SPN/J2 BIG BANG: ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST (SAM/DEAN; NC-17) II
Fic title: Once Upon a Time in the West
Author name: arysteia
Genre: wincest
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 24, 000
Warnings: Explicit sex, violence. Some period appropriate attitudes and references, but no racial epithets or sexual violence.
Summary: "Nothing counts so much as blood, the rest are just strangers." So said John Winchester, and his boys took it to heart. After the Civil War, and years spent as a law man and gunslinger, Dean just wants to settle down, and build a peaceful life and a home with his brothers Bobby and Adam, even the black sheep of the family, Sam, if he can persuade him. Tombstone, queen of the boom towns, seems like a great place to do it. (Western AU, inspired by the Wyatt Earp/Gunfight at the OK Corral mythos.)
It didn't take them long to settle in, Pete Sheridan and his meddling notwithstanding. Bobby and Ellen set up in a little house of their own, on the edge of town, and it was nice enough. Adam and Lou had the one right next door, a little bigger and with room to build for the next generation of little Winchesters, hopefully soon to be running round and getting underfoot.
Dean was torn, used to having the freedom to come and go as he pleased, but at the same time secretly somewhat envious. Bela herself surely wasn't much of a housekeeper, though, nor interested, which pretty much clinched it, and they wound up taking a set of rooms at the Oriental Hotel in town, just like they had in Dodge, and boarding Impala at the livery stables. The Oriental was a once grand establishment that had clearly fallen on hard times. The rooms were large and clean and well appointed, and half the price of those at the Alhambra across the street, and the saloon and gaming hall downstairs were lavishly laid out and decorated. There was only one thing missing, and that was customers. Customers worth having, in any case. Before too long Dean found himself with a quarter interest in the faro game, and a job dealing at the tables Friday and Saturday nights. The tale of how he got the gig soon became one oft told in hushed tones over a nice whiskey, though not by Dean himself, and never in his earshot.
Dean was downstairs in the saloon having a quiet drink, leaving Bela to set up their room the way she liked it, when a fight broke out over the faro table. The dealer was a sight to be seen, and that was for sure, greasy unkempt hair, and a fresh sauce stain on a shirt that might have been white a month of no baths ago, Smith and Wesson, 38 in his belt, and a shotgun propped up against the side of the table. Dean had seen his type in a dozen towns before, though never in a place as nice as this.
He leaned towards the bartender, who was hardly run off his feet, and was instead polishing glasses, a vaguely hunted expression on his face. He'd introduced himself to Dean earlier as Ash Joyce, the owner of the hotel, which either spoke of a man who took an active interest in his business, or a man with too little business to leave it to others. Dean liked peace and quiet as much as the next person, and was capable of tact on occasion, but it was mid afternoon and deader than Boot Hill in there.
"Who the hell is that yahoo?" he asked, suspecting he already knew the answer.
Joyce sighed. "Eddie Zeddmore." It wasn't a name that meant anything to Dean. "Came barging in here about a month ago, running his mouth and waving his gun, chased out all the high class play. Now it's just the bummers and the drovers. Just the dregs."
"Why don't you get rid of him, get yourself a straight dealer?" Dean asked.
Joyce sighed and went back to his glasses. He was a slight fellow, and clearly no fighting man. Dean smiled and put down his glass, wandered casually over to the faro table, and stood there waiting, thumbs tucked casually in the waistband of his trousers. It wasn't long before Zeddmore looked up, feeling the weight of his stare.
"What the hell do you want?" he demanded.
Dean smiled all sociable like, affable, and drawled, "Just wanted to let you know you're sitting in my chair."
"That a fact?" the loudmouth sneered.
"Yeah," Dean agreed, still a friend to the world. "It's a fact."
Zeddmore looked Dean over, noting he was unarmed, a watch and fob at his waist but no gun belt. Dean had left it upstairs, beginning as he meant to go on. Zeddmore stood, sneering. "For a man that don't go heeled you run your mouth kinda reckless," he said.
"Don't need to go heeled to deal with a nothin' like you," Dean said.
"That a fact?" Zeddmore repeated, less certain this time.
"Yeah," Dean confirmed. "It's a fact."
"Well," Zeddmore said, standing up and shoving back his chair. "I'm real scared."
"Damn right you're scared," Dean hissed, the last of his bonhomie dropping like a mask. "I can see that in your eyes."
Realising with a sudden chill he was in way over his head, Zeddmore shrank back, his hand moving toward his gun. The other players wisely scattered. Dean nodded, his voice calm and steady.
"Go ahead," he nodded at the gun. "Skin it. Skin that smoke wagon and see what happens."
"Listen Mister," Zeddmore blustered. "I'm getting tired-"
Dean abruptly backhanded him, making his teeth clack together.
"I'm getting tired of your jawing. Now jerk that pistol and go to work."
Zeddmore went pale, all pretence of courage gone. Dean slapped him again.
"I said throw down, boy," he said, though Zeddmore was probably at least five years older than he was. Zeddmore did nothing so Dean slapped him a third time. Zeddmore just stood there frozen, blood dripping down his chin from his split lip.
"You gonna do something," Dean demanded, "or just stand there and bleed?"
Zeddmore stared resolutely at the floor. Dean plucked his gun away, handing it to the bartender.
