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last01standingTitle: And Counting
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Characters: Sam, gen
Disclaimer: Supernatural is in no way shape or form mine. This is for fun, not profit
Summary: There is no plan B. There’s just you and whatever the hell just woke up inside of you. Spoilers through 3x16, No Rest for the Wicked.
And Counting
Time moves differently now. Slowly, clearly. You walk out of the house (or maybe you run) and into the crisp spring air. It is five minutes past midnight and by your count, Dean has been in hell for four minutes and twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty seconds. You watch the demons through the mist of the sprinklers. They’re starting to back away just a little. Something is different now. You can feel it.
“What happened?” Bobby says from behind you. “Sam! Where’s your brother?”
The demons are afraid. A smile curls up your lips and you’d be amused if not for the fact that Dean’s in Hell. The demons are afraid of you and Lilith had abandoned ship before you could kill her (all you can see is white) and you straighten your spine just a little, put on Dean’s best smirk and say, “Leave.”
And they leave. Oh, do they leave. A dozen demons that don’t just retreat but throw their heads back and belch black smoke into the peaceful night air and Bobby’s staring at you like he thinks you might not be you. “What did you just do?”
“Dean’s in Hell,” you answer. “It’s time for plan B.”
Only there is no plan B. There’s just you and whatever the hell just woke up inside of you.
________________________________________________________________________
You hit the books. As it turns out going into Hell isn’t exactly possible while you’re still living. And well, when you’re damned, it’s not exactly an easy road out. Bobby’s still looking at you like you might break and you can hear the thought flickering across his head I’m not sure either of those Winchester boys made it out of that house alive.
You slam your book shut. Bobby flinches. “You want a beer?”
Spike it with holy water. More subtle then saying Christo, boy did just lose his brother.
“I need some fresh air,” you say. “I’m going for a drive.”
You get into the passenger’s seat and fold your hands into your lap. The radio switches on. AC/DC. Back in Black. A key turns in the ignition. You grin and sink back in the seat and mutter, “Jerk.”
No one answers you, because Dean has been in hell for two days, four hours, fifty-two minutes and counting. You haven’t cried. You haven’t slept.
You pull into the nearest gas station and buy a hot dog and a blue raspberry slurpie. At the cash register, you can see a demon in the guy’s face. Twisted and rotten and soulless. He rings your food up slowly, deliberately. You pay him entirely in change. He asks if there’s anything else he can do for you.
An hour and a half later, you walk out of that gas station with a copy of Dean’s contract in your hands.
________________________________________________________________________
There’s a loophole.
You know a loophole when you see one. You were fucking pre-law at Stanford. There’s a loophole and there’s a way out for Dean. You show Bobby the contract, practically dancing on the spot. (You buried Dean two days ago. He’s been in hell four days, six hours, fifty-five minutes and counting.) “I’m right,” you say. “You know I’m right.”
Bobby looks at you under the brim of his hat, face trouble and says, “Well yeah, Sam but—“
You don’t hear the rest. There’s a gun in your hands and it’s easy, so damn to just put it to your temple and pull the trigger and it hurts (oh God it hurts) for that split second between the bang and the way your body crumples to the ground. You drink in the pain, the darkness because this is worth it if it gets Dean out. This is worth it because as long as you’re alive Dean’s in Hell and both of you dead is better then one of you in Hell. Besides it’s not like this is actual living...
Your head bounces when it hits the ground.
________________________________________________________________________
You wake up two minutes later with blood in your mouth and Bobby crying in front of you. You sit up, wincing. “Bobby? Bobby, what happened?”
He pumps your face full of rock salt. You scream. You never realized just how bad that hurt. (You did that to Dean once.) “Jesus, Bobby!”
“You’re supposed to be dead!” Bobby screams. (You don’t remember if you’ve ever heard him screaming before.) “I saw you shoot yourself and—“
“I should be dead,” you finish. “I should have been dead a year ago, but someone made a deal. Bobby, if I die, Dean’s out.”
“But then you’re dead,” Bobby says. “Boy, are you stupid?”
“That’s the deal,” you says. “As long as I’m alive, Dean’s in hell.” You grope for the gun. “I need to try again.”
“No,” Bobby says firmly. Doesn’t matter if he’s still human or not. Can’t watch that again. Can’t watch that again.
________________________________________________________________________
Bobby doesn’t leave your side for two months. You take down a wendingo, a few poltergeists and a nest of vampires with that same steely calm you remember from the first time Dean died (there are no Tricksters this time. No way out.) Bobby hardly says anything but you can hear him on the inside. Bobby is not a quiet man. His thoughts are loud and scattered and he doesn’t think you’re still you. (And you think he might be right.)
But after two months of traveling and that constant reminder that Bobby is not Dean, Bobby leaves. He says he’s too old for this. He says hunting’s a young man’s game. He says he can’t do this for long and expect to survive.
He thinks, He scares me. I’m not sure I can stay with him. He’s not quite human anymore. I need to get away before I need to kill him.
