SPN/J2 BIG BANG: ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST (SAM/DEAN; NC17) III
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.)
Dean headed out early the next morning, keeping a sedate pace till he hit open country, then giving Impala his head. He hated keeping the stallion in town, and days like this when he felt edgy and cooped up himself, kept on too short a lead rope, he wished they could both be free, riding towards the ever vanishing horizon the way they used to. Sometimes he still thought, if only he could take Sam with him, that would be the most perfect life there was, just the two of them riding ever onwards, only stopping when they needed to rest, or lay in supplies. The fresh air and the feel of Impala beneath him helped him to calm, clear his head, as they always did, and by the time he got back to the outskirts of town he knew that wasn't really what he wanted. He'd made a choice to build something, and that was what he was going to do.
The others were all at Bobby's when he rode in, all except Sam who was no doubt still asleep, he'd never been an early riser. Bobby smiled and waved. Dean could just hear him, as he leaned in to hug Ellen. "Look at him go, will ya?" he murmured in her ear. "I tell you, that's the real Dean, born in the saddle."
"Oh, he can go all right," Bela agreed, a wicked smile on her face.
"Can he then?" Ellen asked, amused. There was no sense bickering if they were going to be out here together for God knew how long, and Bela was better company than poor sweet Lou, for all her airs and graces.
"Rather ride than eat," Bela affirmed.
The older women hooted with laughter, and even more so at Lou's obvious embarrassment. Bobby groaned to his wife, "Try to be a lady, will you?"
"I will not," Ellen replied with a broad smile. "And Dean ain't the only one in a mood to go riding, husband of mine. Be sure to get on home early tonight."
It was a damn fool who said no to a woman like Ellen when she got that look in her eye, and Bobby Winchester was no fool.
Bela smiled, and raised her head for a kiss when Dean leaned over Impala's neck towards her. She'd been none too happy at being abandoned the night before, but among the many things she knew that innocents like Louisa Winchester didn't, was the fact that angry sex was as good as any other kind, and sometimes better.
Life settled pretty quickly into a routine, Bobby tending bar over at the Crystal Palace, which had been only too glad to get one of the Winchesters on the payroll when the owners saw what Dean's presence had done for the Oriental. They figured, rightly, that Bobby wouldn't stand for any trouble, and sure enough the saloon there went from one of the rowdiest in town to one of the tidiest in just a few months. It was still a great place to stop for a drink or a meal, and Ellen was a hell of a hostess, and it wasn't long before they were putting their savings into buying out a half share in the business. Joshua and Jacob paid their fines for breach of the peace, and were allowed back in on promise of good behaviour, trading war stories and helping make the place feel like home.
Adam learnt to deal faro, and traded off shifts with Dean at the Oriental, when he wasn't playing billiards at the Alhambra, his new passion. He wasn't as fast, or as accurate, as Dean at either, just like he wasn't with a gun, but he was good enough. Folks commented on the family resemblance real regular, sometimes meaning well by it, sometimes not. Those who were trying to get a rise soon discovered, to their cost, that he had Sam's temper, not that they knew to make the connection, rather than Dean's calm, cool demeanour, and he got into more than a few fights. Usually bare knuckle brawls, and for the most part he was sober enough to step outside, rather than wrecking whatever place he was in, but a few gunfights in the main street as well. He'd winged Gabe Stevens in the shoulder, and put Jim Crowley's shooting and roping hand out of commission for a month of no pay, but he'd so far managed not to kill anyone. The infamous Doc Campbell standing like a baleful spectre at the edge of everyone's peripheral vision might have had something to do with people's willingness to walk away, agreeing no harm done.
Sam himself took a room at the Oriental, down the hall from Dean's, where he slept till well after noon each day, the housekeepers and laundresses under strict instruction to leave his room till last, and not to approach nor make a sound till he'd been seen downstairs, ordering his breakfast libation in the bar. He spent his afternoons drinking and scoping out the newly arrived talent, his evenings with Dean, either sharing a quiet meal or watching him deal at the tables, and his nights playing for high stakes, draw or stud, whatever the mark preferred. He never lost, and had been known to still be playing when the sun came up, subsisting on Kentucky bourbon and his fancy Eastern cigarettes, at which point Dean, freshly washed and ready to start his day, would forcibly remove him from the table and drag him upstairs to bed.