"No, I didn't think so," he said. "Here, Ash. Keepsake, hang it over the bar. All right, friend. Out you go."
Dean took Zeddmore by the ear, dragging him across the room like an unruly child, and shoving him out the door and into the street.
"And don't come back," he finished. "Ever."
Dean turned to Ash Joyce all smiles again, "See how easy that was?"
Joyce grinned, and shook his hand.
Stepping outside again, Dean ran into Bobby and Adam, no doubt making a lucky escape from the triumph of domesticity at home.
"Well, we're off and running," he said, as they fell into step together. "Just acquired us a quarter interest in the game at the Oriental."
"Acquired?" Bobby asked
"So to speak."
Down the block, unseen by the Winchesters, Zeddmore had rediscovered his courage, or as much of it as a man who had been publicly humiliated could, when safely away from his tormentor. He snatched a shotgun from behind the counter in the mercantile, and over the vociferous protests of its owner advanced down the street. He was within about a dozen feet when suddenly a clear voice rang out.
"Why, Eddie Zeddmore, where are you going with that shotgun?"
Zeddmore spun around to see a very tall, impeccably dressed man standing in the shadow of the promenade awning, smiling in a way that gave no impression of humour or good will. He froze on the spot.
"Doc?" he asked nervously. "Doc Campbell? I didn't know you was in town."
Dean swung around and spotted the newcomer, not even sparing a glance for Zeddmore. He crossed the street and stood there, momentarily lost for words, a sight indeed.
"Sam? " he demanded at last, breaking the silence. "Where the hell did you come from?"
Sam looked him right in the eye. "I was under the impression that telegraph was an invitation," he said. "Was I mistaken?"
"No!" Dean said, breaking out of his paralysis and reaching out with both hands to grab the other man's arms. "God, no. Of course it was."
"Adam," Sam smiled, a small thing but bearing some semblance of genuine feeling. "Bobby," he nodded more cautiously.
The two men nodded back, but made no move to break up the lingering embrace.
"Dean? " The forgotten Eddie Zeddmore blanched and shook as he did the figures and reached a number he didn't like. "Dean Winchester? "
The brothers ignored him.
"We're going into business for ourselves, Sam," Adam said cheerfully. "You're just in time. Dean just got us a faro game."
Sam laughed, more honestly amused this time. "Since when is faro a business?"
Dean relaxed, and let go of Sam reluctantly, pleased that Bobby wasn't going to make a scene. "Didn't you always say gambling's an honest trade?" he joked.
"I said poker is an honest trade," Sam demurred. "Only suckers buck the tiger. The odds are all with the house."
"Well," Dean huffed. "That's their lookout, not mine. It's not like anybody's holding a gun to their heads."
Sam shook his head and slapped Dean on the shoulder. "That's what I love about you, Dean," he said. "You can talk yourself into anything."
They all laughed, even Bobby. Frozen in the background, Zeddmore began to tremble. Finally Sam took pity on him, never once having let him out of his line of sight. "Oh, I'm sorry, Eddie," he drawled, "I forgot you were there. You can go now. Just leave the shotgun."
"Thank you," Zeddmore said, and meant it. He dropped the shotgun and hurried away, with no intention to return. There were times a name was a useful thing, after all.
Before they got more than fifty yards down the street Pete Sheridan approached, smiling as usual, attention drawn by the crowds that had stopped to watch the aborted confrontation and were now transfixed by the reunion. A few had no doubt recognised Sam, his fine cut clothes and pink silk waistcoat by no means inconspicuous, and the whisper was spreading like wildfire through the rest.
"Sheriff Sheridan," Dean said, his mood too good to be spoiled, "Have you met my-"
"Friend," Sam interrupted. "Samuel Campbell." Dean glared at him, but Sam ignored it, looking down at Sheridan from his considerable height advantage. "Forgive me if I don't shake hands."
Sheridan shrugged, nothing daunted. "So how's Tombstone treating you, Dean?" he asked.
"Fine," Dean answered curtly, wanting nothing so much as to be free of interruptions, and to get Sam somewhere he could ask him where the hell he'd been for the past year, and was it so damn hard to get to a telegraph office and drop your brother a line, a few damn cents to send the dozen words to say you were still alive.
Sheridan droned on, all flailing hands and ten dollar words as he described his vision for the town. It didn't bear much resemblance to reality the way Dean saw it, even with the prospect of a silver bonanza. He was about to say so when Sam beat him to it.
"Aren't you a getting a little ahead of yourself?" he asked, his own clipped vowels putting Sheridan's to shame. "This is still just a mining camp."
Sheridan sneered. "Have you seen how everyone dresses?" he asked, making a point of running his eyes up and down Sam's clothes. "Awfully toney for a mining camp. You fit right in, sir. No, the die is cast, we're growing, we'll be as big as San Francisco in a few years. And just as sophisticated."
Sam sighed heavily. "I can hardly wait."
Right on time, a bullet whipped past them to impact the boardwalk railing. Everyone who had even half their wits about them ducked. More gunfire erupted as a trio, much the worse for drink, came reeling through the swinging doors of the nearby Crystal Palace. One gave a shudder and collapsed face first on the packed dirt of the street, clearly dead. The other two found their bearings, swung to face each other. The drunker of the two raised his pistol, waved it, bellowing. "You son of a bitch!"
