Restless (Summer of Sam)
Restless
by Swellison
May 4, 2008
Dean is dead.
Even as I'm writing the words, I can't make myself believe them.
"No he's not! He's not dead, he can't be!"
No, that's not true. I know he's dead. He died right in front of me. But, that's not the worst of it. He's not just dead... Dean's dead and his soul is trapped in Hell. Forever. And it's all my fault. I don't know what to do about it, either. Dean is--was the fixer in the Winchester family. I used to believe that he was invincible; there was nothing my big brother couldn't do-wouldn't do, for family.
"For you or Dad, the things I'm willin' to do or kill, it just...it scares me sometimes."
I can't sleep. I'm afraid of what I'll dream. Even if I just close my eyes, I'm back in New Harmony, pinned against the wall, watching helplessly while those invisible Hellhounds tear chunks out of Dean. And he's screaming....then, it was a pain-filled yell. Now, I swear I hear words...
"No! Help! Somebody help me! Sam! SAMMM!!"
I did a lot of research on Hellhounds, trying to find a way out of Dean's deal. Typically, Hellhounds' victims look like they died naturally of a heart attack, no matter how violent the actual claiming was. But Dean's special; the Hellhounds didn't clean up afterwards. Lilith wants me to remember what he looked like-as if I can ever forget. Dean...
Bobby got us out of New Harmony. I remember riding in the back seat, Dean stretched out under a blanket, next to me, head cradled in my lap. Like he was sleeping, with his eyes open.
We stopped at somebody's cabin after we'd been driving for awhile. I'm pretty sure we'd crossed a state line by then. Bobby's got connections all over the place. I settled Dean on the bed and got out the med kit. I painstakingly cleaned the blood off his face and neck, and then I looked at the rest of the carnage and I lost it. I sank to the floor, burying my head in the mattress next to Dean's still hand and cried, wishing things were different. Wishing we hadn't fought so much this last year-Dean's last year. Wishing we'd seen the Grand Canyon, instead of tackling the Morton House on leap year's day. Wishing Dean hadn't made that cursed deal with the Crossroads Demon in the first place...
I heard Bobby clear his throat and got to my feet.
"There's a clearing not too far from here, Sam. Nice and remote, a good place for a hunter's send-off."
I knew exactly what he meant and I was suddenly, furiously resolved. "NO! We're not salting and burning Dean like he's something evil!"
"It's what he'd want---"
"I said no! If you torch him, I swear to God, I'll leap into the fire and burn with him!"
I remember how shocked Bobby looked after I said that, but he shouldn't have been. He has to know what we Winchesters are like by now. He raised a hand, placating, "Sam---"
"We have to bury him, Bobby. Dean'll need his body when I get him back home." I have to believe that; it's the only hope I've got left. I couldn't keep Dean from going to Hell, but I can bring him back, somehow, someday.
Bobby stared at me, then he reached up and patted my shoulder. "Okay, Sam, okay." He sighed. "Look, it's too late to do anything tonight, be daylight in a coupla hours. Go try to get some rest and I'll finish up in here."
"I can't sleep!" I protested, knowing I couldn't sleep with Dean in the next room. I picked up a clean cloth, steeling myself to prepare Dean...prepare Dean's body for burial. Dean's done everything for me; I should be able to do this one last thing for him.
Bobby took the cloth from my hand. "Figure out where we're gonna bury him. I'll take care of Dean."
I met Bobby's eyes and saw loss, grief and devastation-what he saw in mine. I realized that Bobby needed some time with Dean, too. Time to say good-bye. He wasn't there when...
"Where are we?" I asked and Bobby told me we were in Mattoon, Illinois. I left the room, got the laptop out of the Impala. I opened the trunk, intent on grabbing my duffel and the laptop, and I saw Dean placing his duffel in the trunk, tossing me a shotgun, counting the knives and stakes in the weapons box...
I slammed the lid closed, wincing afterwards.
"Take care of my wheels."