Sam's arrival in town had been a nine days' wonder, briefly eclipsing that of the Winchesters. His name was whispered in hushed tones to those that didn't recognise him, and tall tales told of the number of men he'd killed, his speed at the draw and his skill with a knife, whether in hand or thrown. Folks seemed to love the fact he'd been a lawyer best, perhaps because he was so unlike any of the pasty, anaemic men who'd arrived on the train from back East, had one run-in with the cattle barons or the railroad, and turned tail and fled back to where they'd come from, barely stopping to pack their books. Tombstone hadn't managed to keep one yet, and it seemed a great joke that the most feared man in town could spout Latin or Greek or even some French with the best of them, but was just as happy to lapse into honest English profanity when the moment called for it. He hadn't killed anyone yet, keeping his promise, but he hadn't needed to, folks kept their distance just fine.
It couldn't last, of course. Inevitably one Friday, end of the month, a bunch of cowboys came riding into town, and it was obvious they were looking for trouble. It was the usual story, every man his own hero, liquored up and popular on payday, dressed to the nines and seeking to impress. Saloon girls, each other, it didn't matter. And with them came the Angels, so named for the winged brand used on the massive Clanton spread, better known as Heaven, the biggest and wealthiest ranching outfit in the territory. They'd been on a long drive, all the way through Texas and New Mexico, stopped for a time in Old Mexico, and hadn't been through town since the Winchesters arrived. They weren't too impressed by the changes they found waiting for them.
Zachariah, the oldest of the Clanton boys, was nominally in charge in the Old Man's absence, but he was all talk - full of bluster and a mean, petty drunk. His brothers, Raphael, Uriel and Michael, all named for characters out of the bible, each stupider and more venal than the next, but knowing they had strength in numbers, and coasting on their powerful father's reputation in the territory. The worst of the hired hands were with them, veritable demons on horseback, Yellow Eyes Bill Brocius, the foreman, and the enforcer Al Ringo. Ringo had no real loyalty to the Angels, except for the fact they paid his wages, but he liked to think of himself as the best gun alive, and was none too pleased at the thought of a rival. Yellow Eyes had his own plans, probably to wrest control of the outfit from Zachariah once the Old Man went to his eternal reward, but he was biding his time. No one wanted another range war.
The saloon at the Oriental was packed when they swaggered in. The younger boys had peeled off one by one, to find a girl or a drink or an easier game, but Zac and Yellow Eyes and Ringo were keen to scope out the competition. Dean sat against the back wall, dealing faro with Sam at his side, Adam on lookout while a nervy, over committed high roller made bets, gulping at his whiskey and shooting glances over his shoulder as if he thought he was Wild Bill Hickok himself, just waiting to get shot in the back.
Ringo was prominently armed, pair of pearl handled revolvers thrust cross-style into his red sash, and blatantly spoiling for a fight, but Dean was having none of it, not even looking up. Adam had a hand on his gun, and was ready for trouble.
Zac was unarmed, preferring to leave the risking, as well as the shedding, of blood to others. He shoved the dude out of his chair, and leaned in to confront Dean.
"Listen now, Mr Kansas law dog," he said. "Law don't go around here, savvy?"
"I'm retired," Dean said, without even looking up.
"Good. That's real good," said Yellow Eyes, more sober than either of the others, and looking to scope out the territory before making a move.
"Yeah, that's real good, law dog," Zac repeated, "'cause law just don't go around here."
"Yeah, I heard you the first time," Dean muttered, dealing the next hand.
"And you must be Sam Campbell." Ringo turned to Sam.
"That's the rumour," Sam agreed. "You must be Alastair."
Ringo bristled at the hated name. "You retired too?" he demanded.
"Not me," Sam smirked. "I'm in my prime."
"You look it," Ringo sneered. He looked Sam up and down, eyes lingering on his expensive silk shirt, flamboyant waistcoat and well cut jacket. "You know what I heard?"
"What's that, my friend?" Sam asked, always your man when provocation was in the offing and a light hand needed. "That I can recommend a good tailor? You do seem in need of one."
Ringo bristled and pulled himself up to his full height, chagrined to find Sam still had a good inch on him.
"I heard you've got consumption," he sneered, "and came out here to die."
Dean's hand twitched, knocking over a pile of chips. Sam didn't bat an eyelid.
"What an ugly thing to say, Alastair," he demurred. "I abhor ugliness. Does this mean we're not friends anymore? You know, if I thought you weren't my friend, I just don't think I could bear it." He smiled grimly. "Then again. I've always said that when it comes to friends it's quality more than quantity that counts."
Zac looked like he wanted to say something more, but Yellow Eyes shoved him back, and took Ringo by the arm too. "Nice to meet you all, boys," he said, real cheerfully.
"I'll see you again, Campbell," Ringo called back as he was pulled away from the table.
"Alastair," Sam called after him, "if you're not careful you'll see me once too often."
