behind the rectory. The empty section of the field was nondescript…except for a small concrete square with what looked like a metal trapdoor. It appeared to be a sewer drain cover with yellow caution tape crisscrossing the top. He blinked. Is that it?
"So," Father McBride interrupted his thoughts. "What do you think, Sam? Will we see you on Sunday?"
Sam turned to the priest, a satisfied smile creeping onto his face. "This is a really nice place, Father. I'll definitely be coming back."
SPNSPN
The rough-hewn wall dug into his back as the figure approached. His body was pinned tight, movement impossible. He squeezed his eyes shut as the knife came closer.
"Just a little," the voice whispered mockingly. "Scout's Honor. It doesn't require much."
Pain blossomed along the side of his face as the blade slid into the skin above his right eye, spreading down as his attacker drew the knife all the way to his jaw line—
Sam gasped, jolting upright in the padded armchair. It took a moment for his brain to register the motel surroundings.
"Damn it," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. It was the third time he'd had that dream that afternoon. Every time he closed his eyes, it started again.
His plan, after leaving Father McBride, had been simple enough: go back to his motel room, eat lunch, and grab a few hours of shut-eye before returning to the church that night.
Naturally, that plan went to hell about halfway through. Sam had moved to the chair after tossing restlessly in the bed for a while, but his sleep continued to be plagued with nightmares. First his Dean, then the other Dean. Then that knife, carving into his face, over and over.
The last dream felt more visceral, more real, than the ones about Dean. Sam was beginning to suspect another vision, just for the knife if no other reason. A knife cut, as deep as it seemed, down the right side of his face. Deep enough to leave a noticeable scar. The kind of scar Samuel had sported when Sam saw him in Dean's Wyoming safe house.
Put together with the earlier vision of being tortured by unseen captors…. Was he seeing Samuel's fate? How he went darkside? "Why would I be seeing his future?" Sam asked quietly, addressing no one in particular. His visions had always been glimpses of future events—usually deaths—he sometimes had a chance to prevent. Occasionally, he'd seen his own future. He'd never seen the future of a version of himself from another universe.
Unless—
Sam shivered. The realization was more than a little horrifying. He might be seeing his future, not Samuel's. Maybe his fate was still destined to mirror his dark double's. Maybe the future he saw in that other world was unavoidable in this one as well.
"Not a good dream, huh?"
Sam's head snapped up at the voice. His eyes focused on a dark shadow over by the television stand, a figure slouched against the wall. Sam's hand immediately reached for a weapon but found nothing. He spun, searching, but the arsenal he'd planted around the room was gone.
"It's okay, man, relax."
Turning back, it slowly dawned on Sam that he knew that voice. His mind went from alarmed to some mix of shock and terror. "Dean?"
The figure stood, hands out in an unthreatening gesture, and stepped forward. A sliver of moonlight through the closed curtains illuminated his brother's smirking face. "You look like shit, Sam."
Sam's eyes welled up. It wasn't possible. The portal was closed; he'd broken the magic circles that controlled it. He'd watched the vortex collapse, along with any chance he had of reaching that other Dean Winchester. "Dean…how?"
In a flash, Dean was sitting on the bed, right in front of Sam. He hadn't moved, just disappeared and reappeared.
Sam did a double take, trying to flinch back but finding his lower body numb. He couldn't move.
"Really, dude, you look awful. When's the last time you slept?"
A sickening realization began to sink in. This wasn't Dean. It was a hallucination. Sam had had a few during the past year, nights where he'd gotten so drunk, he'd started seeing things: Lilith, Dean, hell hounds. Sam buried his face in his hands. "No, no, no…this…isn't real."
Dean chuckled, slapping Sam's knee playfully. "Well, neither are ghosts, demons, and Hell, right? I mean, it depends who you ask, doesn't it?"
"I'm losing it…."
"You think so?" Dean asked casually, rocking back on the bed. "You think Bobby's right? That you're going nuts?"
"I don't know," Sam moaned miserably. "I don't know, Dean."
