gavemea_45 | (no subject)

Andrew looks around -- somewhat futilely, in the darkness.

"Where are we?" Unconsciously, he's lowered his voice.

"Wyoming," Sam tells him.

He closes the shed door, shutting off all light and sound from Milliways, and starts toward the car.

"We're a little bit outside Colt's railroad line - remember I told you about that? This road'll lead us in."

He tags after Sam toward the car.

(Where in Wyoming, he meant; but it's clear they're nowhere near any cities, and outside Colt's railroad line is the best marker he's going to get.)

"I remember that, yeah." Still muted, as though by the pressure of the night around them. "The gate's in the center, you said."

"In the cemetery, yeah," Sam agrees, as he opens the driver's side door. "It's one of the mausoleums."

"That fits," he mutters, opening the passenger door and sliding in.

"... Let's go over the plan on the way?"

"Uh, sure."

The engine roars to life even while Andrew's still getting in; Sam waits only until the door's shut before putting the Impala in gear and pulling back onto the road.

"We get there, we open the gate, we get Dean out."

Andrew's giving him a very uncertain look.

When he speaks, though, it's calm and businesslike. "So once the gate's open, do we both go in? Or one of us stays by the gate to make sure it doesn't close?"

"Go in?" Sam shoots him a surprised glance.

"Dean'll come out."

His mouth opens, and stays open for a couple of beats.

Slowly: "How do you know?"

"Because Dad did," Sam returns, very shortly. "And Dean knows that."

He remembers Sam saying something about that. He remembers not asking.

"But is he -- I mean ..."

Andrew swallows, and braces himself.

"Is he gonna be able to?"

His grip tightens on the wheel, knuckles visibly whitening. Sam stares at the road ahead.

He doesn't answer.

Low-voiced: "Sam ..."

"He'll be able to."

Tightly.

He has to be.

"The way it worked last time, there was pretty much a stampede for the gate as soon as it was open, so."

"So ... okay. Bastille Day style. That works."

He chews on his lower lip for a beat.

"We should have a plan in case he doesn't, though. They might ... he might not be right near the gate."

"Yeah." Low.

They've been winding their way up the road at a speed that's just short of being actively dangerous for the terrain, when suddenly Sam brakes and spins the wheel to the left, easing the Impala off to the side of the road.

The reason why is clear enough; the steel rails of the track have been wrenched violently upward in one spot, breaking the lines.

(Not just one spot, in fact, but this is the only one in sight.)

He doesn't have a plan.

Andrew studies the twisted rails, but it's more for the sake of having somewhere to look other than at Sam's face.

He hasn't thought this through at all.

Sam's studying them as well.

"I think I can get past," he says, after a moment, and starts to lift his foot from the brake to let the Impala creep forward.

He risks a glance back at Sam.

"Think we can fix them once we're in?"

"Hm?"

He's carefully edging the car past the damage, two wheels off-road and two wheels on.

"Do what now?"

"Fix the -- the tracks. So the trap's whole again?"

It's clear from the expression on his face that the idea hadn't occurred to him.

"... oh."

A beat.

"I -- I don't think we can, I don't have the kind of tools that'd it'd take--"

Another beat.

"Could lay a salt line or two across, though?"

"Would that work? For keeping random escapees from ... randomly escaping?"

Sam shrugs.

"Should be just like blocking a door or window."

"Okay." Half a beat. "So what's our exit strategy?"