There was trouble on the home front too. After six months, the mines they'd invested in were split about 50-50 between those that were producing, and those that were-
"Useless," Ellen said sharply.
"Not producing," Bobby said more diplomatically.
"So, all told," Dean went on, "we've got about ten thousand dollars between us. We have to decide what to do next."
"Why don't we just split it up and everybody do what they like?" Ellen asked.
Dean carried on as if he hadn't heard her, still poring over their accounts. "What we've gotta decide is how to invest it."
Ellen shouted at him. "Don't you ignore me, Dean! If anybody voted you king of this family I didn't hear about it. You dragged us all down here with a lot of talk about owning businesses and getting rich, and now here you are, a bunch of bartenders and dealers just like before."
"Things haven't worked out exactly like we planned," Bobby said peaceably, "but it's no one's fault. And we didn't all come out here to split up stakes."
Adam agreed. "We're trying to stick together and build something."
Ellen turned on her husband. "Why? Why does it always have to be the brothers? The brothers, together. Why can't it just be you and me, Bobby?"
Her words fell into a stony silence, and she glanced around the room, at Lou staring at the floor, and Bela looking out the window, pretending not to care, Ruby as usual conspicuous by her absence.
"Well, they're all afraid to say anything," she went on, "but they're all thinking the same thing as me. We are your wives, don't we ever count more than the damn brothers?"
Dean looked her right in the eye before speaking the truth as he saw it. "No, Ellen," he said, "you don't. Wives come and go, that's the plain truth of it. They run off. They die."
Bela ran out of the room, crying.
Ellen followed, calling back over her shoulder, "You're a cold man, Dean Winchester. God forgive you, you are cold."
Dean and Bela fought that night. It was nothing new, lately it seemed like they fought every night. Making up wasn't as much fun as it used to be, either. Bela was sewing buttons on one of Dean's shirts, her one concession to domesticity, while Dean was washing up in the adjoining dressing room. He rummaged in the dresser for a clean towel, and when he yanked open the bottom drawer too hard a pile of small brown bottles clattered out onto the floor. Laudanum bottles, all empty.
"What the hell is this?" he demanded, stepping out into the main room, a bottle in each hand.
Bela barely looked up, kept sewing. "It's for my headaches," she said shortly.
"This much?" Dean asked, incredulous. "Where the hell did you get it? Not from Doctor Winter."
"Chinatown," Bela said. "You can get anything there."
"You went to Chinatown by yourself?" Dean demanded, incredulous.
"Well, it's not like you'd come with me," Bela snapped. "I never see you anymore; you never spend any time with me. You're always with your precious Sam."
"Don't start," Dean warned, feeling the last of his grip on his temper fraying.
"I need it, Dean," Bela insisted, close to tears.
"Well, at least you admit it."
"Admit what?" Bela shouted, rising to her feet. "That I'm an opium fiend? No, Dean, I just said I need it. I need something to get me through the day."
"Look, Bela, I know you're-"
"You know nothing. What you don't know would fill a book. Jesus, I miss you so much when you're not around, but then I feel like it's when you are around I need it the most. We used to have fun together, what the hell happened? You used to love me didn't you, just a little bit?"
"Bela…" Dean sighed
"I've been thinking about it," Bela said, visibly calming herself. "And I know what I want. Let's have children, Dean. You're always taking about family. Well, let's have children, a family of our own. Our children, yours and mine. Before I'm too old for it. Before I dry up inside. It's starting, I can feel it."
"Children aren't part of the bargain, Bela," Dean said. "They never were."
"Then leave me my medicine, and go do whatever the hell you want."
It turned out Pete Sheridan wasn't the only one who thought the Winchesters ought to be taking an interest in the legal side of things. Charles Shurley, newly elected mayor of Tombstone, editor-in-chief of the Epitaph, and chairman of the local vigilance committee, visited several times to implore their help, but while Dean grew to consider him a friend, he was adamant in his resolve.
"I've had it with being a lawman, Mr Shurley," he insisted. "I'm sick of being famous."
Things really came to a pass when Shurley tried the old divide and conquer route too, as so many had done before him.
"Now hold on, sir. My brother already told you no," Adam said, loyal as ever, when he came round bothering them when they were playing billiards together at the Alhambra. God forbid anyone got a night off around here in any sort of peace.
"You tell 'im, Adam," Dean endorsed, racking the balls and lining up a shot.
Shurley was not dismayed. "Well, what about you?" he demanded, pointing at Bobby. "You were a law man. I've heard nothing but good about your time in Wichita."
"I'm busy," Bobby said, to the point as always. "We're all busy."
