Chapter 10

Why haven't you saved me? Saaaaammmm!

A gasp tore from his throat and Sam jerked forward hardbound books falling from his lap onto the floor. His laptop sat blinking with a screen full of already clicked links on the small table to the side. Dust motes floated in the sunlight filtering through half open shades.

The worn and smoke stained wallpaper, the pervasive smell of paper, mold, and incense, the lumpy couch he was sitting on, all bits of reality insisting he wasn't in another dimension watching his brother suffer in Hell.

Sam leaned forward, elbows on his thighs with hands over his face, and tried to put the latest bloody imagery of his brother's never ending torture behind him.

He'd been here three days. Three days of research and dead ends and no hope and Dean rotting in the ground. Of his being tortured in Hell. He was running out of options. He could feel the walls of failure closing in with every breath.

His hands moved from his face to his hair as he tried to squeeze his head between them. There had to be something!

"Sam? You all right?"

He froze at the sound of Bobby's voice. He sucked his feelings in, pushing them down, hurriedly schooling his features. Taking a deep shuddering breath, he let go of his head and slowly sat back up. "Fine, Bobby. I'm fine."

Every day it got harder and harder to look at him. As far as Bobby was concerned, Sam had already failed. He could hear it in his voice, see it in his face. There were times when Sam couldn't stand to be around him anymore because of it. Bobby's certainty that there was nothing that could be done was a twisting knife in his gut – and it hurt.

"Listen, kid, we need to talk."

Sam glanced over just enough to make out that Bobby was in the room's doorway making no move to come in. This suited him fine. He bent down to start picking up the discarded books. "Not now."

"Then when?" Bobby didn't leave the question hanging out long enough for him to try to respond. They both knew the answer already. "Sam, what you're doing… It isn't healthy. Sure, you eat, you drink, you make the motions of living, but you only sleep when your body shuts down in exhaustion and only after spending every waking minute doing research. It's wrong…"

Sam heard him take a step into the room and he tensed, gripping a fifteenth century tome until his fingers left an impression in the worn leather. Yes, it was Bobby, yes, he only had his best interest at heart, but still…

"I know you're hurting. Hell, I'm hurting and I've been through this twice! Not just Dean's death, but yours when you died."

Sam flinched, his murder being when all this trouble started. That he'd died had been his own fault. He'd been careless. Stupid. Compassion had only left his enemy alive so he could get another shot at him, and Jake had taken advantage of it with a vengeance. Dean and Bobby arrived just in time to have him die in his brother's arms. And it was this that drove Dean to make the insane deal with the crossroad's demon. Something his brother had known better than anyone not to do.

"Look, there's nothing I wouldn't do for either of you. You two are family." He heard Bobby's voice crack. "But you have to let me, Sam. Can't you see that?"

Sam looked away, hiding his face, feeling his mask slipping. He knew how Bobby felt, he'd made it more than clear with actions, if not words, many times. But Bobby didn't believe. He didn't believe Sam could save Dean. All he wanted was to help Sam let his brother go instead of save him. And that he could not do.

"Dammit, boy! Let me help you!"

He turned his composed face toward the one man he could count on but who also had no hope. And if he held no hope, there was no way Bobby could do anything to help him. Nothing at all.

The answer must have shown on his face because as he watched he saw despair stain Bobby's expression.

"Don't become your father, Sam. You deserve more."

He almost laughed out loud. That was exactly who he needed to become. Not Dean, not Dean at all, but his father! No one had ever more doggedly pursued a quest than John Winchester. When there'd been no hope, no clues, his father had nevertheless sought out every last hint or rumor and though it took him over twenty years, he had eventually succeeded! Not only had he found out what had killed his wife, but he'd crawled out of Hell itself to help his sons take it down.

He'd crawled out of Hell itself…

It took all of Sam's will to keep still and not jump out of his seat with a jolt of excitement. The sentence kept repeating itself in his mind over and over and over. He filled up with the possibility, the possibility of an actual answer. One that wouldn't require his selling his soul, or murdering innocents, or getting back something that wasn't really Dean. It wasn't ideal, not what he truly wished for, but it would be enough. It would be enough.