The other re-cocked his own. "That's right," he said, "Keep comin', keep comin'."
Sam turned to Sheridan with a raised eyebrow. "This is exactly the way I remember San Francisco."
Suddenly a third man, dressed all in black, shaven head visible where his hat had been knocked off, appeared, pistol at the ready, keeping any interested bystanders at bay.
He raised his other hand slowly, gesturing peaceably in the Winchesters' direction. "Easy, gents," he said calmly. "Private affair."
"Jacob?" Dean demanded, recognising him from his buffalo hunting days.
"Dean!" the man returned, smiling wide. "Hey! And Bobby! How the hell you doing?"
"You bastard!" the drunk broke in. He'd managed to raise his gun to where it was just about level, and squinted at Jacob's friend.
"Good enough," the other man laughed, firing his own gun. The drunk dropped in a heap. The shooter turned to acknowledge Dean, "Hey there, Dean," he said, unfazed by the corpses at his feet. "Hey, Bobby."
"Joshua," Dean said cautiously. "What was that all about?"
"Drunks and fools," Jacob said, shaking his head. "Crawfished a bet, called my friend here a cheat and a liar. I saw the whole thing."
Sam turned to Sheridan. "Sheriff, may I present a pair of fellow sophisticates, Turkey Creek Josh Johnson, and Texas Jake Vermillion?"
Sheridan glared, clearly more put out by Sam's attitude than the violence.
"I'm afraid I'll have to have those guns, boys," he said in his most patronising tone.
Joshua demurred. "It was a fair fight, Sheriff," he said. "We was legal."
"No doubt," Sheridan agreed. "Tell it to Judge Spicer."
Jacob laughed, and handed over his gun, Joshua following suit. "Well, fair enough," he agreed. "Law and order every time, that's us."
Dean rolled his eyes, not caring if Sheridan saw him. As county sheriff he didn't have jurisdiction in town and they all knew it, and it was easy to play the swell when everyone was in a good mood and playing along. He didn't look the type to step in when real trouble was on the horizon.
"I, for one, could use a drink," Sam said, walking away from the Crystal Palace and towards the next nearest saloon. "Join me gentlemen, my ship has recently come in."
Adam looked at the two dead men left lying in the street, shaking his head. "What kinda town is this?" he asked no one in particular, and no one answered.
They all met up at Bobby's house that night for dinner. Bobby sat at the head of the table and carved the roast Ellen had made, and for the most part enjoyed the proceedings, the twinkle in his eye belying his stern impersonation of the late, departed, John Winchester. A time or two Dean huffed as though he was about to say something, but he was in too good a mood at having the entire family under one roof to really take umbrage, and if anyone had a right to joke about their father it was surely his eldest son. Instead, he sat back in his seat at Bobby's right hand, and occupied himself with shooting surreptitious glances at Sam, directly opposite him on Bobby's left, still unable to believe he was really there. Adam had been kicked back to the foot of the table, where he'd always had to sit as a child, but he took it with the same good grace he took everything, just pleased to see Dean happy for once.
They'd had to put the extra fly into the table, first time they'd used it since arriving in Tombstone, to fit everyone around. There was an empty seat to Sam's left, Ruby being off about her own business, but it was one thing to have a former sporting woman at table, it was quite another to have one who still maintained her independence. It'd caused a ruction the last time they'd all been together, Dean refusing to sit down with her, and Sam demanding to know just what the hell he had against her. Dean had pointed out the obvious, and Sam had countered, rightly, with an accusation of hypocrisy. Dean had been all set to explain the difference between past and present tense, but then Sam had turned the doe eyed look on him, and whispered, She was there for me when no one else was, not even you, which was both true and monstrously unfair, and for a fractured moment Dean hadn't known whether he wanted to punch Sam or cry for the unfairness of life.
He'd learned a harsh lesson though, and wasn't going to make the same mistake again. Their father had been a hard man, uncompromising, and it had cost him his favourite son, and dutiful as Dean had always been, he wasn't going to let it cost him his favourite brother. John had done the best he could, playing a difficult hand, but while Dean lived by his advice, he wasn't going to live by his example.
The woman in question had shown a rare tact tonight, and things seemed to be going well. Louisa had been introduced to Sam for real, and Sam had laughed, genuine and deep, at the prospect of Dean being mistaken for him.
"I've met many people who mistook your boy there," he nodded at Adam, "for Dean, but never me. They're the fair haired boys; I'm just the black sheep of the family."
Dean bristled as if to deny it, but Bobby beat him to it. "Funny thing," he said, "way I recall it, you were the apple of Ma's eye."
"Not Pa's," Sam disagreed.
There was a moment of awkward silence, but then Lou, who was learning real fast what it meant to be a Winchester woman, sailed gamely back in.
"And you're a doctor?" she asked.
"Not that kind of doctor, honey," Adam answered, as Sam burst out laughing. "He got his doctorate in law; studied with our grandpa, Judge Campbell in Arkansas. He was supposed to join him on the circuit."
"I am no longer a lawyer," Sam said, smiling sharkishly, "I am a sporting man, that is my profession now."
"But you still use your grandfather's name?" Lou asked, rightly confused.
"I think it's time we left the men to their cigars," Ellen interrupted, standing up. "Ladies."
Bela and Louisa followed her out.