But the fact was, if you looked real close at him, he looked uneasy, and it all went to hell when he stepped out into the street later and saw Widow Jeffers with her cut up face and and her four starveling orphans trailing her skirts, and all the other neer-do-wells that littered the streets of Tombstone, too dumb, or too beaten down, to know when they ought to leave, or just lay down and die. And it only got worse as he walked around. A small shack at the edge of town saw a sobbing woman standing in the street, a lost look on her face, while her eldest child, couldn't have been more than ten, tried to comfort her, the younger kids standing around them, watching in stunned silence as heavies hired by the landlord tossed their furniture and belongings out into the street. There was still no marshal, and as expected, Sheridan did nothing to interfere with anyone who might take exception.
When Dean got up the next day there was an ordnance posted, banning the wearing or carrying of firearms within the town limits, and it was signed Robert Singer Winchester, Marshal.
"God damn it," Dean shouted, kicking his way into the saloon where Bobby was having breakfast. "What in the god damn hell are you doing? I told you we weren't getting involved."
"You got us involved when you brought us here," Bobby said, and kept eating his eggs and not meeting Dean's eye.
"Now, you hold on a minute, Bobby," Dean snapped.
"Hold on nothing!" Bobby shouted, standing up and pushing his plate away. "I walk around this town and look these people in the eye and it's just like someone slapping me in the face. These people are afraid to walk down the street and I'm trying to make money off that like some kind of god damn vulture. If we're gonna have a future in this town it's gotta have some law and order."
"Don't do this to me," Dean pleaded.
"It's nothing to do with you," Bobby countered.
"Nothing to do with me?" Dean shouted. "I'm your brother for God's sake." He turned to Adam in desperation. "Talk to him will you?"
Adam looked sheepish, and ran a finger round the collar of his shirt.
"Aw, god, don't tell me," Dean moaned.
Adam pulled back the lapel of his jacket to show the tin badge underneath. "It's like you always said, Dean," he said quietly. "We're brothers. You gotta back your brother's play. I ain't home with Ma this time, and I ain't gonna sit around while my brothers take all the risks. I just did like I figured you would."
Dean took a firm hold of his temper. Adam was the baby of the family, and Dean felt more than responsible for him.
"You've never been to war," he said earnestly. "You've never killed anyone, Adam, and I can't tell you what that's worth. Truth is, you won't know till it's gone. I sure didn't. We went off to the war, Bobby and me, I was younger than you then, lied about my age to get them to take me, and I thought it'd all be some big fuckin' adventure, but I was wrong. It was just blood and death and flies, and men torn apart screaming for their mothers."
"This ain't a war though, Dean. It's just a few rowdies."
"Yeah," Dean agreed. "But here's the thing, Adam. I know you admire me. Hell, I guess I've encouraged you. But listen to me when I say. There is always a man faster on the draw than you are. And the more you use a gun, the sooner you're gonna run into that man. All gunfighters are lonely. They live alone and they die alone. I don't want that life no more, and you sure as hell don't. We finally got a chance to stop wandering, be a real family. I can't believe you're going to throw that away for this."
"Man's gotta believe in something," Adam said, shaking his head, and followed Bobby out.
Unbeknownst to decent folks, Ruby and Sam fought a lot too. It wasn't that he didn't care. He was genuinely grateful to her, and they had a fair bit in common, disappointments early in life that'd festered, turned mean, made them both harder than they would have been otherwise. She'd travelled some hard roads with him, and he did appreciate it, but now that those roads had come to an end there was less to hold them together. She was finding it harder to adjust to settling than he was, which neither of them had seen coming, though it was no easy thing for him either.
It'd been a long time since he'd tried to rein his temper in, and it was wearing on him, being civil all the time, turning the other cheek. There was nothing else for it, if you wanted to stay in town you couldn't be so quick to fly off the handle, and folks were beginning to notice that the infamous Campbell temper was missing, that the show they'd expected and been waiting for since he breezed into town had not eventuated. It wasn't so bad with the townsfolk, ordinary people going about their business, and glad for the most part to avoid bloodshed in the streets, but the cowboys too had begun to realise that Sam was holding back, that whatever strange friendship he had with the Winchesters it acted as a leash of sorts. It wasn't going to be long before someone commented on it, and then no promise on earth was going to hold Sam back.
His frustration came out in their arguments, all the politeness and patience he had to expend dealing with the townsfolk, the happy face he put on for Dean, evaporating like so much smoke.
"Why you gotta be so mean?" she would ask. "You ain’t no better than me."
"That’s debatable," he'd counter, when the spirits were high. They both drank more than they should, and she took a perverse delight in smuggling fresh bottles, and cases of cigarettes, upstairs, even after Dean had ordered the bartenders to cut him off. The thought of Dean being so high-handed just made him madder, and more inclined to go along with her, even though the doctors back in Abilene had been unanimous in their insistence he should give up both vices.