"I'll think about it." With fake nonchalance Sam opened one of the books at random and pretended to read. He'd gone through about two pages when he heard Bobby finally sigh and walk away.

Even so, he still gave it another five minutes before he put the book aside. What he was planning had no guarantees and despite the fact they'd fixed the railroad ties after the first incident, he was pretty sure Bobby would never agree to do this. Either someone from the outside or one of the escaped denizens of Hell had broken the giant pentagram when the demons were freed the last time. If it had been done from the inside they could do it again. Despite how he felt about the brothers, Bobby wouldn't take the risk. But Sam would.

He was on his own.

Problem was he wasn't sure of the location of the Colt. And if he asked, Bobby would know instantly why and probably destroy it. Sam would do this, but he would do it right, with Bobby none the wiser.

He grabbed his laptop and did some research for a while on a different subject. Then he pretended to read as he bid time to go by faster, and made plans until he could be free to act.

Bobby brought him dinner as he had every day and Sam ate it woodenly like all the times before. He totally avoided looking at the older man, not willing to take the risk he might somehow give himself away.

He heard Bobby hesitate at the doorway, but he said nothing then went on his way. Sam was grateful.

After night fell and the house turned silent, he finally acted. Practicing every ounce of stealth he'd developed over the years, he roamed from room to room searching. Though the gun itself was useless, he knew there was no way Bobby would have gotten rid of it. The trouble was finding where he'd eventually put it away.

He found the place he was looking for in one of the rooms off the basement. Sam recognized the bullet creating equipment and the forging dies and steel blanks for different gun parts as well as the small forge for making them in the back. Bits of metal or works in progress lay across several shelves. Some looked like they'd not been touched in some time. A work desk sat to the right. Sam opened several of the drawers looking for what he hoped to find. Gun schematics and notes on the top drawer all related to the new version of the Colt Bobby had made. It had been one of the few things Lilith feared, but they'd lost it thanks to Bella. In the end it hadn't helped her get out of her own deal for her soul. And there hadn't been enough time for Bobby to make another before Dean's time had run out. With Ruby being sent to who knew where by Lilith, making another functional gun wouldn't be happening anytime soon anyway.

In the drawer beneath he found what he was looking for. In a neatly labeled box were gathered the disassembled parts of the original Colt. Sam took them out one by one. Using Bobby's notes for reference and his own experience with guns, he quickly rebuilt the Colt by groups – frame, cylinder, extractor, crane, barrel, sight, and trigger. More calibration would be needed for it to shoot straight, but for what he needed the gun for, it didn't matter. As a killing weapon for demons the Colt had become useless as soon as all the bullets were used up. With no specs on their actual stats, this being a one-of-a-kind specimen, they wouldn't be able to recreate them. That had been the main reason Bobby had taken it apart and tried to reconstruct one from scratch so they would have what was needed to make proper bullets and not just end up with a handful.

Checking the schematics one last time, Sam was surprised to note that not every detail of the recreation had been marked. On the last page was a quickly written footnote saying 'Special – Ruby' and nothing else to give a hint on what it actually entailed. Looked like she had done what was needed but had shared none of the information, keeping the secret totally for herself. It sounded very much like her.

Sam stared down at the key his hopes were at the moment entirely resting upon. Worn wooden grip, long cylinder, super long barrel, etched and made not only to extinguish the supernatural, but to be a key – a key to a gateway to Hell. And it carried one message for anyone who held it – Non timebo mala – I will fear no evil. He only wished such a phrase was one he could quote as being true – but he had feared evil all his life. And the more he'd learned of it, the more he'd come to fear it. In many ways he even feared himself – for the blood of a demon sang in his veins. He'd seen what that very blood could do to those who gave in to it. That he might succumb had been one of Dean's greatest fears. And as he'd found out eventually, also his father's.

Reverently, he tucked the gun away at the small of his back, where it could sit with Ruby's demon killing dagger.

Grabbing some filings from a metal waste bin, Sam put them in the box previously occupied by the pieces of the Colt and set the box back where he'd found it. Putting all the papers back as well, he left the room exactly as it had been before he arrived.

Now it was time to go.