But Bobby won’t kill you. No matter how dark you get, you know that Bobby won’t kill you. No, you and Dean were family, you were the only things he had left in this world and since Dean’s in hell (two months, one week, six days, twenty-two hours, thirty-one minutes and counting) you’re all he has left in this world.
Two day’s after Bobby leaves you drive the Impala over a cliff. The crash is spectacular. Something Dean would have loved. You go end over end over end and in the trunk you can hear the clank of swords and guns, still in Dean’s haphazard storage methods. You’re not wearing a seatbelt. You go through the window and snap your neck but wake up ten minutes later with a rock up your ass. You’re still alive (but you shouldn’t be. Oh, God you shouldn’t be) and Dean’s still in Hell.
You show up outside Bobby’s house a day and a half later. You have him tow the Impala back. You spend the next four months restoring it to mint condition because you’re half afraid Dean will climb his way out of Hell and kill you himself. (But he doesn’t)
________________________________________________________________________
Bobby dies when Dean has been in hell two years, eighteen days, six hours, eleven minutes and counting. You still have the time running in the back of your head, a stopwatch you can’t turn off. You go to Bobby’s funeral and sit in the front row but you don’t speak, don’t talk to anyone. Ellen has the body cremated and they scatter the ashes into the wind. Jo approaches you at the end of it all, tear staining a face looks puffy and oddly bloated in the dying day’s light. “Sam,” she says stiffly. “Bobby left this for you.”
She shoves a letter into your hands and you look at it with surprise because you’ve come to accept that it was Dean that Bobby always though of as a son, Dean that Bobby loved. He’d inherited you after Dean went to Hell but he’d never really wanted you. You look at the letter, at Bobby’s cramped scrawl spelling out Sam on the envelope and then back to Jo’s red eyes and blonde hair. She says, “You’re going to have to wake yourself up some time, Sam.”
She thinks, It’s your fault that he’s dead.
But it’s not. His heart gave out. It’s got nothing to do with the number of times you’ve called to say, ‘hey there, Bobby, still can’t die but I’m trying.’ And it’s got nothing to do with how Dean’s in Hell, stuck there for eternity because you can’t get him out.
“Do you really think Dean would have wanted you living like this?” Jo asks.
And you stare, moving your mouth like you want to speak but you can’t you can’t you can’t. In the distance, Ellen calls, “Jo, sweetie, we’ve got to leave.” Can’t hang around that Winchester boy, loose cannon that one is.
You watch her leave, still not saying a word. She doesn’t look back. Slowly, carefully, you tear into the envelope, pull out the letter and read. (Time slows down)
Sam,
I know with this thing of yours, you’re going to be around a while. And I know you. Eventually you’re going to go after Dean. For Christ sake, just be smart about it. Don’t go letting demons pour out into the world. You know how that turned out last time.
-Bobby
The second is the deed to Bobby’s house and by proxy Bobby’s books. You smile. You’ve spent the past two years looking for ways to kill yourself and free Dean. It’s about time you tried that other angle.
________________________________________________________________________
Marching into Hell hasn’t been on your to do list. It had flitted past your mind once or twice in the time after Dean died but before he was buried. There are supposed to be ways out of Hell. But now you know that’s not what you need at all. You don’t need a Devil’s Gate. You need a crack, a way to slip in and slip back out without bringing about Hell on earth. Bobby’s warning is something you carry constantly in your mind and you know Dean wouldn’t let you bring Hell back to Earth. Too many people have died already.
So you look for another way in.
(Dean has been in hell for three years, eight months, three days, twenty-three hours, fourteen minutes and counting)
And you find nothing.
________________________________________________________________________
You find Lilith again. You’ve been looking for her since Dean went to Hell and it takes more then five years to find her, but it’s worth it. Dean probably wouldn’t have wanted you to waste your time, but you have all the time in the world. Lilith’s in the body of a skinny redhead when you find her. She’s got big curly hair and a coy smile. You clench Ruby’s knife at your side, knuckles white on the hilt. “Let Dean go,” you growl, “so help me God.”
“Too late, Sammy,” she says, tilting hear head first left then right. “Dean’s been burning for a good long time.”
“Let him go,” you order and just for a second you hear something different, something dark seep into your voice. You think of Andy and his powers of suggestion and you’re concentrating on that (The learning curve is so fast. It’s crazy, the switches that just flip in your brain) and you say, “Let Dean out of his deal.”
“Oh, Sam,” Lilith coos, “I would but you’re well past the point of no return. Deals come to pass have passed. Nothing you can do.”
“Tell me the truth,” you demand. “Or I’ll kill you.”
“That was the truth,” Lilith snarls. “And you won’t kill me. This body’s still breathing and what would your brot—“
She can’t talk anymore because Ruby’s knife is in her throat and you don’t realize what’s happening until you’re coated with blood.
________________________________________________________________________
You keep looking. You never stop looking. You spend the time you should be sleeping pouring over any books you can find about Hell. You question all the demons you find before sending them back. You try to reign in your powers before they overtake you and make you something that isn’t human.
And you keep hunting because it’s what Dean would have wanted.
You put vengeful spirits to rest because it’s what Dean would have wanted.
You take care of the car because it’s what Dean would have wanted.