It was a fairly bitter irony, then, when she started harping on it too.
"Your concern over my health touches me deeply," he snapped when she insisted on fetching a doctor for a minor coughing fit. Dean had been jumpy as hell since Ringo's comment, though he'd been willing, thus far, to leave well enough alone, but his forbearance wouldn't last forever and Sam was waiting for the storm to break. The last thing he needed was some damn sawbones coming up to his room and setting Dean off.
"I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you," she said, trying for sweet and missing by half a mile.
"You’d lose your meal ticket, wouldn’t you?" he said, just sick of the whole pretence.
When she started making eyes at Al Ringo things came to a head. It wasn't easy to tell if she genuinely liked him, or if she was trying to make Sam jealous, or if she had some long term plan he hadn't figured out yet. Ruby always had a plan, and it usually benefitted Ruby. Ringo's motives were also a mystery, but it was clear to Sam that he was playing a long game, and biding his time.
Sam wasn't entirely proud of the way his life had turned out, and he was aware enough of his own actions that he could see the maudlin hypocrisy in resenting Bela with every fibre of his being, and continuing to share a room, if less often a bed, with Ruby. He was still taken aback the night he came upstairs, more than half drunk and considerably riled after a confrontation in the street that had been settled, but only just, with stern words from Dean, and the threat of his own hand on his gun, to find her packing, it being high time, to her way of thinking, they moved on to greener pastures elsewhere.
"I promised Dean I'd stay," he said simply, as though that settled things, which really it did.
"Dean!" she shouted, and it immediately became apparent he'd misjudged her mood, her seriousness, a mistake he didn't often make, and couldn't afford, in his line of work. "Why is it always Dean? Why is he so god damned all fired important? I’m your woman. I do things for you he never could. Why don't you take me into account, not him?"
Sam just looked at her, because when it came right down to it he didn't have an answer.
"Unless that ain't true," she continued, a wicked smile spreading across her pretty face.
"Ruby," he said, wishing she'd get to the point.
"I mean, I remember when we all met up the first time, back in Fort Griffin. You both seemed a mite more interested in each other than you did in me."
It was a shock he felt in his chest, and he could blame the liquor, but it really wasn't that that had him so unprepared for her to turn on him. "Ruby," he said again, trying to sound threatening but not really pulling it off. She knew him too well.
She licked her lips, and grinned at him. "It was a hell of a ride, Sam, one of the best, and truly I'd'a done it for free, two good looking boys like you. But I wasn't so sound asleep come mornin' as you thought. And you ain't never kissed me, in all the years since, the way you kissed him in my bed."
Dean had high-tailed it all the way out of Texas that afternoon, deciding it was just that urgent he apprehend Arkansas Dave Rudabaugh, who was a miscreant to be sure but hadn't crossed him personally, and they hadn't set foot in the same state again for six months, at which point Dean had done his best sanctimonious prig impression, berating Sam for taking up with whores full time. This stunning piece of hypocrisy led to a knock down, drag out brawl, culminating in the destruction of a bridal suite while Ruby watched from the bed, amused, and Dean doing what he'd sworn he never would, echoing John Winchester's words and telling Sam to leave and not come back.
"He gonna let you ride him this time?" Ruby asked. "Or is he still playing the virgin at the church social?"
His hand flew out before he really had time to think about it, caught her full in the face. It was something he'd never done before, and he regretted it as soon as he'd done it. None of this was her fault, not really. Certainly not enough to make him the kind of man who'd beat a woman over it. He'd seen plenty of those in the saloons and bars, and to his mind they were worse than gunfighters. Worse than cowboys.
She was still smiling when she wiped the blood from her mouth, picked up her bags, and walked out of the room and down the hall.
The Angels were riding the Winchesters hard, had been all summer, and Zac especially, who seemed to take a perverse delight in taunting Dean over every little thing. Bobby was Marshal, as he'd pointed out numerous times, and Dean only a deputy, same as Adam, and least interested of all of them in policing the typical infractions of a long, hot night, but Zac had a special knack of making every single fight that broke out, on the street or in the saloon, personal.
One night he stepped up, full of piss and vinegar. Dean had just arrested Raph Clanton, the youngest of the brothers, and was hauling him off to jail to cool down. All told it was a fair and equitable outcome, a lump on the head from the butt of Dean's gun and a night in the calaboose, about right for roughing up a hostess for not extending credit after he'd spent all his money on whiskey. Zac walked right up to Dean in the street, Mike and Uriel at his shoulders, and suggested not so politely that he might oughta let Raph go. Bobby and Adam were still breaking up the brawl inside, but the Angels were trickling out onto the street. Dean was a good shot, but six to one was rough odds on anyone.