The peaceable silence lasted long enough for Bobby to pour them all a brandy and get out the cigar box, then Dean exploded, good intentions forgotten.
"God damn it, Sam!" he shouted. "She's right, and I shouldn't have to tell you that. Your god damn name's Winchester. You should use it."
Bobby sighed and Adam wished he could join the women in the parlour.
"When Pa bailed me out of that jail in Arkansas," Sam said, voice steady and cold, "after Jessica," - Dean flinched, couldn't help it - "he told me to leave and never come back."
"This isn't what he meant, Sam," Dean insisted, "and you damn well know it. I know losing Jess and the baby like that was hard, but for Christ's sake. You burn your own god damned house down, we don't know if you're alive or dead, and then the next thing we hear you're drunk and disorderly in Indian Territory, buffaloing a man and stealing his horse? I know you spent half your life back East, but that's a hanging offence out here."
"I know that," Sam snapped.
"Pa paid five hundred dollars to bail you out," Dean continued, "and if you'd ever come back to Arkansas they'd have strung you up soon as look at you. You know that."
"I do know that," Sam agreed, deflating. "I do. And I'm grateful. Truly. I'm only sorry I didn't get a chance to tell Pa so. But whatever path he wanted for me, I wound up on a different one. And you and Bobby are law men. It reeks badly enough of hypocrisy as it is, your shiny badges and your six shooters, what are the townsfolk going to say if they know that you're brothers with a gunslinger? You've got enough trouble already without me making more for you."
"You're no trouble to me, Sam," Dean insisted. "You're my brother and you're my best friend. And we ain't law men no more. Ain't ever gonna be law men again."
"I am your brother and your best friend," Sam agreed. "And my name doesn't change that."
"Yeah," Dean sighed. "Okay. So will you stay then?"
Sam grinned at him. "Nice scenery hereabouts," he said. "And Tombstone? It does sound quiet, I'll give you that."
"We can be a real family," Dean said earnestly. "Stay in one place, all of us, really make something of ourselves. We could even send for Sarah and Jo if everything turns out all right."
"Don't oversell it, Dean," Sam said, but he reached across the table to take his brother's hand and smiled for real, the way he used to when they were young.
"Don't kill anyone in town, Sam," Bobby countered sternly, well aware they'd forgotten he and Adam were even there.
Dean was about to remonstrate but Sam just laughed again, and swept to his feet. "You have my word as a gentleman," he pronounced, then turned back to Dean. "Come for a walk with me."
They were halfway out the door before Dean thought to call back, "Adam, can you see Bela back to town for me?"
"Uh, sure," Adam said as the door slammed shut, looking uncertainly at his oldest brother.
Bobby just shook his head.
They made a full circuit of the town limits in no time at all, it'd grown from a hundred people to a thousand in six months but it still wasn't all that big, and fetched up in the local cemetery. The moonlight cast an eerie glow on the headstones, but Sam couldn't help laughing as he read them out, his sense of humour as macabre as ever. Here lies Lester Moore, four slugs from a .44, no Les no more. Dean smiled gently, just so damn happy to have him back. They hunkered down against the fence line, leaning into each other for some shelter from the wind, and Sam pulled out a silver hip flask, took a swig and passed it over.
"It's good to see you, Dean," he said after a while.
Dean rested his head against Sam's shoulder. He was a tall man himself, but Sam was so big he made him feel small, and it was nice to have someone to lean on when most days folks were leaning on you.
They sat there till the small hours of the morning, trading the flask back and forth and smoking, talking about the old days. Sam put his arm around Dean's shoulders when he shivered, nuzzled his temple.
Dean pulled away. "We ain't gonna start all that up again, Sam," he said, in as firm a voice as he could muster.
"Why?" Sam asked, trying to sound angry instead of hurt. "Because you love Bela so damn much?"
"Leave her out of this," Dean snapped.
"If she's the one for you," Sam insisted, "why haven't you married her?"
"Guess I ain't the marrying type."
Sam snorted. "You were going to marry Cassie, and we both know it."
"Yeah," Dean sighed. "And we know how that turned out."
"About as well as me and Jess," Sam agreed, arm tightening.
"Don't make this right," Dean insisted. "Fooling around when we were kids was one thing, and when we were out on the trail, all alone. That's just helping out a friend. Lots of folks do it."
"Not with their brothers," Sam said, plain orneriness making him argue against his own interest.
"No," Dean said hoarsely. "And not in town neither. There's no excuse for it."
"I don't need an excuse," Sam said, letting Dean go and climbing to his feet. "I'm going to hell anyway, all the other things I've done, and I'm selfish enough to want to take you with me."
"Sam…"
"So tell me you love her, and she makes you happy, and I'll leave it be. But I know you, and I know how you think. The rest are just strangers. And you've never cared what anybody else thinks. That's not what worries you. You think if you let me in I'll leave again. Leave you again."
"Man who can't be depended on steady..." Dean started, voice shaking a little.
"You left me first, Dean," Sam said angrily. "You took off and left me without even saying goodbye."
"I went to the war, Sam," Dean said. "What did you want me to do? Bobby'd been drafted, did you want me to let him go alone?"
Sam shrugged. "I'm here to stay, Dean, for as long as you want me. And I can wait till you believe that."
He held out a hand and Dean let Sam pull him to his feet.