I bolted for the cabin and started searching the internet for a suitable burial place for Dean. A fine and private place... Illinois has a lot of small towns, but I finally picked Pontiac. Dean would understand. It was the closest I could get to Impala or Chevy. Actually, Illinois has two Pontiacs in it. When I saw that the northern one was in Livingston County, I knew I'd found the right location. I scanned the images around town, concentrating on a wooded area outside of the town proper and wrote down the directions to Pontiac. It wasn't far from Mattoon, a little over two hours. That'd give us plenty of time to take care of business.
Bobby approached me when I was finishing up with the directions to Pontiac.
"Sam, I, uh, need some fresh clothes for Dean."
"I'll get 'em." I retrieved Dean's duffel and hauled out his blue jeans and a plain black t-shirt. I added his blue-green jacket and handed the bundle to Bobby.
"Y'don't think he'd want to-have his leather jacket?"
"No." That was a lie. Dean loved that jacket almost as much as the Impala. But I couldn't give it up, right now. I needed it-Dean would understand. He's always given me everything. His jacket. His car. His heart. His life...
I guess I got lost in my thoughts, then. Or buried in the past. Anyway, next thing I knew, Bobby was back, pressing a cup of tea into my hand. I wasn't hungry but I drank the tea and it felt good on my raw throat.
Just like it felt good to stretch out on the couch, after Bobby coaxed me into moving to the living room. Next thing I knew it was lights out. I woke up mid-afternoon. Bobby'd put a sleeping pill in my tea. I should've been angry, but I was just so relieved that I didn't have any dreams, or didn't remember them if I did.
I heard the sound of hammering from outside and followed it. Bobby was working on a rectangular piece of pine, the rest of the coffin already assembled and lying on the ground. Wordlessly, I started helping Bobby with the lid. When we finished, we manhandled the lidless coffin into the bedroom, set it on the bed next to Dean and lowered him into it. Bobby left us alone.
Dean looked like he was sleeping, a little cramped in the tight space, maybe. He'd learned a long time ago to grab sleep where he could get it, just one of the hundred hunting rules Dad had taught us.
"Sam, remember what Dad taught you, okay?"
I slipped a cigarette lighter into Dean's pocket, because no hunter goes anywhere without one. Then I gently lifted his head and removed the amulet from around his neck. I clutched it in my hand, staring at the dangling gold head.
"Thanks, Sam. I-I love it."
Silent tears trickled down my face. I slipped the necklace on, tucking it under my t-shirt. "I'm sorry, Dean." I wiped the tears from my face. "Good-bye for now...jerk."
"Bitch."
Bobby came in with the coffin lid and we placed it on top and hammered it closed. It felt like every nail went straight through my heart.
We put the coffin in the Impala's trunk and headed for Pontiac. Bobby drove and I rode shotgun. Neither of us said a word. After a few miles, I reached for Dean's cassette box. My hand shook as I grabbed a random tape and slid it into the player. Metallica blared from the speakers, just like Dean would've wanted it to.
We got to Pontiac right after sunset. I found the woods and after some tramping around, we found a small clearing that would do. I started digging while Bobby pulled the car as close as he could get it, then grabbed the other shovel and dug with me. I was used to working in tandem, digging up graves with Dean. We made good time, the task feeling comfortingly normal, until I realized that we hadn't struck a casket lid. There was nothing buried in this grave's hole...yet.
A few minutes later, Bobby called a halt to the proceedings. We trudged back to the Impala and returned, carrying Dean's coffin between us. We put it into the ground the old-fashioned way, the coffin cradled by two thick rope loops that we payed out as we gently lowered the casket till it touched bottom. I blanked my mind as we started filling in the hole, concentrating on doing the job right. It was the least I could do.
When we finished and the ground looked as undisturbed as we could make it, Bobby planted a simple cross. It was two rough-hewn pieces from an old barn, the horizontal one faintly showing carved markings that could've been initials, weathered by time. If anyone found this, it would look like a forgotten grave from Illinois' wagon trail days. Perfect.
Bobby stood to the right of the cross and I knew he was going to say something. "Dean was one of the best hunters I knew."
"He's an even better brother," I choked out, ghosting my fingers along the top of the cross. "This isn't permanent, Dean, I swear."
Bobby didn't say anything after that; we just walked back to the Impala. It was well past midnight and we both reeked after hours of grave digging. Bobby slid behind the wheel and turned the Impala for South Dakota. It's a nine hour drive to Sioux Falls and Bobby drove all night. He grudgingly let me drive the last hundred miles or so while he catnapped in the passenger seat.