Sam made his way outside the house. Lifting the hood of the Impala, he wasn't surprised when he spotted that the distributor cap was missing. Bobby was nothing if not consistent. Time for another hunt. Luckily Sam knew Bobby figured he had little to no idea about cars and very much doubted Sam could tell a distributor cap from an intake manifold. That was where research and the internet came in handy. He didn't have to know. He could look it up. And assuming Bobby wouldn't want to inconvenience himself or Sam too much, he was pretty positive he would have hid the needed item nearby for easy access. Within minutes he found it tucked away behind a paint can on some shelves leaning against the house.

Reconnecting the distributor cap, he then put the Impala in neutral. Grabbing the door frame and gritting his teeth, he pushed the car down the dirt and rock strewn road until he felt confident he was far enough away from the house Bobby wouldn't hear it. He got inside the car, turned the engine over and left.

Cutting through town Sam spotted a Catholic church on the right. The main building flared out in all four directions. An open second floor of columns rose from the center, topped with an even smaller covered third story with a domed roof in green tile, a final spire at the top housing the bell. The closer he came to it, the more he slowed down. He prayed every day. He had always prayed. Pastor Jim had taught him how to gain strength from prayer, how he could use it to help see light in the darkness. Sam didn't know if God was real or only an imagined crutch people used to get by the ugliness of reality, but he wanted Him to be out there more than anything. He wanted, needed, God to be real – for his prayers to be heard despite the fact he had been tainted.

What he was about to attempt that night might be considered by some to be an act against the Lord and everything He stood for and still Sam would do it. He knew that if he were to be measured that instant, he would be found wanting. But he needed this to succeed, he needed it so badly. And anything he could do to hedge his bets or any allies he could make, even if powered only by faith, had to be done.

Sam turned off the Impala's lights as well as the engine and let the car coast silently into the church's parking lot.

The night was still as he got out of the car, almost as if waiting. Sam rose quickly up the old worn steps and tried one of the double wooden doors. Not too surprising with the time of night, he found it locked. It would hinder him only for a minute. He sent a quick prayer for forgiveness before sticking the first lock pick into the door.

The stillness he'd sensed before deepened once he stepped inside. The scent of wood oil and burned wicks and melted wax drifted gently in the air around him. A few of the votive candles were still flickering in the stands set up for them here and there. A red runner led the way up the central isle to the altar, a wood and bronze image of Jesus on the cross hanging in the back.

Sam knelt at the first pew and crossed himself before proceeding down the aisle. He could feel his heart and pulse increase the farther he went. He wanted to be as close as he could be to God before sending his prayer. This was His temple, His place. And with any luck He might just hear him from here.

His expression flittering between hope, shame, fear, love, and doubt, Sam knelt again as close to the altar as he could. Looking up at the figure of Jesus, his mask completely gone for the first time in days, Sam exposed the full measure of his pain to the only being he felt he could never hide it from.

Silently, he hung his head, and clasping his hands before him, prayed. He prayed to do the right thing, he prayed to God to help him save his brother, he prayed for Him to let him carry out His will, to infuse him with grace, and if He so willed it, to expunge the demon blood from him. But most of all he prayed for God to have mercy on his brother's soul and help him out of the pit.

Sam prayed and prayed until his clasped hands became numb and he could no longer feel his legs. He emptied his hopes, his fears, his soul into his prayers until there was nothing more. Then he stumbled back to his feet, crossed himself one last time, and left.

And still there was that sense of waiting hanging in the air. As if things were poised to be decided.

He quickly climbed back into the car and drove away.

Rawlings, Wyoming was less than seven hours away and driving like his brother for once, Sam was able to shave almost two hours off that time. It took almost another to reach the old Fossil Butte cowboy cemetery. He got there just as the first inklings of dawn shimmered in the horizon.

Sam got out of the car a chill running through him. Monumental things happened here. Things that affected him, affected his brother, the world. Not all of them had been bad, but neither had they all been good. He never thought he'd have to step foot inside this place again.

He grabbed a lamp out of the trunk and slipping the Colt from behind the small of his back, he started forward.