You smile and bat your eyes and pick up chicks in bars because that’s what Dean would have wanted.
And you never sit in the passenger’s seat. You talk to him when you’re alone. You sing Bon Jovi as loud as you can because sometimes you can still pretend you can hear his voice underneath the music.
You still try to kill yourself every couple of weeks just to make sure. Because no matter what Dean would have wanted, when you’re dead, he’s out.
(Dean has been in Hell for ten years, eleven months, one day, six hours, thirty-nine minutes and counting.)
It doesn’t work.
________________________________________________________________________
You run into Jo again. She looks different. Her hair’s getting darker and there are lines around her eyes and a scar running through her cheek. She greets you warily, “You look good, Sam. How you been?”
“Been looking for a way to get Dean out,” you answer, shoving your hands in your pockets. “Same as the last dozen years.”
Jo licks her lips, tosses her hair over her shoulders. “Sam, if you’ve been looking this long, you ever think there might not be a way in?”
You feel your defense flying up. Your voice is so cold you’re not actually sure it’s really your voice. “Good seeing you, Jo.”
“You can’t do this job alone,” Jo says
Jo’s thirty-tree years old.
Dean’s been in hell for twelve years, two months, ten days, fifty-nine minutes and counting.
You’re still twenty-four.
________________________________________________________________________
Outside Richmond, you exorcise a demon from a nineteen year old student named Dwayne and he looks at you like you’re the savior. You give him a curt nod and tell him things will be all right and he follows you out the door and right into to the car. You remember what it’s like to be possessed by a demon, remember how it took almost a year for you to feel clean. “What the hell are you doing?” you ask.
“You hunt these things, right?” Dwayne says.
You nod.
“Then I’m coming with you.”
He slides stubbornly into the passenger’s seat and, hands shaking, you unlatch the door to the driver’s side seat for the first time since Dean went to Hell. The seat’s still adjusted for Dean’s height and the mirrors are all skewed slightly, but you still can’t (won’t) make the changes. You turn the key in the ignition listening to the sound of the ancient engine go to work (you haven’t needed a tank of gas in twenty-four years. You think this is somehow significant.) On autopilot, you slide one of Dean’s old tapes into the cassette player and as the opening strains of Enter Sandman fill the Impala, you close your eyes and grin and pretend it’s Dean beside you right up until your hear the station change, settling on some of that new age pseudo rap. Your eyes snap open and you flip right back to the tape.
“You can’t be serious,” Dwayne says. “This stuff is ancient.”
Dean has been in hell twenty-six years, eight months, nineteen days, seventeen hours, eight minutes and counting.
“Driver picks the music,” you say. “Shotgun shuts his cakehole.”
________________________________________________________________________
Dwayne picks up hunting quickly. He’s a good fighter, a better liar and one of the smartest people you’ve met in a good long while. You start talking more, you even smile a few times. Dwayne reminds you a little bit of Hendrickson, or at least who Hendrickson could have been if Lilith hadn’t killed him. He’s rough around the edges and sarcastic but a generally good all around person.
But then you take an axe to the back of the head from a vengeful spirit while Dwayne is watching. And he’s still watching when your chest hitches and your head knits itself back together and air floods into your lungs. He does what you trained him to do. You can hear your old lessons playing back in his head. If it’s supernatural, we kill it.
The bullet to the forehead hurts more then you ever remembered it could.
(Dean has been in hell twenty-eight years, two months, seven days, forty-nine minutes and counting.)
When you wake up again, you’re tied to a chair and Dwayne’s reading an exorcism out of one of your books. You start laughing and Dwayne voice falters just a little.
“I’m no demon,” you say (and after all this time you still believe it.)
“You can’t die,” Dwayne says. His voice is shaking. “Sam, tell me how that’s human.”
“My brother made a deal,” you sputter. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you but-”
“What the hell were you trying to do to me?” Dwayne croaks. “Sam, I would have trusted you if you just told me.”
“I’m telling you now. Finish the exorcism if you need to, but I swear to God, I’ll tell you everything.”
Dwayne sniffs and says, “Christo.”
You don’t flinch. You just stare at him and say, “My name is Sam Winchester and twenty-nine years ago, I died.”
________________________________________________________________________
Things change after that. There’s an almost imperceptible shift in the atmosphere. You start trying to block out his thoughts. Start ignoring the stares. You should have dumped him after that first shock. When he’d had you tied to the chair but you don’t because after almost thirty years of not having a partner, you’re not sure this is something you can do on your own.
But this isn’t going to work forever. Dwayne’s a smart kid and a good hunter and too long with you and he’s going to be stuck. And you don’t want that for him. You never wanted that for yourself.
So you leave him. It’s night and he’s snoring in the double bed across from you and you try not to think of how that was supposed to be Dean. You’ve tucked a letter along with all the cash you’d managed to wrestle up over the past three weeks in an envelope and shoved it into his duffle.
You get into the Impala, lounge back in the passenger’s seat and watch as the car pulls itself out of the parking space and you pretend it’s Dean who’s driving.
Dwayne calls your when you’re three states away, screaming for a good ten minutes into the phone. You listen to the whole thing and you think you may have understood how Dean was when Dad left. He’s been traveling with you, hunting with you for three years and betrayal is laced into his every word.