Dean and I both knew this highway like the back of our hands. It was way too easy to picture Dean laughing and barreling down the road, anticipating the pie that'd be waiting for us at Bobby's. I got caught up in the memory, jarred back to the present to find the Impala's right wheels on the shoulder. I corrected course, got her back on the road, no harm done. Lucky for me, Bobby slept through the whole incident. But I paid more attention to the road for the rest of the trip.
Now I'm here at Bobby's, scribbling away like mad in my diary. Maybe if I write it all down, I can get it out of my head. Yeah, right.
May 6, 2008
Bobby's been watching me like a hawk, pushing food at me, making sure I eat and sleep. Like a remake of when Dean and I were here after Dad died...only not.
He's trying to get me to open up, too. Told me a few stories from Dean's early hunting days, and when I was at Stanford, things I'd never heard before. They were great stories, too. Bobby can tell a mean tale when he sets his mind to it--and I liked hearing them, but they only make me miss Dean more. If that's even possible.
I washed the Impala yesterday. Figured she needed a thorough cleaning after Bobby and I drove her from Pontiac, so I went all out, hand washed and waxed, top to bottom. It felt like Dean was critiquing everything I did, too. Damn, he loved his car...and he gave her to me.
I drove her into town, to pick up groceries and supplies for Bobby. He was apprehensive about me driving, but we both know I need to start doing something. Dean's presence permeates that car, though. There isn't an inch of the Impala that I can't look at and call up a memory of Dean. Washing the car, patting the roof, legs sticking out from underneath, working on the engine, buried under the hood. I got distracted, and ran off the road, again.
"Hey, you better take care of that car. Or, I swear, I'll haunt your ass."
I pulled off the side of the road and actually thought about it. What if I wrecked the Impala, would Dean come streaming out of Hell and haunt me? If that were true, I'd do it in a heartbeat. But I know that Lilith's never gonna let Dean escape her grasp that easily.
No matter how much Dean loves his car, it's not going to be enough to free him from Hell. No, Dean can't get out. So, what's left? That thought nagged me all the way back to Bobby's. As I was unloading the supplies, I glanced up and saw the devil's trap on the ceiling.
"...I swear to God I will march into Hell myself and I will slaughter each and every one of you sons of bitches, so help me God!'
Dean can't get out, but I can get in! I already know about the Devil's Gate in Wyoming, and Bobby said it was "a Devil's Gate", which means there's more than one. We don't have the Colt anymore, but a different Devil's Gate would have a different key...
I glanced around, noting all the books scattered in Bobby's front room. Bobby probably had the biggest occult library in South Dakota. A week ago, he, Dean and I had been frantically tearing through it, looking for a way to stop the Hellhounds. This time, I'm doing it right. I'm going to systematically read every book in Bobby's library. Thank God I learned how to speed-read at Stanford.
I hastily finished unloading the groceries, came back to the living room, grabbed a tome and started reading. One down.
May 8, 2008
Bobby's not sure what to make of my sudden zest for research. I told him the bare bones of my plan, and I know he's skeptical about its success. But I'm also eating and sleeping, so he's letting me be. Even trusted me enough to fly down to Indiana yesterday. He's retrieving his Chevelle, and driving it back here.
I stopped reading the latest textbook and rubbed my eyes. I need to remember to make something for dinner, Bobby's going to be tired and hungry when he gets home. I glanced at my watch; I still had time to wade through another book or two.
I finished my current book and reached for the next one. It didn't look very promising, wasn't even really old. But I'm reading every book, I'm not leaving any stone unturned, or page unread. A few chapters in, I came to a hand-drawn diagram. I blinked, thought I'd recognized it. This was a schematic of a revolver. I flipped to the front of the book and read the copyright. 1837.
I returned to the schematic page and read the inked notes from the drawing's originator. It took a few seconds for the name to register: S. Colt. I stared at the drawings, filled with barrel specifications and measurements, notes on the grip, annotations about the triggering mechanism. These drawings weren't just for a Colt revolver, they described the Colt, the gun that Dad had stolen from the vampires, and Bela had eventually stolen from us.