"I know sometimes it isn't easy being my brother," Sam concluded. "But I'll be there when you need me."
Part III
Author name: arysteia
Genre: wincest
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 24, 000
Warnings: Explicit sex, violence. Some period appropriate attitudes and references, but no racial epithets or sexual violence.
Summary: "Nothing counts so much as blood, the rest are just strangers." So said John Winchester, and his boys took it to heart. After the Civil War, and years spent as a law man and gunslinger, Dean just wants to settle down, and build a peaceful life and a home with his brothers Bobby and Adam, even the black sheep of the family, Sam, if he can persuade him. Tombstone, queen of the boom towns, seems like a great place to do it. (Western AU, inspired by the Wyatt Earp/Gunfight at the OK Corral mythos.)
It didn't take them long to settle in, Pete Sheridan and his meddling notwithstanding. Bobby and Ellen set up in a little house of their own, on the edge of town, and it was nice enough. Adam and Lou had the one right next door, a little bigger and with room to build for the next generation of little Winchesters, hopefully soon to be running round and getting underfoot.
Dean was torn, used to having the freedom to come and go as he pleased, but at the same time secretly somewhat envious. Bela herself surely wasn't much of a housekeeper, though, nor interested, which pretty much clinched it, and they wound up taking a set of rooms at the Oriental Hotel in town, just like they had in Dodge, and boarding Impala at the livery stables. The Oriental was a once grand establishment that had clearly fallen on hard times. The rooms were large and clean and well appointed, and half the price of those at the Alhambra across the street, and the saloon and gaming hall downstairs were lavishly laid out and decorated. There was only one thing missing, and that was customers. Customers worth having, in any case. Before too long Dean found himself with a quarter interest in the faro game, and a job dealing at the tables Friday and Saturday nights. The tale of how he got the gig soon became one oft told in hushed tones over a nice whiskey, though not by Dean himself, and never in his earshot.
Dean was downstairs in the saloon having a quiet drink, leaving Bela to set up their room the way she liked it, when a fight broke out over the faro table. The dealer was a sight to be seen, and that was for sure, greasy unkempt hair, and a fresh sauce stain on a shirt that might have been white a month of no baths ago, Smith and Wesson, 38 in his belt, and a shotgun propped up against the side of the table. Dean had seen his type in a dozen towns before, though never in a place as nice as this.
He leaned towards the bartender, who was hardly run off his feet, and was instead polishing glasses, a vaguely hunted expression on his face. He'd introduced himself to Dean earlier as Ash Joyce, the owner of the hotel, which either spoke of a man who took an active interest in his business, or a man with too little business to leave it to others. Dean liked peace and quiet as much as the next person, and was capable of tact on occasion, but it was mid afternoon and deader than Boot Hill in there.
"Who the hell is that yahoo?" he asked, suspecting he already knew the answer.
Joyce sighed. "Eddie Zeddmore." It wasn't a name that meant anything to Dean. "Came barging in here about a month ago, running his mouth and waving his gun, chased out all the high class play. Now it's just the bummers and the drovers. Just the dregs."
"Why don't you get rid of him, get yourself a straight dealer?" Dean asked.
Joyce sighed and went back to his glasses. He was a slight fellow, and clearly no fighting man. Dean smiled and put down his glass, wandered casually over to the faro table, and stood there waiting, thumbs tucked casually in the waistband of his trousers. It wasn't long before Zeddmore looked up, feeling the weight of his stare.
"What the hell do you want?" he demanded.
Dean smiled all sociable like, affable, and drawled, "Just wanted to let you know you're sitting in my chair."
"That a fact?" the loudmouth sneered.
"Yeah," Dean agreed, still a friend to the world. "It's a fact."
Zeddmore looked Dean over, noting he was unarmed, a watch and fob at his waist but no gun belt. Dean had left it upstairs, beginning as he meant to go on. Zeddmore stood, sneering. "For a man that don't go heeled you run your mouth kinda reckless," he said.
"Don't need to go heeled to deal with a nothin' like you," Dean said.
"That a fact?" Zeddmore repeated, less certain this time.
"Yeah," Dean confirmed. "It's a fact."
"Well," Zeddmore said, standing up and shoving back his chair. "I'm real scared."
"Damn right you're scared," Dean hissed, the last of his bonhomie dropping like a mask. "I can see that in your eyes."
Realising with a sudden chill he was in way over his head, Zeddmore shrank back, his hand moving toward his gun. The other players wisely scattered. Dean nodded, his voice calm and steady.
"Go ahead," he nodded at the gun. "Skin it. Skin that smoke wagon and see what happens."
"Listen Mister," Zeddmore blustered. "I'm getting tired-"
Dean abruptly backhanded him, making his teeth clack together.
"I'm getting tired of your jawing. Now jerk that pistol and go to work."
Zeddmore went pale, all pretence of courage gone. Dean slapped him again.
"I said throw down, boy," he said, though Zeddmore was probably at least five years older than he was. Zeddmore did nothing so Dean slapped him a third time. Zeddmore just stood there frozen, blood dripping down his chin from his split lip.
"You gonna do something," Dean demanded, "or just stand there and bleed?"
Zeddmore stared resolutely at the floor. Dean plucked his gun away, handing it to the bartender.
"No, I didn't think so," he said. "Here, Ash. Keepsake, hang it over the bar. All right, friend. Out you go."