You delete the voice mail and tell yourself it’s for the best.
________________________________________________________________________
There are others after Dwayne, but no one lasts as long. You don’t know if it’s your fault or theirs. There’s a girl in Vegas who tags along after you bag a striga and cop from Boise who sees supernatural danger for the first time and wants to put a stop to it and a college kid with a head for Latin you find chained in a basement. And the girl freaks the first time she sees you die and the cop’s just a second too slow for a werewolf one night and the kid finds your epic collection of books about Hell and you have to drop him before he puts the pieces together. You keep moving, keep hunting, keep looking.
You go to Ellen Harvelle’s funeral. Jo’s sitting in the front row of the service with gray streaked through her hair and she looks so much like Ellen that it actually hurts. You sit in the back of the group, avoiding the gaze of any and all hunters. As far as most of them are concerned you’re part of the problem now. You wouldn’t be surprised if you found out you were the freaking holy grail of hunter lore. Sammy Winchester, the boy who can’t die, who doesn’t age. You bet there are dozens of hunters who want nothing more then to see you bleed.
You try to slip out of the service quietly, but Jo catches you before you can make it back to the Impala. “Never thought I’d see you again,” she says.
You shrug. “I liked your mom. She was always good to us.”
You imagine that in the past, the Jo you knew would have followed that comment with a dig about your dad, but this Jo doesn’t resort to those cheep shots. She just looks at you with those dark, hooded eyes and says, “You still looking for a way to get your brother out?”
“Never stopped.”
“You ever think he might not of wanted you to waste all your time on this?”
You smile at her, flash your dimples. “Jo, I’ve got all the time in the world.”
You pretend you don’t hear her thinking, you’re too late.
________________________________________________________________________
And somewhere along the way, you realize that Dean’s been gone for forty-six years (two months, four days, seventeen hours, fifteen minutes and counting). Which means Dean’s been in hell twice as long as he'd been with you. And even if Hell moves at the same pace as the real world, that’s still forty-six years. Even though you’re going to get Dean out (and you will get him out eventually. You’ve never doubted that.) you’re sure he’s never going to be the same (then again, you’re not the same either.)
You spend most of the week after that drunk out of your mind but as sobriety creeps slowly back into your system (you think you may have died of alcohol poisoning once or twice in there) that steely determination returns. You’re going to get him out.
________________________________________________________________________
Dwayne finds you again. He’s not the same kid he was when you left him. There’s something around his eyes that looks almost as old as you are. He corners you in a dinner, sliding into the seat across from you with an inveterate ease. “Hey there, Sammy,” he says.
He’s older then you now. Or at least he looks it. You can’t help but feel a stab of jealousy at that fact. “Hey, Dwayne,” you say.
“I’m still pissed at you for leaving,” Dwayne says. He catches the eye of the waitress and asks for a cup of coffee. “You’re buying.”
“I’m sorry,” you reply because you don’t know what else to say.
“You know I would have stuck with you as long as you would have let me. I never wanted a normal life. Didn’t want it even before that demon found me. And then I spent three years chasing poltergeists, demons and monsters. You know I love that shit, right? The adrenaline rush, the blood pumping in your ears. How the hell was I supposed to go back?”
“You kept hunting?”
“Damn right I kept hunting,” Dwayne snaps. The waitress sets his coffee down on the table and he takes a quick swallow. “Crossed the country a few times on my own. Stole a car. Started running credit card scams. Didn’t realize you were the one who did all the hard parts. I got better at it though. Ran with a couple different hunters along the way. You’re famous you know that? Everyone’s heard of Sam Winchester. No one can decide if you’re a demon or just a damn good hunter.”
“Why are you here, Dwayne?”
He gives you a shit eating grin that Dean would have loved and leans back in his seat. “I think I found what you’ve been looking for.”
“And what have I been looking for?”
“A way into hell.”
________________________________________________________________________
Dwayne’s ritual checks out. It’s a portal, one you make from nothing. The ritual’s absurdly complex but you know your limits and you can make this work. You start setting up in Bobby’s old place because it’s big and abandoned and as close as you’re going to get to peace. It takes two months to set up completely, two months to go over contingencies, two month to make sure you won’t unintentionally create hell on Earth. You’re on edge the whole time and Dwayne keeps reminding you of every way this could go wrong.
And then the day’s here. You draw the last bit of the circle, say the incantation and watch as the portal swirls up before you. You can see demons seeping past you just like last time, can hear the roar of all the tortured souls. You’ve done your job. The house where you’ve done the ritual is a virtual tomb for demons. Dwayne and a couple of his hunter buddies are a town over, preparing to come and clear out the house. You’ve got this covered. Every base, every angle. Dean would want you to do this the right way. Dean wouldn’t want you to risk the world for him.
(But you would in a heartbeat.)
And if this doesn’t work, you’ll tear apart the dimensions to bring him back. World be damned. It doesn’t matter that you’re too late. You’ve been too late since it happened.