The tall iron rod gates opened with a rusted squeak as he pushed them forward. The iron rod fence circling the place was bent and broken in places. Most of the vegetation woven through it and the wild grass inside was dead, as if their life had been sucked out by their mere proximity to the gate. Dozens of headstones from the mid 1800's formed winding rows – giant crosses, tall monuments, a few encircled by their own private fencing, but most looking like regular tombstones – the majority of them facing in the direction of the cemetery's one crypt, which dominated the back of the place. The granite structure was built in an old style, patterned most likely after ancient Greek temples.

This was the place where Sam had first learned he had died and of Dean's deal. This was the place where the Winchester quest had finally been realized and Azazel, their mother's murderer, had been destroyed. It was also the place where their father's soul had been freed from Hell's embrace. And if God and luck were with him, Sam hoped to repeat that feat for his brother's sake.

He walked toward the crypt, noting its overlapping double doors and the intricate lock which used the Colt as its key. Giant curved hinges bolted the doors to the stone edifice. The doors held a couple of rings set about five feet high as if at some point they may have been chained shut as well. In the center, an outer gold circle, the strands branching from it made to look like barbwire. Two inner circles with crossing strands connected to those with the outer circle and made a golden pentagram. At the dead center, lay a raised hole to take the gun.

The light wavered over the heavy door as Sam's hands shook – this very spot a place of bittersweet triumph and utter failure. Though the body was gone, Jake's blood had stained the earth permanently black – a remnant of his evil taint. It was here that Sam had proved victorious over the man who'd killed him. And though he'd helped save Ellen from Jake's mind control, the purity of the act had only been in the first shot. After that Sam had been controlled by pure unadulterated hatred pushing him to put a total of four bullets into the man's back. His shame at this was made worse by the fact he'd actually enjoyed Jake's attempts at pleading for his life before he took it away by planting three more slugs inside him. The sense of betrayal after all he'd done to try to help Jake understand their situation and then choosing not to take his life only to be stabbed by him had totally blinded him. The warm satisfaction and pleasure he felt as each bullet rang from his gun to plummet into his foe's flesh, Jake's hot blood splashing on his cheek and the metal doors that had brought him there, had been a sin all on their own. Guilt and disgrace had washed over him later as he'd come to realize too that he could have possibly stopped the doors from ever opening after he shot Jake the first time, the gun only just starting to move the mechanism to unlock it, yet he'd been too consumed by his base emotions to notice or care.

The only consolation had been that by opening, the opportunity was there for his father to escape. But so had hundreds of demons. And if not for Bobby and Ellen, the number could have easily risen into the thousands.

Now he was here to tempt fate yet again.

Sam closed his eyes and focused on an image of his brother in his mind. "Dean… Dean if you can hear me… If there's any way at all, come to the Devil's Gate. I'm going to open it. I'm going to set you free. Come to me!"

Swallowing hard, his hands shaking even worse than before, Sam slipped the barrel of the Colt into the lock and turned it to the right.

Nothing happened.

The ensuing silence was like a slap in the face.

"No. No! You have to work!" Sam grabbed the gun, turned it to the left, pulled it out, stuck it back in and turned it to the right again.

Nothing.

"No! Open, damn you! Open!" He kicked at the door with the bottom of his foot. "OPEN!"

He'd damaged it. Somehow when Bobby took the gun apart, he'd damaged it. Or Sam hadn't put it back together correctly. Or more likely it was the fact the revolver's chamber was empty, the last bullet spent to destroy Azazel and it too was somehow an intricate part of the unlocking mechanism. Dean might have used up the one thing that would have been able to set him free.

Sam stared at the metal door anger and rising despair twisting his face. He spreads his arms wide as if inviting an attack and smacked them against the metal as he yelled for everything he was worth. "Open you mother fucking door! Let my brother OUT!"

Sam had promised him. He'd promised Dean he would save him and he'd not done it. Then he'd promised him he would get him out. And he'd failed! AGAIN.

He never asked Dean to trade his life for his. Would have never asked it. Sam had died due to his own foolishness. Why did his brother have to pay and suffer for his mistakes? Why?

He banged on the closed doors yanking the Colt from the lock and using it to beat at the metal. He would claw his way in if he had to. He would get his brother out!

"Dean!"