Dean took Zeddmore by the ear, dragging him across the room like an unruly child, and shoving him out the door and into the street.
"And don't come back," he finished. "Ever."
Dean turned to Ash Joyce all smiles again, "See how easy that was?"
Joyce grinned, and shook his hand.
Stepping outside again, Dean ran into Bobby and Adam, no doubt making a lucky escape from the triumph of domesticity at home.
"Well, we're off and running," he said, as they fell into step together. "Just acquired us a quarter interest in the game at the Oriental."
"Acquired?" Bobby asked
"So to speak."
Down the block, unseen by the Winchesters, Zeddmore had rediscovered his courage, or as much of it as a man who had been publicly humiliated could, when safely away from his tormentor. He snatched a shotgun from behind the counter in the mercantile, and over the vociferous protests of its owner advanced down the street. He was within about a dozen feet when suddenly a clear voice rang out.
"Why, Eddie Zeddmore, where are you going with that shotgun?"
Zeddmore spun around to see a very tall, impeccably dressed man standing in the shadow of the promenade awning, smiling in a way that gave no impression of humour or good will. He froze on the spot.
"Doc?" he asked nervously. "Doc Campbell? I didn't know you was in town."
Dean swung around and spotted the newcomer, not even sparing a glance for Zeddmore. He crossed the street and stood there, momentarily lost for words, a sight indeed.
"Sam? " he demanded at last, breaking the silence. "Where the hell did you come from?"
Sam looked him right in the eye. "I was under the impression that telegraph was an invitation," he said. "Was I mistaken?"
"No!" Dean said, breaking out of his paralysis and reaching out with both hands to grab the other man's arms. "God, no. Of course it was."
"Adam," Sam smiled, a small thing but bearing some semblance of genuine feeling. "Bobby," he nodded more cautiously.
The two men nodded back, but made no move to break up the lingering embrace.
"Dean? " The forgotten Eddie Zeddmore blanched and shook as he did the figures and reached a number he didn't like. "Dean Winchester? "
The brothers ignored him.
"We're going into business for ourselves, Sam," Adam said cheerfully. "You're just in time. Dean just got us a faro game."
Sam laughed, more honestly amused this time. "Since when is faro a business?"
Dean relaxed, and let go of Sam reluctantly, pleased that Bobby wasn't going to make a scene. "Didn't you always say gambling's an honest trade?" he joked.
"I said poker is an honest trade," Sam demurred. "Only suckers buck the tiger. The odds are all with the house."
"Well," Dean huffed. "That's their lookout, not mine. It's not like anybody's holding a gun to their heads."
Sam shook his head and slapped Dean on the shoulder. "That's what I love about you, Dean," he said. "You can talk yourself into anything."
They all laughed, even Bobby. Frozen in the background, Zeddmore began to tremble. Finally Sam took pity on him, never once having let him out of his line of sight. "Oh, I'm sorry, Eddie," he drawled, "I forgot you were there. You can go now. Just leave the shotgun."
"Thank you," Zeddmore said, and meant it. He dropped the shotgun and hurried away, with no intention to return. There were times a name was a useful thing, after all.
Before they got more than fifty yards down the street Pete Sheridan approached, smiling as usual, attention drawn by the crowds that had stopped to watch the aborted confrontation and were now transfixed by the reunion. A few had no doubt recognised Sam, his fine cut clothes and pink silk waistcoat by no means inconspicuous, and the whisper was spreading like wildfire through the rest.
"Sheriff Sheridan," Dean said, his mood too good to be spoiled, "Have you met my-"
"Friend," Sam interrupted. "Samuel Campbell." Dean glared at him, but Sam ignored it, looking down at Sheridan from his considerable height advantage. "Forgive me if I don't shake hands."
Sheridan shrugged, nothing daunted. "So how's Tombstone treating you, Dean?" he asked.
"Fine," Dean answered curtly, wanting nothing so much as to be free of interruptions, and to get Sam somewhere he could ask him where the hell he'd been for the past year, and was it so damn hard to get to a telegraph office and drop your brother a line, a few damn cents to send the dozen words to say you were still alive.
Sheridan droned on, all flailing hands and ten dollar words as he described his vision for the town. It didn't bear much resemblance to reality the way Dean saw it, even with the prospect of a silver bonanza. He was about to say so when Sam beat him to it.
"Aren't you a getting a little ahead of yourself?" he asked, his own clipped vowels putting Sheridan's to shame. "This is still just a mining camp."
Sheridan sneered. "Have you seen how everyone dresses?" he asked, making a point of running his eyes up and down Sam's clothes. "Awfully toney for a mining camp. You fit right in, sir. No, the die is cast, we're growing, we'll be as big as San Francisco in a few years. And just as sophisticated."
Sam sighed heavily. "I can hardly wait."
Right on time, a bullet whipped past them to impact the boardwalk railing. Everyone who had even half their wits about them ducked. More gunfire erupted as a trio, much the worse for drink, came reeling through the swinging doors of the nearby Crystal Palace. One gave a shudder and collapsed face first on the packed dirt of the street, clearly dead. The other two found their bearings, swung to face each other. The drunker of the two raised his pistol, waved it, bellowing. "You son of a bitch!"
The other re-cocked his own. "That's right," he said, "Keep comin', keep comin'."