You take a deep breath and step through the portal, closing it up behind you. You can hear nothing but screams and you strain your ears trying to separate Dean’s voice from the masses.
Dean’s been in hell for forty-eight years six months, nineteen days, nine hours, forty-four minutes and six seconds.
And counting and counting and counting.
(end)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Characters: Sam, gen
Disclaimer: Supernatural is in no way shape or form mine. This is for fun, not profit
Summary: There is no plan B. There’s just you and whatever the hell just woke up inside of you. Spoilers through 3x16, No Rest for the Wicked.
Time moves differently now. Slowly, clearly. You walk out of the house (or maybe you run) and into the crisp spring air. It is five minutes past midnight and by your count, Dean has been in hell for four minutes and twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty seconds. You watch the demons through the mist of the sprinklers. They’re starting to back away just a little. Something is different now. You can feel it.
“What happened?” Bobby says from behind you. “Sam! Where’s your brother?”
The demons are afraid. A smile curls up your lips and you’d be amused if not for the fact that Dean’s in Hell. The demons are afraid of you and Lilith had abandoned ship before you could kill her (all you can see is white) and you straighten your spine just a little, put on Dean’s best smirk and say, “Leave.”
And they leave. Oh, do they leave. A dozen demons that don’t just retreat but throw their heads back and belch black smoke into the peaceful night air and Bobby’s staring at you like he thinks you might not be you. “What did you just do?”
“Dean’s in Hell,” you answer. “It’s time for plan B.”
Only there is no plan B. There’s just you and whatever the hell just woke up inside of you.
You hit the books. As it turns out going into Hell isn’t exactly possible while you’re still living. And well, when you’re damned, it’s not exactly an easy road out. Bobby’s still looking at you like you might break and you can hear the thought flickering across his head I’m not sure either of those Winchester boys made it out of that house alive.
You slam your book shut. Bobby flinches. “You want a beer?”
Spike it with holy water. More subtle then saying Christo, boy did just lose his brother.
“I need some fresh air,” you say. “I’m going for a drive.”
You get into the passenger’s seat and fold your hands into your lap. The radio switches on. AC/DC. Back in Black. A key turns in the ignition. You grin and sink back in the seat and mutter, “Jerk.”
No one answers you, because Dean has been in hell for two days, four hours, fifty-two minutes and counting. You haven’t cried. You haven’t slept.
You pull into the nearest gas station and buy a hot dog and a blue raspberry slurpie. At the cash register, you can see a demon in the guy’s face. Twisted and rotten and soulless. He rings your food up slowly, deliberately. You pay him entirely in change. He asks if there’s anything else he can do for you.
An hour and a half later, you walk out of that gas station with a copy of Dean’s contract in your hands.
There’s a loophole.
You know a loophole when you see one. You were fucking pre-law at Stanford. There’s a loophole and there’s a way out for Dean. You show Bobby the contract, practically dancing on the spot. (You buried Dean two days ago. He’s been in hell four days, six hours, fifty-five minutes and counting.) “I’m right,” you say. “You know I’m right.”
Bobby looks at you under the brim of his hat, face trouble and says, “Well yeah, Sam but—“
You don’t hear the rest. There’s a gun in your hands and it’s easy, so damn to just put it to your temple and pull the trigger and it hurts (oh God it hurts) for that split second between the bang and the way your body crumples to the ground. You drink in the pain, the darkness because this is worth it if it gets Dean out. This is worth it because as long as you’re alive Dean’s in Hell and both of you dead is better then one of you in Hell. Besides it’s not like this is actual living...
Your head bounces when it hits the ground.
You wake up two minutes later with blood in your mouth and Bobby crying in front of you. You sit up, wincing. “Bobby? Bobby, what happened?”
He pumps your face full of rock salt. You scream. You never realized just how bad that hurt. (You did that to Dean once.) “Jesus, Bobby!”
“You’re supposed to be dead!” Bobby screams. (You don’t remember if you’ve ever heard him screaming before.) “I saw you shoot yourself and—“
“I should be dead,” you finish. “I should have been dead a year ago, but someone made a deal. Bobby, if I die, Dean’s out.”
“But then you’re dead,” Bobby says. “Boy, are you stupid?”
“That’s the deal,” you says. “As long as I’m alive, Dean’s in hell.” You grope for the gun. “I need to try again.”
“No,” Bobby says firmly. Doesn’t matter if he’s still human or not. Can’t watch that again. Can’t watch that again.
Bobby doesn’t leave your side for two months. You take down a wendingo, a few poltergeists and a nest of vampires with that same steely calm you remember from the first time Dean died (there are no Tricksters this time. No way out.) Bobby hardly says anything but you can hear him on the inside. Bobby is not a quiet man. His thoughts are loud and scattered and he doesn’t think you’re still you. (And you think he might be right.)
But after two months of traveling and that constant reminder that Bobby is not Dean, Bobby leaves. He says he’s too old for this. He says hunting’s a young man’s game. He says he can’t do this for long and expect to survive.
He thinks, He scares me. I’m not sure I can stay with him. He’s not quite human anymore. I need to get away before I need to kill him.