Without hesitation Dean flicked his Colt back up, and pointed it right at Zac's head, cocking it and staring straight into his eyes. The other Angels hushed their noise, and Zac froze.
"You die first, you son of a bitch," Dean said coldly. "You understand me? The others might get me in a rush, but before that I'm gonna send you straight to hell."
Zac stood stock still. Uriel stepped forward, undaunted, the thrill of the confrontation still on him. "He's bluffin'!" he said. "Let's rush him!"
Dean had always known he'd die alone. The Angels were moving, hands on guns, waiting for the signal. He'd take a few with him, and Zac for sure.
A voice rang out from the shadows on the other side of the street. "And you, you simpleton, you're next."
The movement stilled. Sam emerged from the Crystal Palace, one of his Peacemakers trained on Uriel. He stood opposite Dean, swaying gently on his heels but focused.
Uriel sneered, "Hell, he can't hit nothin'. He's so damn drunk he's probably seein' double."
Sam pulled his other gun with his left hand, just as smooth as he generally was with his right. It, too, he pointed at Uriel's chest. "I have two guns," he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "One for each of you."
Uriel paused, chastened. Zac was still frozen in Dean's sights. The rest of the boys turned to face Bobby and Adam as they shoved their way through the growing crowd, shotguns cocked and aimed.
"All right," Bobby said. "Break it up. Go home, all of you, go home now."
The crowd dispersed, but no one went home. Sam looked to Dean, but Dean shook his head, gave Raph, who was coming round, another crack for good measure, and dragged him off to the cells. Sam went upstairs to his room, thinking an early night was probably in order.
Zac and the others were at the jailhouse bright and early next morning, to pay Raph's fine and bail him out.
"Your day’s coming," he insisted, as Dean handed his brother's gunbelt back to him.
"Why not make it today?" Sam demanded, before Dean had a chance to respond. He hadn't slept at all after Ruby left, coming back down to the saloon for a rare coffee and a plate of sandwiches that did nothing to fill the gnawing hole in his belly. He'd wandered the streets till first light, pondering, then headed over to join Dean at the jail. "I can't speak for everyone," he went on, "but personally I am sick to death of all this empty talk. If you want to make a fight with us, why not get it over with, right now?"
"You’re first on my list, Doctor Campbell," said Ringo. "You spend the rest of your time from now on waiting to see me."
"Seeing you would be a nice change, Alastair," Sam sneered. "I understand most of your enemies got it in the back."
Adam laughed from the street where he was carrying over a tray of breakfast for Dean. "I think we oughta just kill ’em all," he said.
The Angels glared, and mounted up, rode out.
Sam waited till they were out of earshot, then smiled. "You know, Adam," he said, "I believe you may be my favourite brother after all."
Adam beamed, clearly delighted. Sam was a bad influence on him, and no mistake.
Dean glared, but said nothing. They'd already said all there was to say about the rights and wrongs of Adam following in their footsteps, and Adam was leaning towards taking Sam's part, partly because he was a Winchester, and Winchester men were as perverse as they were stubborn, him no exception, and partly because Sam actually thought of and treated him as an adult, never having known him as a child.
"This ain't gonna end well," was all Dean said. "Watch your backs."
Part IV
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.)
Dean headed out early the next morning, keeping a sedate pace till he hit open country, then giving Impala his head. He hated keeping the stallion in town, and days like this when he felt edgy and cooped up himself, kept on too short a lead rope, he wished they could both be free, riding towards the ever vanishing horizon the way they used to. Sometimes he still thought, if only he could take Sam with him, that would be the most perfect life there was, just the two of them riding ever onwards, only stopping when they needed to rest, or lay in supplies. The fresh air and the feel of Impala beneath him helped him to calm, clear his head, as they always did, and by the time he got back to the outskirts of town he knew that wasn't really what he wanted. He'd made a choice to build something, and that was what he was going to do.
The others were all at Bobby's when he rode in, all except Sam who was no doubt still asleep, he'd never been an early riser. Bobby smiled and waved. Dean could just hear him, as he leaned in to hug Ellen. "Look at him go, will ya?" he murmured in her ear. "I tell you, that's the real Dean, born in the saddle."
"Oh, he can go all right," Bela agreed, a wicked smile on her face.
"Can he then?" Ellen asked, amused. There was no sense bickering if they were going to be out here together for God knew how long, and Bela was better company than poor sweet Lou, for all her airs and graces.