Sam turned to Sheridan with a raised eyebrow. "This is exactly the way I remember San Francisco."
Suddenly a third man, dressed all in black, shaven head visible where his hat had been knocked off, appeared, pistol at the ready, keeping any interested bystanders at bay.
He raised his other hand slowly, gesturing peaceably in the Winchesters' direction. "Easy, gents," he said calmly. "Private affair."
"Jacob?" Dean demanded, recognising him from his buffalo hunting days.
"Dean!" the man returned, smiling wide. "Hey! And Bobby! How the hell you doing?"
"You bastard!" the drunk broke in. He'd managed to raise his gun to where it was just about level, and squinted at Jacob's friend.
"Good enough," the other man laughed, firing his own gun. The drunk dropped in a heap. The shooter turned to acknowledge Dean, "Hey there, Dean," he said, unfazed by the corpses at his feet. "Hey, Bobby."
"Joshua," Dean said cautiously. "What was that all about?"
"Drunks and fools," Jacob said, shaking his head. "Crawfished a bet, called my friend here a cheat and a liar. I saw the whole thing."
Sam turned to Sheridan. "Sheriff, may I present a pair of fellow sophisticates, Turkey Creek Josh Johnson, and Texas Jake Vermillion?"
Sheridan glared, clearly more put out by Sam's attitude than the violence.
"I'm afraid I'll have to have those guns, boys," he said in his most patronising tone.
Joshua demurred. "It was a fair fight, Sheriff," he said. "We was legal."
"No doubt," Sheridan agreed. "Tell it to Judge Spicer."
Jacob laughed, and handed over his gun, Joshua following suit. "Well, fair enough," he agreed. "Law and order every time, that's us."
Dean rolled his eyes, not caring if Sheridan saw him. As county sheriff he didn't have jurisdiction in town and they all knew it, and it was easy to play the swell when everyone was in a good mood and playing along. He didn't look the type to step in when real trouble was on the horizon.
"I, for one, could use a drink," Sam said, walking away from the Crystal Palace and towards the next nearest saloon. "Join me gentlemen, my ship has recently come in."
Adam looked at the two dead men left lying in the street, shaking his head. "What kinda town is this?" he asked no one in particular, and no one answered.
They all met up at Bobby's house that night for dinner. Bobby sat at the head of the table and carved the roast Ellen had made, and for the most part enjoyed the proceedings, the twinkle in his eye belying his stern impersonation of the late, departed, John Winchester. A time or two Dean huffed as though he was about to say something, but he was in too good a mood at having the entire family under one roof to really take umbrage, and if anyone had a right to joke about their father it was surely his eldest son. Instead, he sat back in his seat at Bobby's right hand, and occupied himself with shooting surreptitious glances at Sam, directly opposite him on Bobby's left, still unable to believe he was really there. Adam had been kicked back to the foot of the table, where he'd always had to sit as a child, but he took it with the same good grace he took everything, just pleased to see Dean happy for once.
They'd had to put the extra fly into the table, first time they'd used it since arriving in Tombstone, to fit everyone around. There was an empty seat to Sam's left, Ruby being off about her own business, but it was one thing to have a former sporting woman at table, it was quite another to have one who still maintained her independence. It'd caused a ruction the last time they'd all been together, Dean refusing to sit down with her, and Sam demanding to know just what the hell he had against her. Dean had pointed out the obvious, and Sam had countered, rightly, with an accusation of hypocrisy. Dean had been all set to explain the difference between past and present tense, but then Sam had turned the doe eyed look on him, and whispered, She was there for me when no one else was, not even you, which was both true and monstrously unfair, and for a fractured moment Dean hadn't known whether he wanted to punch Sam or cry for the unfairness of life.
He'd learned a harsh lesson though, and wasn't going to make the same mistake again. Their father had been a hard man, uncompromising, and it had cost him his favourite son, and dutiful as Dean had always been, he wasn't going to let it cost him his favourite brother. John had done the best he could, playing a difficult hand, but while Dean lived by his advice, he wasn't going to live by his example.
The woman in question had shown a rare tact tonight, and things seemed to be going well. Louisa had been introduced to Sam for real, and Sam had laughed, genuine and deep, at the prospect of Dean being mistaken for him.
"I've met many people who mistook your boy there," he nodded at Adam, "for Dean, but never me. They're the fair haired boys; I'm just the black sheep of the family."
Dean bristled as if to deny it, but Bobby beat him to it. "Funny thing," he said, "way I recall it, you were the apple of Ma's eye."
"Not Pa's," Sam disagreed.
There was a moment of awkward silence, but then Lou, who was learning real fast what it meant to be a Winchester woman, sailed gamely back in.
"And you're a doctor?" she asked.
"Not that kind of doctor, honey," Adam answered, as Sam burst out laughing. "He got his doctorate in law; studied with our grandpa, Judge Campbell in Arkansas. He was supposed to join him on the circuit."
"I am no longer a lawyer," Sam said, smiling sharkishly, "I am a sporting man, that is my profession now."
"But you still use your grandfather's name?" Lou asked, rightly confused.
"I think it's time we left the men to their cigars," Ellen interrupted, standing up. "Ladies."
Bela and Louisa followed her out.
The peaceable silence lasted long enough for Bobby to pour them all a brandy and get out the cigar box, then Dean exploded, good intentions forgotten.