I can pay a gunsmith to follow these drawings and make an exact, perfect replica of Colt's revolver. And I can open the Devil's Gate with it, and get Dean out of Hell. This is going to work.
I packed the book and the rest of my stuff and left a note for Bobby, so he won't worry, or think I did something stupid. Then I slid behind the Impala's wheel and headed for the nearest Indian gambling resort. I'm going to hire the best damned gunsmith in the United States, and that's going to take a considerable amount of money. I need to raise it, fast.
May 11, 2008
I've got an appointment tomorrow with Hank Gallagher, the top-rated gunsmith in Colorado-in all of the western United States. He's intrigued by my request, and my demand for meticulous attention to detail. I told him I had a schematic from the 1830's and I could hear him practically salivating over the phone.
So, I'm driving towards his office in Denver, listening to Green Day on my iPod. I had to have something in the Impala that doesn't remind me of Dean, to keep my attention on the road, not the past.
May 15, 2008
I picked up the Colt today, and she's a beauty. Despite the rush job I insisted on, Gallagher paid strict attention to detail, even used a laser to cut out all the pieces to the exact specifications. He wanted to buy the book from me but I told him it wasn't for sale. I let him keep a copy of the schematic though and we parted on good terms. I'm heading for southwestern Wyoming now, stopped to grab a bite to eat and scribble this down at a diner. I even had a piece of pie. Next time I order pie, Dean'll be here to share it with me.
May 16, 2008
Oh God, it didn't work. Turns out the bullets weren't the only special thing about Colt's revolver. I can't fault Gallagher, though. The gun slid into the Devil's Gate perfectly. It just didn't activate the unlocking mechanism afterwards. I waited around a half an hour, and then I finally admitted defeat and left.
Drove to the closest bar and ordered a bottle.
The nearest crossroads is two towns over, and I'm heading there now.
"This ends now. I'm ending it. I don't care what it takes."
A/N: Thanks so much for reading. While this story is complete in itself, it's also a chapter of my on-going Excerpts From the Diary of Sam Winchester, posted under Swellison at FF.net and Supernaturalville.net
by Swellison
May 4, 2008
Dean is dead.
Even as I'm writing the words, I can't make myself believe them.
"No he's not! He's not dead, he can't be!"
No, that's not true. I know he's dead. He died right in front of me. But, that's not the worst of it. He's not just dead... Dean's dead and his soul is trapped in Hell. Forever. And it's all my fault. I don't know what to do about it, either. Dean is--was the fixer in the Winchester family. I used to believe that he was invincible; there was nothing my big brother couldn't do-wouldn't do, for family.
"For you or Dad, the things I'm willin' to do or kill, it just...it scares me sometimes."
I can't sleep. I'm afraid of what I'll dream. Even if I just close my eyes, I'm back in New Harmony, pinned against the wall, watching helplessly while those invisible Hellhounds tear chunks out of Dean. And he's screaming....then, it was a pain-filled yell. Now, I swear I hear words...
"No! Help! Somebody help me! Sam! SAMMM!!"
I did a lot of research on Hellhounds, trying to find a way out of Dean's deal. Typically, Hellhounds' victims look like they died naturally of a heart attack, no matter how violent the actual claiming was. But Dean's special; the Hellhounds didn't clean up afterwards. Lilith wants me to remember what he looked like-as if I can ever forget. Dean...
Bobby got us out of New Harmony. I remember riding in the back seat, Dean stretched out under a blanket, next to me, head cradled in my lap. Like he was sleeping, with his eyes open.
We stopped at somebody's cabin after we'd been driving for awhile. I'm pretty sure we'd crossed a state line by then. Bobby's got connections all over the place. I settled Dean on the bed and got out the med kit. I painstakingly cleaned the blood off his face and neck, and then I looked at the rest of the carnage and I lost it. I sank to the floor, burying my head in the mattress next to Dean's still hand and cried, wishing things were different. Wishing we hadn't fought so much this last year-Dean's last year. Wishing we'd seen the Grand Canyon, instead of tackling the Morton House on leap year's day. Wishing Dean hadn't made that cursed deal with the Crossroads Demon in the first place...