But Bobby won’t kill you. No matter how dark you get, you know that Bobby won’t kill you. No, you and Dean were family, you were the only things he had left in this world and since Dean’s in hell (two months, one week, six days, twenty-two hours, thirty-one minutes and counting) you’re all he has left in this world.
Two day’s after Bobby leaves you drive the Impala over a cliff. The crash is spectacular. Something Dean would have loved. You go end over end over end and in the trunk you can hear the clank of swords and guns, still in Dean’s haphazard storage methods. You’re not wearing a seatbelt. You go through the window and snap your neck but wake up ten minutes later with a rock up your ass. You’re still alive (but you shouldn’t be. Oh, God you shouldn’t be) and Dean’s still in Hell.
You show up outside Bobby’s house a day and a half later. You have him tow the Impala back. You spend the next four months restoring it to mint condition because you’re half afraid Dean will climb his way out of Hell and kill you himself. (But he doesn’t)
Bobby dies when Dean has been in hell two years, eighteen days, six hours, eleven minutes and counting. You still have the time running in the back of your head, a stopwatch you can’t turn off. You go to Bobby’s funeral and sit in the front row but you don’t speak, don’t talk to anyone. Ellen has the body cremated and they scatter the ashes into the wind. Jo approaches you at the end of it all, tear staining a face looks puffy and oddly bloated in the dying day’s light. “Sam,” she says stiffly. “Bobby left this for you.”
She shoves a letter into your hands and you look at it with surprise because you’ve come to accept that it was Dean that Bobby always though of as a son, Dean that Bobby loved. He’d inherited you after Dean went to Hell but he’d never really wanted you. You look at the letter, at Bobby’s cramped scrawl spelling out Sam on the envelope and then back to Jo’s red eyes and blonde hair. She says, “You’re going to have to wake yourself up some time, Sam.”
She thinks, It’s your fault that he’s dead.
But it’s not. His heart gave out. It’s got nothing to do with the number of times you’ve called to say, ‘hey there, Bobby, still can’t die but I’m trying.’ And it’s got nothing to do with how Dean’s in Hell, stuck there for eternity because you can’t get him out.
“Do you really think Dean would have wanted you living like this?” Jo asks.
And you stare, moving your mouth like you want to speak but you can’t you can’t you can’t. In the distance, Ellen calls, “Jo, sweetie, we’ve got to leave.” Can’t hang around that Winchester boy, loose cannon that one is.
You watch her leave, still not saying a word. She doesn’t look back. Slowly, carefully, you tear into the envelope, pull out the letter and read. (Time slows down)
Sam,
I know with this thing of yours, you’re going to be around a while. And I know you. Eventually you’re going to go after Dean. For Christ sake, just be smart about it. Don’t go letting demons pour out into the world. You know how that turned out last time.
-Bobby
The second is the deed to Bobby’s house and by proxy Bobby’s books. You smile. You’ve spent the past two years looking for ways to kill yourself and free Dean. It’s about time you tried that other angle.
Marching into Hell hasn’t been on your to do list. It had flitted past your mind once or twice in the time after Dean died but before he was buried. There are supposed to be ways out of Hell. But now you know that’s not what you need at all. You don’t need a Devil’s Gate. You need a crack, a way to slip in and slip back out without bringing about Hell on earth. Bobby’s warning is something you carry constantly in your mind and you know Dean wouldn’t let you bring Hell back to Earth. Too many people have died already.
So you look for another way in.
(Dean has been in hell for three years, eight months, three days, twenty-three hours, fourteen minutes and counting)
And you find nothing.
You find Lilith again. You’ve been looking for her since Dean went to Hell and it takes more then five years to find her, but it’s worth it. Dean probably wouldn’t have wanted you to waste your time, but you have all the time in the world. Lilith’s in the body of a skinny redhead when you find her. She’s got big curly hair and a coy smile. You clench Ruby’s knife at your side, knuckles white on the hilt. “Let Dean go,” you growl, “so help me God.”
“Too late, Sammy,” she says, tilting hear head first left then right. “Dean’s been burning for a good long time.”
“Let him go,” you order and just for a second you hear something different, something dark seep into your voice. You think of Andy and his powers of suggestion and you’re concentrating on that (The learning curve is so fast. It’s crazy, the switches that just flip in your brain) and you say, “Let Dean out of his deal.”
“Oh, Sam,” Lilith coos, “I would but you’re well past the point of no return. Deals come to pass have passed. Nothing you can do.”
“Tell me the truth,” you demand. “Or I’ll kill you.”
“That was the truth,” Lilith snarls. “And you won’t kill me. This body’s still breathing and what would your brot—“
She can’t talk anymore because Ruby’s knife is in her throat and you don’t realize what’s happening until you’re coated with blood.
You keep looking. You never stop looking. You spend the time you should be sleeping pouring over any books you can find about Hell. You question all the demons you find before sending them back. You try to reign in your powers before they overtake you and make you something that isn’t human.
And you keep hunting because it’s what Dean would have wanted.
You put vengeful spirits to rest because it’s what Dean would have wanted.
You take care of the car because it’s what Dean would have wanted.
You smile and bat your eyes and pick up chicks in bars because that’s what Dean would have wanted.
