Five pairs of eyes rested on Sam's back as he rode away on the horse Jed had given him. The Colt sat heavily in the side pocket of his coat, creating a bulge. Seven bullets had been fired, and Jed swore he'd hit his mark with each one. Sam had no reason to doubt the old hunter. But it wasn't good enough. At least three times that number of demons, and who knew what else, had escaped before Sam had managed to shove the doors shut and Jed had jammed the Colt into the lock, sealing hell away behind the gun's magic.

It was a high price, and Sam knew people would keep paying it for decades to come. And for what? He'd failed; Dean was still dead.

Sam forced himself not to slump in the saddle. At least Dean was in a better place—or so he hoped. Nothing could be worse than hell. He took small consolation from that. Still, truth be told, he didn't think it was what Dean would've wanted if he had had the choice. Not like this. He hadn't even wanted to consider Doc Benton's weird science as a solution, and that had been far less deadly.

Immersed in his downtrodden musings, Sam let the horse wander where it would, not really caring where it took him. He'd promised Colt that he'd bury the gun in the hills somewhere outside the area the railroads would turn into a devil's trap. Hopefully, nobody would ever find it there.

A man appeared in their path, startling the horse. It shied and reared its head, nearly dislodging its unprepared rider from the saddle. Sam clenched his knees together by instinct but only a quick grab for the pommel prevented him from a hard fall.

"What the hell...?"

He reached for the Colt even as he blinked in surprise. There wasn't supposed to be anyone out here; this was still uncharted frontier land that wouldn't be laid open for decades. According to Jed, even the native tribes avoided the area surrounding the hell's gate. And most definitely, the last person Sam expected to see in the wilderness was a man who looked as if he'd stepped straight out of a gentlemen's club, wearing a dark-gray pair of trousers, a black waistcoat and a short wool jacket. Sam half-thought the man should be wielding a smoking cigar, or perhaps a pipe.

"Aw, if it ain't ol' Sammy Winchester," the man said. Something about how he said Sam's name was familiar and Sam tried to get the gun from his pocket without being noticed. "I hear I have you to thank for my... release." The man's eyes shifted, turning yellow.

Sam gasped. "You."

The demon smirked. "Good to know you didn't let me down. Not that I expected any less from you. You always were my favorite."

Sam finally managed to free the Colt from his jacket and he fired it blindly at the demon. But the bullet dug a harmless furrow into the dry earth where it had been an instant before. A disembodied voice laughed. "See ya 'round, Sammy-boy." The sound faded on the last word.

Sam turned and twisted in the saddle, eager for another chance, but the demon was nowhere to be seen. Neither was the man he was possessing.

He checked the gun. Five bullets left. Just like when Daniel Elkins had found it.

A shiver of apprehension wanted to make its way along Sam's spine. How could the yellow-eyed demon be alive? Dean had killed the damned son of a bitch with this very same Colt; Sam had stood over the corpse he left behind. There was no way the demon could...

Suddenly cold realization dawned.

He'd started it.

He'd started it when he opened the gates to hell.

He, Sam Winchester, had let Azazel escape.

Everything that happened—Mom, Jess, Dad, Dean—it had all been his fault.

Sam's stomach churned with nausea and he feared the eggs Bess had cooked him for a late breakfast might come back up. He swallowed hard a couple of times until he had his stomach more or less back under control.

Predestination paradox.

The term popped into his mind from out of nowhere; he didn't remember where he'd heard if before. Some class or other at Stanford, probably. But he understood the principle behind it. If he hadn't opened the doorway to hell, the demon wouldn't have escaped to haunt his family. Dean wouldn't have had to sell his soul; Sam wouldn't have had to find a way to get his brother released... And so he wouldn't have gone back in time to open those damned gates...

Sam groaned. Trying to figure it out, what sequence of events had brought him here, what action had let to what reaction, it made his head pound. He realized the horse had stopped walking and was nibbling on a patch of yellowed grass. He nudged it back in motion with his heels. Paradox or not, he still had a job to do.

Once he reached the range of low foothills he'd been heading for, he brought the horse to a halt. He let himself slide off but didn't tie the reins, instead letting the animal roam free to find its own way home. There couldn't be much time left until the spell ran out, and once it did, he'd get pulled back to his own time—where he had to tell Bobby how badly he'd fucked up.

It wasn't a conversation he looked forward to.

Sam crawled up the rocks, using hands and feet to drag and push himself higher until he reached a narrow crevasse between two towering cliffs. He peered into the gap, but the cliffs threw deep shadows and it was too dark to see beyond the first two feet or so of space. He snatched up a pebble and dropped it in, listening with satisfaction as it rattled down the black depths.