"God damn it, Sam!" he shouted. "She's right, and I shouldn't have to tell you that. Your god damn name's Winchester. You should use it."
Bobby sighed and Adam wished he could join the women in the parlour.
"When Pa bailed me out of that jail in Arkansas," Sam said, voice steady and cold, "after Jessica," - Dean flinched, couldn't help it - "he told me to leave and never come back."
"This isn't what he meant, Sam," Dean insisted, "and you damn well know it. I know losing Jess and the baby like that was hard, but for Christ's sake. You burn your own god damned house down, we don't know if you're alive or dead, and then the next thing we hear you're drunk and disorderly in Indian Territory, buffaloing a man and stealing his horse? I know you spent half your life back East, but that's a hanging offence out here."
"I know that," Sam snapped.
"Pa paid five hundred dollars to bail you out," Dean continued, "and if you'd ever come back to Arkansas they'd have strung you up soon as look at you. You know that."
"I do know that," Sam agreed, deflating. "I do. And I'm grateful. Truly. I'm only sorry I didn't get a chance to tell Pa so. But whatever path he wanted for me, I wound up on a different one. And you and Bobby are law men. It reeks badly enough of hypocrisy as it is, your shiny badges and your six shooters, what are the townsfolk going to say if they know that you're brothers with a gunslinger? You've got enough trouble already without me making more for you."
"You're no trouble to me, Sam," Dean insisted. "You're my brother and you're my best friend. And we ain't law men no more. Ain't ever gonna be law men again."
"I am your brother and your best friend," Sam agreed. "And my name doesn't change that."
"Yeah," Dean sighed. "Okay. So will you stay then?"
Sam grinned at him. "Nice scenery hereabouts," he said. "And Tombstone? It does sound quiet, I'll give you that."
"We can be a real family," Dean said earnestly. "Stay in one place, all of us, really make something of ourselves. We could even send for Sarah and Jo if everything turns out all right."
"Don't oversell it, Dean," Sam said, but he reached across the table to take his brother's hand and smiled for real, the way he used to when they were young.
"Don't kill anyone in town, Sam," Bobby countered sternly, well aware they'd forgotten he and Adam were even there.
Dean was about to remonstrate but Sam just laughed again, and swept to his feet. "You have my word as a gentleman," he pronounced, then turned back to Dean. "Come for a walk with me."
They were halfway out the door before Dean thought to call back, "Adam, can you see Bela back to town for me?"
"Uh, sure," Adam said as the door slammed shut, looking uncertainly at his oldest brother.
Bobby just shook his head.
They made a full circuit of the town limits in no time at all, it'd grown from a hundred people to a thousand in six months but it still wasn't all that big, and fetched up in the local cemetery. The moonlight cast an eerie glow on the headstones, but Sam couldn't help laughing as he read them out, his sense of humour as macabre as ever. Here lies Lester Moore, four slugs from a .44, no Les no more. Dean smiled gently, just so damn happy to have him back. They hunkered down against the fence line, leaning into each other for some shelter from the wind, and Sam pulled out a silver hip flask, took a swig and passed it over.
"It's good to see you, Dean," he said after a while.
Dean rested his head against Sam's shoulder. He was a tall man himself, but Sam was so big he made him feel small, and it was nice to have someone to lean on when most days folks were leaning on you.
They sat there till the small hours of the morning, trading the flask back and forth and smoking, talking about the old days. Sam put his arm around Dean's shoulders when he shivered, nuzzled his temple.
Dean pulled away. "We ain't gonna start all that up again, Sam," he said, in as firm a voice as he could muster.
"Why?" Sam asked, trying to sound angry instead of hurt. "Because you love Bela so damn much?"
"Leave her out of this," Dean snapped.
"If she's the one for you," Sam insisted, "why haven't you married her?"
"Guess I ain't the marrying type."
Sam snorted. "You were going to marry Cassie, and we both know it."
"Yeah," Dean sighed. "And we know how that turned out."
"About as well as me and Jess," Sam agreed, arm tightening.
"Don't make this right," Dean insisted. "Fooling around when we were kids was one thing, and when we were out on the trail, all alone. That's just helping out a friend. Lots of folks do it."
"Not with their brothers," Sam said, plain orneriness making him argue against his own interest.
"No," Dean said hoarsely. "And not in town neither. There's no excuse for it."
"I don't need an excuse," Sam said, letting Dean go and climbing to his feet. "I'm going to hell anyway, all the other things I've done, and I'm selfish enough to want to take you with me."
"Sam…"
"So tell me you love her, and she makes you happy, and I'll leave it be. But I know you, and I know how you think. The rest are just strangers. And you've never cared what anybody else thinks. That's not what worries you. You think if you let me in I'll leave again. Leave you again."
"Man who can't be depended on steady..." Dean started, voice shaking a little.
"You left me first, Dean," Sam said angrily. "You took off and left me without even saying goodbye."
"I went to the war, Sam," Dean said. "What did you want me to do? Bobby'd been drafted, did you want me to let him go alone?"
Sam shrugged. "I'm here to stay, Dean, for as long as you want me. And I can wait till you believe that."
He held out a hand and Dean let Sam pull him to his feet.
"I know sometimes it isn't easy being my brother," Sam concluded. "But I'll be there when you need me."
Part III