And you never sit in the passenger’s seat. You talk to him when you’re alone. You sing Bon Jovi as loud as you can because sometimes you can still pretend you can hear his voice underneath the music.
You still try to kill yourself every couple of weeks just to make sure. Because no matter what Dean would have wanted, when you’re dead, he’s out.
(Dean has been in Hell for ten years, eleven months, one day, six hours, thirty-nine minutes and counting.)
It doesn’t work.
You run into Jo again. She looks different. Her hair’s getting darker and there are lines around her eyes and a scar running through her cheek. She greets you warily, “You look good, Sam. How you been?”
“Been looking for a way to get Dean out,” you answer, shoving your hands in your pockets. “Same as the last dozen years.”
Jo licks her lips, tosses her hair over her shoulders. “Sam, if you’ve been looking this long, you ever think there might not be a way in?”
You feel your defense flying up. Your voice is so cold you’re not actually sure it’s really your voice. “Good seeing you, Jo.”
“You can’t do this job alone,” Jo says
Jo’s thirty-tree years old.
Dean’s been in hell for twelve years, two months, ten days, fifty-nine minutes and counting.
You’re still twenty-four.
Outside Richmond, you exorcise a demon from a nineteen year old student named Dwayne and he looks at you like you’re the savior. You give him a curt nod and tell him things will be all right and he follows you out the door and right into to the car. You remember what it’s like to be possessed by a demon, remember how it took almost a year for you to feel clean. “What the hell are you doing?” you ask.
“You hunt these things, right?” Dwayne says.
You nod.
“Then I’m coming with you.”
He slides stubbornly into the passenger’s seat and, hands shaking, you unlatch the door to the driver’s side seat for the first time since Dean went to Hell. The seat’s still adjusted for Dean’s height and the mirrors are all skewed slightly, but you still can’t (won’t) make the changes. You turn the key in the ignition listening to the sound of the ancient engine go to work (you haven’t needed a tank of gas in twenty-four years. You think this is somehow significant.) On autopilot, you slide one of Dean’s old tapes into the cassette player and as the opening strains of Enter Sandman fill the Impala, you close your eyes and grin and pretend it’s Dean beside you right up until your hear the station change, settling on some of that new age pseudo rap. Your eyes snap open and you flip right back to the tape.
“You can’t be serious,” Dwayne says. “This stuff is ancient.”
Dean has been in hell twenty-six years, eight months, nineteen days, seventeen hours, eight minutes and counting.
“Driver picks the music,” you say. “Shotgun shuts his cakehole.”
Dwayne picks up hunting quickly. He’s a good fighter, a better liar and one of the smartest people you’ve met in a good long while. You start talking more, you even smile a few times. Dwayne reminds you a little bit of Hendrickson, or at least who Hendrickson could have been if Lilith hadn’t killed him. He’s rough around the edges and sarcastic but a generally good all around person.
But then you take an axe to the back of the head from a vengeful spirit while Dwayne is watching. And he’s still watching when your chest hitches and your head knits itself back together and air floods into your lungs. He does what you trained him to do. You can hear your old lessons playing back in his head. If it’s supernatural, we kill it.
The bullet to the forehead hurts more then you ever remembered it could.
(Dean has been in hell twenty-eight years, two months, seven days, forty-nine minutes and counting.)
When you wake up again, you’re tied to a chair and Dwayne’s reading an exorcism out of one of your books. You start laughing and Dwayne voice falters just a little.
“I’m no demon,” you say (and after all this time you still believe it.)
“You can’t die,” Dwayne says. His voice is shaking. “Sam, tell me how that’s human.”
“My brother made a deal,” you sputter. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you but-”
“What the hell were you trying to do to me?” Dwayne croaks. “Sam, I would have trusted you if you just told me.”
“I’m telling you now. Finish the exorcism if you need to, but I swear to God, I’ll tell you everything.”
Dwayne sniffs and says, “Christo.”
You don’t flinch. You just stare at him and say, “My name is Sam Winchester and twenty-nine years ago, I died.”
Things change after that. There’s an almost imperceptible shift in the atmosphere. You start trying to block out his thoughts. Start ignoring the stares. You should have dumped him after that first shock. When he’d had you tied to the chair but you don’t because after almost thirty years of not having a partner, you’re not sure this is something you can do on your own.
But this isn’t going to work forever. Dwayne’s a smart kid and a good hunter and too long with you and he’s going to be stuck. And you don’t want that for him. You never wanted that for yourself.
So you leave him. It’s night and he’s snoring in the double bed across from you and you try not to think of how that was supposed to be Dean. You’ve tucked a letter along with all the cash you’d managed to wrestle up over the past three weeks in an envelope and shoved it into his duffle.
You get into the Impala, lounge back in the passenger’s seat and watch as the car pulls itself out of the parking space and you pretend it’s Dean who’s driving.
Dwayne calls your when you’re three states away, screaming for a good ten minutes into the phone. You listen to the whole thing and you think you may have understood how Dean was when Dad left. He’s been traveling with you, hunting with you for three years and betrayal is laced into his every word.