I heard Bobby clear his throat and got to my feet.
"There's a clearing not too far from here, Sam. Nice and remote, a good place for a hunter's send-off."
I knew exactly what he meant and I was suddenly, furiously resolved. "NO! We're not salting and burning Dean like he's something evil!"
"It's what he'd want---"
"I said no! If you torch him, I swear to God, I'll leap into the fire and burn with him!"
I remember how shocked Bobby looked after I said that, but he shouldn't have been. He has to know what we Winchesters are like by now. He raised a hand, placating, "Sam---"
"We have to bury him, Bobby. Dean'll need his body when I get him back home." I have to believe that; it's the only hope I've got left. I couldn't keep Dean from going to Hell, but I can bring him back, somehow, someday.
Bobby stared at me, then he reached up and patted my shoulder. "Okay, Sam, okay." He sighed. "Look, it's too late to do anything tonight, be daylight in a coupla hours. Go try to get some rest and I'll finish up in here."
"I can't sleep!" I protested, knowing I couldn't sleep with Dean in the next room. I picked up a clean cloth, steeling myself to prepare Dean...prepare Dean's body for burial. Dean's done everything for me; I should be able to do this one last thing for him.
Bobby took the cloth from my hand. "Figure out where we're gonna bury him. I'll take care of Dean."
I met Bobby's eyes and saw loss, grief and devastation-what he saw in mine. I realized that Bobby needed some time with Dean, too. Time to say good-bye. He wasn't there when...
"Where are we?" I asked and Bobby told me we were in Mattoon, Illinois. I left the room, got the laptop out of the Impala. I opened the trunk, intent on grabbing my duffel and the laptop, and I saw Dean placing his duffel in the trunk, tossing me a shotgun, counting the knives and stakes in the weapons box...
I slammed the lid closed, wincing afterwards.
"Take care of my wheels."
I bolted for the cabin and started searching the internet for a suitable burial place for Dean. A fine and private place... Illinois has a lot of small towns, but I finally picked Pontiac. Dean would understand. It was the closest I could get to Impala or Chevy. Actually, Illinois has two Pontiacs in it. When I saw that the northern one was in Livingston County, I knew I'd found the right location. I scanned the images around town, concentrating on a wooded area outside of the town proper and wrote down the directions to Pontiac. It wasn't far from Mattoon, a little over two hours. That'd give us plenty of time to take care of business.
Bobby approached me when I was finishing up with the directions to Pontiac.
"Sam, I, uh, need some fresh clothes for Dean."
"I'll get 'em." I retrieved Dean's duffel and hauled out his blue jeans and a plain black t-shirt. I added his blue-green jacket and handed the bundle to Bobby.
"Y'don't think he'd want to-have his leather jacket?"
"No." That was a lie. Dean loved that jacket almost as much as the Impala. But I couldn't give it up, right now. I needed it-Dean would understand. He's always given me everything. His jacket. His car. His heart. His life...
I guess I got lost in my thoughts, then. Or buried in the past. Anyway, next thing I knew, Bobby was back, pressing a cup of tea into my hand. I wasn't hungry but I drank the tea and it felt good on my raw throat.
Just like it felt good to stretch out on the couch, after Bobby coaxed me into moving to the living room. Next thing I knew it was lights out. I woke up mid-afternoon. Bobby'd put a sleeping pill in my tea. I should've been angry, but I was just so relieved that I didn't have any dreams, or didn't remember them if I did.
I heard the sound of hammering from outside and followed it. Bobby was working on a rectangular piece of pine, the rest of the coffin already assembled and lying on the ground. Wordlessly, I started helping Bobby with the lid. When we finished, we manhandled the lidless coffin into the bedroom, set it on the bed next to Dean and lowered him into it. Bobby left us alone.
Dean looked like he was sleeping, a little cramped in the tight space, maybe. He'd learned a long time ago to grab sleep where he could get it, just one of the hundred hunting rules Dad had taught us.
"Sam, remember what Dad taught you, okay?"
I slipped a cigarette lighter into Dean's pocket, because no hunter goes anywhere without one. Then I gently lifted his head and removed the amulet from around his neck. I clutched it in my hand, staring at the dangling gold head.
"Thanks, Sam. I-I love it."