"Why do you keep calling me that?"
Looking up sharply, Sam tensed. "Then what—?"
"Well, Dean's in Hell, so I can't be him. And that other guy, he's…well, there's no telling, I guess. He could be dead. But I'm not him either."
Sam shook his head. "I don't understand…."
Dean shrugged. "Maybe I'm you. Some…part of your brother he left behind that you can't let go of. You know, some Sci-Fi Channel meets Lifetime crap. Does that make sense to you? I mean, it makes sense to me."
Sam was really lost now.
Dean didn't give him a chance to speak. "So tell me, do you think Bobby is right? You go crazy and not tell anybody?"
The reflexive denial died in Sam's throat. He waved his hand helplessly. "I— I don't know. How would I know?"
"I guess you wouldn't," Dean said with a conspiratorial smile, but he quickly sobered. "But I do know you should stop blaming yourself."
"For what?"
Dean leaned forward, all business. "For what happened to me. I know you like to blame yourself, because you're a little masochist, but I made that deal, and I knew you wouldn't be able to break it. And I knew what would happen when I sent you back through that whirlpool thing in Tennessee. It was too late. You couldn't stop any of it."
Sam chuckled. He was so damned tired; he didn't care if he was crazy or not anymore. "Didn't you say you aren't Dean?" He didn't let the other answer. "Doesn't matter. I could have saved you. I could have saved one of you. I know it."
"No. Sorry, kiddo. I am. But it just wasn't in the cards."
The laugh that bubbled up in Sam turned into a sob as Dean stood and strolled along the bed. "What am I supposed to do? Dean, help me, please."
Dean shrugged again, looking over his shoulder with a compassionate frown. "Why do you keep asking me questions? I don't have any answers. I told you, I'm not Dean."
Suddenly angry, Sam pounded the arm of the chair, still unable to stand. "First you say you aren't Dean, then you say you are! Why are you even here? Why talk to me at all if you won't help me?"
"I'm trying to help you. I'm telling you to let it all go before it's too late."
"Too late for what?"
Dean shook his head, sadness coloring his pale, moonlit features. "I have to go."
Sam's anger melted into panic. No. Don't leave. Not again. "What? Why?"
Stopping at the nightstand, Dean touched the motel room's alarm clock. "'Cause it's time to wake up, Sammy."
The alarm clock blared, shattering the silence of the darkened room and causing Sam to jump out of the bed. He slammed the snooze button with his fist. "Jesus…."
It was eight o'clock. Sam blinked a few times. Reality came into focus slowly as the remnants of the dream faded. The image of Dean gazing at him remorsefully stuck with him when he blinked, though. Oh, God, I am crazy….
I'm telling you to let it go before it's too late.
Dean's words haunted him. Somehow, Sam knew he was referring to Samuel, to the visions of the future where he went darkside. His dreams were trying to warn him.
It disturbed him. He thought he'd done enough to avoid that future. He'd just barely avoided turning evil when the Yellow-Eyed Demon had trapped him and the other special kids in Cold Oak, and it had ultimately, indirectly cost him his brother's life. He'd heeded the Trickster's warning and tried to keep himself on the straight and narrow after Dean died. It had been hard.
Not blowing his brains all over a motel room wall with one of Dean's guns had been even harder.
After all that, was he still destined to go bad? Was all the pain for nothing? Sam couldn't believe that.
Yet, Bobby wouldn't get off his case about drinking a little to get by, and now, even Dean was telling him he was screwed.
I can't win.
Rolling sluggishly out of the bed, Sam cursed, punching the wall as he crossed to the bathroom. Screw it. He didn't care about Samuel, Lilith, the Trickster: any of that. He didn't even care which of the universes he'd seen was real.
He was done. Dean was the only thing left that mattered anymore. Saving Dean. Keeping his promise. Victory was so close, he could taste it.
He wouldn't be around long enough to go evil. Dean was getting out of Hell tonight, then Sam was taking his brother and the Impala and disappearing. No more hunting. No more visions. No more death.
TBC