"Rather ride than eat," Bela affirmed.
The older women hooted with laughter, and even more so at Lou's obvious embarrassment. Bobby groaned to his wife, "Try to be a lady, will you?"
"I will not," Ellen replied with a broad smile. "And Dean ain't the only one in a mood to go riding, husband of mine. Be sure to get on home early tonight."
It was a damn fool who said no to a woman like Ellen when she got that look in her eye, and Bobby Winchester was no fool.
Bela smiled, and raised her head for a kiss when Dean leaned over Impala's neck towards her. She'd been none too happy at being abandoned the night before, but among the many things she knew that innocents like Louisa Winchester didn't, was the fact that angry sex was as good as any other kind, and sometimes better.
Life settled pretty quickly into a routine, Bobby tending bar over at the Crystal Palace, which had been only too glad to get one of the Winchesters on the payroll when the owners saw what Dean's presence had done for the Oriental. They figured, rightly, that Bobby wouldn't stand for any trouble, and sure enough the saloon there went from one of the rowdiest in town to one of the tidiest in just a few months. It was still a great place to stop for a drink or a meal, and Ellen was a hell of a hostess, and it wasn't long before they were putting their savings into buying out a half share in the business. Joshua and Jacob paid their fines for breach of the peace, and were allowed back in on promise of good behaviour, trading war stories and helping make the place feel like home.
Adam learnt to deal faro, and traded off shifts with Dean at the Oriental, when he wasn't playing billiards at the Alhambra, his new passion. He wasn't as fast, or as accurate, as Dean at either, just like he wasn't with a gun, but he was good enough. Folks commented on the family resemblance real regular, sometimes meaning well by it, sometimes not. Those who were trying to get a rise soon discovered, to their cost, that he had Sam's temper, not that they knew to make the connection, rather than Dean's calm, cool demeanour, and he got into more than a few fights. Usually bare knuckle brawls, and for the most part he was sober enough to step outside, rather than wrecking whatever place he was in, but a few gunfights in the main street as well. He'd winged Gabe Stevens in the shoulder, and put Jim Crowley's shooting and roping hand out of commission for a month of no pay, but he'd so far managed not to kill anyone. The infamous Doc Campbell standing like a baleful spectre at the edge of everyone's peripheral vision might have had something to do with people's willingness to walk away, agreeing no harm done.
Sam himself took a room at the Oriental, down the hall from Dean's, where he slept till well after noon each day, the housekeepers and laundresses under strict instruction to leave his room till last, and not to approach nor make a sound till he'd been seen downstairs, ordering his breakfast libation in the bar. He spent his afternoons drinking and scoping out the newly arrived talent, his evenings with Dean, either sharing a quiet meal or watching him deal at the tables, and his nights playing for high stakes, draw or stud, whatever the mark preferred. He never lost, and had been known to still be playing when the sun came up, subsisting on Kentucky bourbon and his fancy Eastern cigarettes, at which point Dean, freshly washed and ready to start his day, would forcibly remove him from the table and drag him upstairs to bed.
Sam's arrival in town had been a nine days' wonder, briefly eclipsing that of the Winchesters. His name was whispered in hushed tones to those that didn't recognise him, and tall tales told of the number of men he'd killed, his speed at the draw and his skill with a knife, whether in hand or thrown. Folks seemed to love the fact he'd been a lawyer best, perhaps because he was so unlike any of the pasty, anaemic men who'd arrived on the train from back East, had one run-in with the cattle barons or the railroad, and turned tail and fled back to where they'd come from, barely stopping to pack their books. Tombstone hadn't managed to keep one yet, and it seemed a great joke that the most feared man in town could spout Latin or Greek or even some French with the best of them, but was just as happy to lapse into honest English profanity when the moment called for it. He hadn't killed anyone yet, keeping his promise, but he hadn't needed to, folks kept their distance just fine.
It couldn't last, of course. Inevitably one Friday, end of the month, a bunch of cowboys came riding into town, and it was obvious they were looking for trouble. It was the usual story, every man his own hero, liquored up and popular on payday, dressed to the nines and seeking to impress. Saloon girls, each other, it didn't matter. And with them came the Angels, so named for the winged brand used on the massive Clanton spread, better known as Heaven, the biggest and wealthiest ranching outfit in the territory. They'd been on a long drive, all the way through Texas and New Mexico, stopped for a time in Old Mexico, and hadn't been through town since the Winchesters arrived. They weren't too impressed by the changes they found waiting for them.