Silent tears trickled down my face. I slipped the necklace on, tucking it under my t-shirt. "I'm sorry, Dean." I wiped the tears from my face. "Good-bye for now...jerk."
"Bitch."
Bobby came in with the coffin lid and we placed it on top and hammered it closed. It felt like every nail went straight through my heart.
We put the coffin in the Impala's trunk and headed for Pontiac. Bobby drove and I rode shotgun. Neither of us said a word. After a few miles, I reached for Dean's cassette box. My hand shook as I grabbed a random tape and slid it into the player. Metallica blared from the speakers, just like Dean would've wanted it to.
We got to Pontiac right after sunset. I found the woods and after some tramping around, we found a small clearing that would do. I started digging while Bobby pulled the car as close as he could get it, then grabbed the other shovel and dug with me. I was used to working in tandem, digging up graves with Dean. We made good time, the task feeling comfortingly normal, until I realized that we hadn't struck a casket lid. There was nothing buried in this grave's hole...yet.
A few minutes later, Bobby called a halt to the proceedings. We trudged back to the Impala and returned, carrying Dean's coffin between us. We put it into the ground the old-fashioned way, the coffin cradled by two thick rope loops that we payed out as we gently lowered the casket till it touched bottom. I blanked my mind as we started filling in the hole, concentrating on doing the job right. It was the least I could do.
When we finished and the ground looked as undisturbed as we could make it, Bobby planted a simple cross. It was two rough-hewn pieces from an old barn, the horizontal one faintly showing carved markings that could've been initials, weathered by time. If anyone found this, it would look like a forgotten grave from Illinois' wagon trail days. Perfect.
Bobby stood to the right of the cross and I knew he was going to say something. "Dean was one of the best hunters I knew."
"He's an even better brother," I choked out, ghosting my fingers along the top of the cross. "This isn't permanent, Dean, I swear."
Bobby didn't say anything after that; we just walked back to the Impala. It was well past midnight and we both reeked after hours of grave digging. Bobby slid behind the wheel and turned the Impala for South Dakota. It's a nine hour drive to Sioux Falls and Bobby drove all night. He grudgingly let me drive the last hundred miles or so while he catnapped in the passenger seat.
Dean and I both knew this highway like the back of our hands. It was way too easy to picture Dean laughing and barreling down the road, anticipating the pie that'd be waiting for us at Bobby's. I got caught up in the memory, jarred back to the present to find the Impala's right wheels on the shoulder. I corrected course, got her back on the road, no harm done. Lucky for me, Bobby slept through the whole incident. But I paid more attention to the road for the rest of the trip.
Now I'm here at Bobby's, scribbling away like mad in my diary. Maybe if I write it all down, I can get it out of my head. Yeah, right.
May 6, 2008
Bobby's been watching me like a hawk, pushing food at me, making sure I eat and sleep. Like a remake of when Dean and I were here after Dad died...only not.
He's trying to get me to open up, too. Told me a few stories from Dean's early hunting days, and when I was at Stanford, things I'd never heard before. They were great stories, too. Bobby can tell a mean tale when he sets his mind to it--and I liked hearing them, but they only make me miss Dean more. If that's even possible.
I washed the Impala yesterday. Figured she needed a thorough cleaning after Bobby and I drove her from Pontiac, so I went all out, hand washed and waxed, top to bottom. It felt like Dean was critiquing everything I did, too. Damn, he loved his car...and he gave her to me.
I drove her into town, to pick up groceries and supplies for Bobby. He was apprehensive about me driving, but we both know I need to start doing something. Dean's presence permeates that car, though. There isn't an inch of the Impala that I can't look at and call up a memory of Dean. Washing the car, patting the roof, legs sticking out from underneath, working on the engine, buried under the hood. I got distracted, and ran off the road, again.
"Hey, you better take care of that car. Or, I swear, I'll haunt your ass."
I pulled off the side of the road and actually thought about it. What if I wrecked the Impala, would Dean come streaming out of Hell and haunt me? If that were true, I'd do it in a heartbeat. But I know that Lilith's never gonna let Dean escape her grasp that easily.