You delete the voice mail and tell yourself it’s for the best.
There are others after Dwayne, but no one lasts as long. You don’t know if it’s your fault or theirs. There’s a girl in Vegas who tags along after you bag a striga and cop from Boise who sees supernatural danger for the first time and wants to put a stop to it and a college kid with a head for Latin you find chained in a basement. And the girl freaks the first time she sees you die and the cop’s just a second too slow for a werewolf one night and the kid finds your epic collection of books about Hell and you have to drop him before he puts the pieces together. You keep moving, keep hunting, keep looking.
You go to Ellen Harvelle’s funeral. Jo’s sitting in the front row of the service with gray streaked through her hair and she looks so much like Ellen that it actually hurts. You sit in the back of the group, avoiding the gaze of any and all hunters. As far as most of them are concerned you’re part of the problem now. You wouldn’t be surprised if you found out you were the freaking holy grail of hunter lore. Sammy Winchester, the boy who can’t die, who doesn’t age. You bet there are dozens of hunters who want nothing more then to see you bleed.
You try to slip out of the service quietly, but Jo catches you before you can make it back to the Impala. “Never thought I’d see you again,” she says.
You shrug. “I liked your mom. She was always good to us.”
You imagine that in the past, the Jo you knew would have followed that comment with a dig about your dad, but this Jo doesn’t resort to those cheep shots. She just looks at you with those dark, hooded eyes and says, “You still looking for a way to get your brother out?”
“Never stopped.”
“You ever think he might not of wanted you to waste all your time on this?”
You smile at her, flash your dimples. “Jo, I’ve got all the time in the world.”
You pretend you don’t hear her thinking, you’re too late.
And somewhere along the way, you realize that Dean’s been gone for forty-six years (two months, four days, seventeen hours, fifteen minutes and counting). Which means Dean’s been in hell twice as long as he'd been with you. And even if Hell moves at the same pace as the real world, that’s still forty-six years. Even though you’re going to get Dean out (and you will get him out eventually. You’ve never doubted that.) you’re sure he’s never going to be the same (then again, you’re not the same either.)
You spend most of the week after that drunk out of your mind but as sobriety creeps slowly back into your system (you think you may have died of alcohol poisoning once or twice in there) that steely determination returns. You’re going to get him out.
Dwayne finds you again. He’s not the same kid he was when you left him. There’s something around his eyes that looks almost as old as you are. He corners you in a dinner, sliding into the seat across from you with an inveterate ease. “Hey there, Sammy,” he says.
He’s older then you now. Or at least he looks it. You can’t help but feel a stab of jealousy at that fact. “Hey, Dwayne,” you say.
“I’m still pissed at you for leaving,” Dwayne says. He catches the eye of the waitress and asks for a cup of coffee. “You’re buying.”
“I’m sorry,” you reply because you don’t know what else to say.
“You know I would have stuck with you as long as you would have let me. I never wanted a normal life. Didn’t want it even before that demon found me. And then I spent three years chasing poltergeists, demons and monsters. You know I love that shit, right? The adrenaline rush, the blood pumping in your ears. How the hell was I supposed to go back?”
“You kept hunting?”
“Damn right I kept hunting,” Dwayne snaps. The waitress sets his coffee down on the table and he takes a quick swallow. “Crossed the country a few times on my own. Stole a car. Started running credit card scams. Didn’t realize you were the one who did all the hard parts. I got better at it though. Ran with a couple different hunters along the way. You’re famous you know that? Everyone’s heard of Sam Winchester. No one can decide if you’re a demon or just a damn good hunter.”
“Why are you here, Dwayne?”
He gives you a shit eating grin that Dean would have loved and leans back in his seat. “I think I found what you’ve been looking for.”
“And what have I been looking for?”
“A way into hell.”
Dwayne’s ritual checks out. It’s a portal, one you make from nothing. The ritual’s absurdly complex but you know your limits and you can make this work. You start setting up in Bobby’s old place because it’s big and abandoned and as close as you’re going to get to peace. It takes two months to set up completely, two months to go over contingencies, two month to make sure you won’t unintentionally create hell on Earth. You’re on edge the whole time and Dwayne keeps reminding you of every way this could go wrong.
And then the day’s here. You draw the last bit of the circle, say the incantation and watch as the portal swirls up before you. You can see demons seeping past you just like last time, can hear the roar of all the tortured souls. You’ve done your job. The house where you’ve done the ritual is a virtual tomb for demons. Dwayne and a couple of his hunter buddies are a town over, preparing to come and clear out the house. You’ve got this covered. Every base, every angle. Dean would want you to do this the right way. Dean wouldn’t want you to risk the world for him.
(But you would in a heartbeat.)
And if this doesn’t work, you’ll tear apart the dimensions to bring him back. World be damned. It doesn’t matter that you’re too late. You’ve been too late since it happened.
You take a deep breath and step through the portal, closing it up behind you. You can hear nothing but screams and you strain your ears trying to separate Dean’s voice from the masses.
Dean’s been in hell for forty-eight years six months, nineteen days, nine hours, forty-four minutes and six seconds.
And counting and counting and counting.
(end)
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