gavemea_45 | (no subject)

"Yeah," he says. "The, um. Only successful time."

(Not the only time, though.)

"We had to go in, and -- our guy didn't recognize us. He tried to fight us."

Sam looks away and steps on the gas, sending the Impala on up the road in a cloud of dust..

"Dean'll know me."

For a split second he considers telling Sam who it was they went in after --

No.

"Course he will," he says. "Once he's out. But ..."

"He's my brother," Sam interrupts, ignoring the way his voice cracks on the last word. "He'll know me."

"Sam --"

He's trying hard to keep his voice gentle, but it's a struggle to say anything at all, in the face of Sam's vehemence.

"What."

He swallows.

"All I'm saying is he might be in pretty bad shape when we get there."

That's what I'm afraid of.

He doesn't say anything. Sam steps down hard on the gas; the engine roars, and the Impala surges forward.

Hold on, Dean. We're coming.

He's not listening --

"And we have to have a plan," he amplifies, a touch desperately.

"So we'll make one, okay?"

The headlights pick out the edge of an upright stone; Sam slows the car and pulls around at the side of the cemetery, then shifts into park and leaves the engine idling.

"There." He nods to the massive shape of a mausoleum, across the grass, with several graves between them and it.

"That's it."

He looks where Sam indicates, and nods.

"Okay." A breath. "I'll start setting up?"

Sam shuts off the engine and nods.

"Want to take a closer look first? Hard to see from here, but there's a lock where the Colt fits--"

He doesn't wait for an answer; he's already getting out of the car as he talks. The predawn darkness is slowly giving way to light in the east; enough that his silhouette is easily visible as he walks across the cowboy graveyard toward the tomb.

He opens his own car door, and hurries after him.

The faint glow in the east isn't quite enough light to study the gate by. Andrew plays the beam of a flashlight over the lock, examining its design.

"Thorned pentacle," he murmurs. "Or supposed to form one, anyway. Heavy stuff."

"Colt knew what he was doing."

Andrew's studying the lock; Sam's watching Andrew.

"Can you open it?"

"I think so." Low. "The gun is the key, so the question is whether it's the physical structure or the symbology ... "

He reaches out, very tentatively, to brush the very tip of one finger along the edge of the pentacle.

He stays silent, listening, practically holding his breath for fear of disturbing Andrew's thought process.

"If it's just the stuff carved on the gun," he says, a little louder, "then words might be able to do it. If not ... we might need to hit it with something harder. And I don't know if we'll be able to close it up again, if we do that."

From the look on his face, Andrew might as well have just punched him in the gut.

"... what do you mean, we might not be able to close it."

He's still studying the gate, but he can't miss the sound in Sam's voice.

"I mean -- if we break the lock. Instead of picking it."

He turns blindly away, reaching out with one hand as if to catch his balance or brace himself against something, but there's nothing but air.

Dean--

"We're just gonna have to find a way to pick it, then. That's all."

"We will." Andrew's straightened up, turning toward him with worry in his eyes. "We'll do it."

He nods, then nods again, steeling himself, and turns back around. Sam meets Andrew's gaze.

"Okay."

A beat.

"So what do you need from me?"

He breathes out, and unships his backpack to start rummaging in it.

"Check my work," he says, and draws out a heavy manila envelope containing several 8x10 photo prints.

Sam rifles through it, holding each up to the increasing sunlight to get a good look.

"You did these from the Colt, didn't you? From back when I brought it in so you could see it."

"Yeah. I blew up the pictures to get a better look, and I'm gonna try a spell schematic using those patterns."