No matter how much Dean loves his car, it's not going to be enough to free him from Hell. No, Dean can't get out. So, what's left? That thought nagged me all the way back to Bobby's. As I was unloading the supplies, I glanced up and saw the devil's trap on the ceiling.
"...I swear to God I will march into Hell myself and I will slaughter each and every one of you sons of bitches, so help me God!'
Dean can't get out, but I can get in! I already know about the Devil's Gate in Wyoming, and Bobby said it was "a Devil's Gate", which means there's more than one. We don't have the Colt anymore, but a different Devil's Gate would have a different key...
I glanced around, noting all the books scattered in Bobby's front room. Bobby probably had the biggest occult library in South Dakota. A week ago, he, Dean and I had been frantically tearing through it, looking for a way to stop the Hellhounds. This time, I'm doing it right. I'm going to systematically read every book in Bobby's library. Thank God I learned how to speed-read at Stanford.
I hastily finished unloading the groceries, came back to the living room, grabbed a tome and started reading. One down.
May 8, 2008
Bobby's not sure what to make of my sudden zest for research. I told him the bare bones of my plan, and I know he's skeptical about its success. But I'm also eating and sleeping, so he's letting me be. Even trusted me enough to fly down to Indiana yesterday. He's retrieving his Chevelle, and driving it back here.
I stopped reading the latest textbook and rubbed my eyes. I need to remember to make something for dinner, Bobby's going to be tired and hungry when he gets home. I glanced at my watch; I still had time to wade through another book or two.
I finished my current book and reached for the next one. It didn't look very promising, wasn't even really old. But I'm reading every book, I'm not leaving any stone unturned, or page unread. A few chapters in, I came to a hand-drawn diagram. I blinked, thought I'd recognized it. This was a schematic of a revolver. I flipped to the front of the book and read the copyright. 1837.
I returned to the schematic page and read the inked notes from the drawing's originator. It took a few seconds for the name to register: S. Colt. I stared at the drawings, filled with barrel specifications and measurements, notes on the grip, annotations about the triggering mechanism. These drawings weren't just for a Colt revolver, they described the Colt, the gun that Dad had stolen from the vampires, and Bela had eventually stolen from us.
I can pay a gunsmith to follow these drawings and make an exact, perfect replica of Colt's revolver. And I can open the Devil's Gate with it, and get Dean out of Hell. This is going to work.
I packed the book and the rest of my stuff and left a note for Bobby, so he won't worry, or think I did something stupid. Then I slid behind the Impala's wheel and headed for the nearest Indian gambling resort. I'm going to hire the best damned gunsmith in the United States, and that's going to take a considerable amount of money. I need to raise it, fast.
May 11, 2008
I've got an appointment tomorrow with Hank Gallagher, the top-rated gunsmith in Colorado-in all of the western United States. He's intrigued by my request, and my demand for meticulous attention to detail. I told him I had a schematic from the 1830's and I could hear him practically salivating over the phone.
So, I'm driving towards his office in Denver, listening to Green Day on my iPod. I had to have something in the Impala that doesn't remind me of Dean, to keep my attention on the road, not the past.
May 15, 2008
I picked up the Colt today, and she's a beauty. Despite the rush job I insisted on, Gallagher paid strict attention to detail, even used a laser to cut out all the pieces to the exact specifications. He wanted to buy the book from me but I told him it wasn't for sale. I let him keep a copy of the schematic though and we parted on good terms. I'm heading for southwestern Wyoming now, stopped to grab a bite to eat and scribble this down at a diner. I even had a piece of pie. Next time I order pie, Dean'll be here to share it with me.
May 16, 2008
Oh God, it didn't work. Turns out the bullets weren't the only special thing about Colt's revolver. I can't fault Gallagher, though. The gun slid into the Devil's Gate perfectly. It just didn't activate the unlocking mechanism afterwards. I waited around a half an hour, and then I finally admitted defeat and left.
Drove to the closest bar and ordered a bottle.
The nearest crossroads is two towns over, and I'm heading there now.
"This ends now. I'm ending it. I don't care what it takes."
A/N: Thanks so much for reading. While this story is complete in itself, it's also a chapter of my on-going Excerpts From the Diary of Sam Winchester, posted under Swellison at FF.net and Supernaturalville.net