He took the box with the bullets, opened it and placed it carefully on the ground at his side before digging the Colt from his pocket. He admired the weapon a moment, tracing the words etched into the barrel. It was such a beautifully crafted gun, such a powerful weapon, it seemed a shame to throw it in a deep dank crack in the Wyoming desert.

Sam placed the gun in it's velvet-lined slot in the box and closed it. He reached up for the shadowed opening, but paused before he let go.

Once he threw the Colt in, nobody would ever find it.

Without the Colt, Dean couldn't kill Azazel.

Could he risk changing history? Could he risk having the gun fall in the wrong hands? Could he risk someone using it to reopen the gates of hell and let loose the demon horde to ravage the Earth?

Sam heaved a sigh. He wished he could share his doubts with Dean, have his help to decide on the course of action to take. But Dean was gone for good. It was all on him now, Sam Winchester. He felt crushed beneath the heavy burden of responsibility.

Unbidden, Bobby's admonition popped into his head: You can't change the past, Sam.

If Bobby was right, it didn't matter what he did.

He bent to pick up the box and, before he could change his mind, before further doubt would paralyze him, Sam flung the box down the crevasse. He listened to its echo as it clattered down.

There was no way back now. What would be, would be.

Job done, Sam settled himself on a boulder to gaze out across the desert and waited. Far below, the horse meandered among the rocks, chewing on the dry grass. On the horizon, thunderheads were building, threatening rain.

He hoped the spell would run out before the storm reached him.

o0o

A groan escaped Sam as he woke. Everything about him hurt. He felt as if he'd gone twelve rounds with a semi—and the truck had won. He cautiously forced his eyes open, blinking at a beam of bright sunlight that pierced through a gap in faded curtains.

He knew those curtains...

Bobby's curtains.

He attempted to sit up, whimpering at the agony that shot from his neck up through his skull. He had a whopper of a headache, far worse than any of the vision-induced migraines he remembered.

"Sammy, you okay?"

Sam froze in mid-motion. That voice...

He slowly lifted his head and peered blearily into the sunlight. "Dean...?"

His brother rested against a heap of pillows, cheeks sunken and gray splotches under his eyes. His freckles stood out in sharp contrast with the paleness of his skin. He looked exhausted, as if the sheer effort of keeping his eyes open was wearing him out.

He was also very much alive.

"Dean..." It seemed to be the only word Sam could remember.

"You did it, Sam." Bobby's voice sounded odd, a little strangled, and Sam dragged his gaze away from the vision that was Dean barely long enough to notice that Bobby was smiling down on him, though his eyes glimmered suspiciously.

"How...?"

Bobby gave a shrug. "Don't know, son. You were only gone a minute when he—" he gave a nod in Dean's direction, "belted a snore loud enough to rattle the windows and started breathin' again. Scared the living crap outta me, too." The angry glare he shot in Dean's direction probably would've worked better if he hadn't been grinning like a loon at the same time.

A minute... "So, all this...?" Sam gestured at the smudged chalk lines around Dean's bed.

"Yeah," Bobby grunted.

Sam let out a breath.

"Christ, Dean..." He couldn't take his eyes off his brother. "I thought I'd lost you for good. When you disappeared like that..." He couldn't continue, tears clogging his throat.

"That was weird," Dean said. "Thought I was a goner for sure. But it was like..." He frowned as he searched for words. "... like something pulled me back here."

Sam turned to Bobby, who shook his head. "Don't look at me. Soulless body, bodyless soul, maybe they knew where they belonged? God knows weirder things've happened."

Sam tilted his face back toward Dean. He didn't really care how it had happened anyway, only that it had. "You're alive," he muttered, still not quite believing his eyes.

Dean grinned. "I never doubted you'd come get me." The grin turned to a smirk. "But dude? Go put some pants on, will ya? I was just raised from the dead, last thing I need is have your hairy white ass waved in my face."

Sam choked back a sound that was something between a laugh and a sob. He realized he was again stark naked, and pictured a pile of discarded clothing left behind in the Wyoming desert.

"Jerk."

Dean's grin widened. "Bitch."

Bobby grumbled something under his breath.

Sam smiled. He knew there would be questions, and that he had to tell Bobby and Dean everything he'd discovered. But it could wait till later. For now, all was as it should be.

Disclaimer: this story is based on the Warner Bros. Television/Wonderland Sound and Vision/Eric Kripke/Robert Singer series Supernatural. It was written for entertainment only; the author does not profit from it nor was any infringement of copyright intended. Please do not redistribute elsewhere without the author's consent.