Zachariah, the oldest of the Clanton boys, was nominally in charge in the Old Man's absence, but he was all talk - full of bluster and a mean, petty drunk. His brothers, Raphael, Uriel and Michael, all named for characters out of the bible, each stupider and more venal than the next, but knowing they had strength in numbers, and coasting on their powerful father's reputation in the territory. The worst of the hired hands were with them, veritable demons on horseback, Yellow Eyes Bill Brocius, the foreman, and the enforcer Al Ringo. Ringo had no real loyalty to the Angels, except for the fact they paid his wages, but he liked to think of himself as the best gun alive, and was none too pleased at the thought of a rival. Yellow Eyes had his own plans, probably to wrest control of the outfit from Zachariah once the Old Man went to his eternal reward, but he was biding his time. No one wanted another range war.
The saloon at the Oriental was packed when they swaggered in. The younger boys had peeled off one by one, to find a girl or a drink or an easier game, but Zac and Yellow Eyes and Ringo were keen to scope out the competition. Dean sat against the back wall, dealing faro with Sam at his side, Adam on lookout while a nervy, over committed high roller made bets, gulping at his whiskey and shooting glances over his shoulder as if he thought he was Wild Bill Hickok himself, just waiting to get shot in the back.
Ringo was prominently armed, pair of pearl handled revolvers thrust cross-style into his red sash, and blatantly spoiling for a fight, but Dean was having none of it, not even looking up. Adam had a hand on his gun, and was ready for trouble.
Zac was unarmed, preferring to leave the risking, as well as the shedding, of blood to others. He shoved the dude out of his chair, and leaned in to confront Dean.
"Listen now, Mr Kansas law dog," he said. "Law don't go around here, savvy?"
"I'm retired," Dean said, without even looking up.
"Good. That's real good," said Yellow Eyes, more sober than either of the others, and looking to scope out the territory before making a move.
"Yeah, that's real good, law dog," Zac repeated, "'cause law just don't go around here."
"Yeah, I heard you the first time," Dean muttered, dealing the next hand.
"And you must be Sam Campbell." Ringo turned to Sam.
"That's the rumour," Sam agreed. "You must be Alastair."
Ringo bristled at the hated name. "You retired too?" he demanded.
"Not me," Sam smirked. "I'm in my prime."
"You look it," Ringo sneered. He looked Sam up and down, eyes lingering on his expensive silk shirt, flamboyant waistcoat and well cut jacket. "You know what I heard?"
"What's that, my friend?" Sam asked, always your man when provocation was in the offing and a light hand needed. "That I can recommend a good tailor? You do seem in need of one."
Ringo bristled and pulled himself up to his full height, chagrined to find Sam still had a good inch on him.
"I heard you've got consumption," he sneered, "and came out here to die."
Dean's hand twitched, knocking over a pile of chips. Sam didn't bat an eyelid.
"What an ugly thing to say, Alastair," he demurred. "I abhor ugliness. Does this mean we're not friends anymore? You know, if I thought you weren't my friend, I just don't think I could bear it." He smiled grimly. "Then again. I've always said that when it comes to friends it's quality more than quantity that counts."
Zac looked like he wanted to say something more, but Yellow Eyes shoved him back, and took Ringo by the arm too. "Nice to meet you all, boys," he said, real cheerfully.
"I'll see you again, Campbell," Ringo called back as he was pulled away from the table.
"Alastair," Sam called after him, "if you're not careful you'll see me once too often."
There was trouble on the home front too. After six months, the mines they'd invested in were split about 50-50 between those that were producing, and those that were-
"Useless," Ellen said sharply.
"Not producing," Bobby said more diplomatically.
"So, all told," Dean went on, "we've got about ten thousand dollars between us. We have to decide what to do next."
"Why don't we just split it up and everybody do what they like?" Ellen asked.
Dean carried on as if he hadn't heard her, still poring over their accounts. "What we've gotta decide is how to invest it."
Ellen shouted at him. "Don't you ignore me, Dean! If anybody voted you king of this family I didn't hear about it. You dragged us all down here with a lot of talk about owning businesses and getting rich, and now here you are, a bunch of bartenders and dealers just like before."
"Things haven't worked out exactly like we planned," Bobby said peaceably, "but it's no one's fault. And we didn't all come out here to split up stakes."
Adam agreed. "We're trying to stick together and build something."
Ellen turned on her husband. "Why? Why does it always have to be the brothers? The brothers, together. Why can't it just be you and me, Bobby?"
Her words fell into a stony silence, and she glanced around the room, at Lou staring at the floor, and Bela looking out the window, pretending not to care, Ruby as usual conspicuous by her absence.
"Well, they're all afraid to say anything," she went on, "but they're all thinking the same thing as me. We are your wives, don't we ever count more than the damn brothers?"
Dean looked her right in the eye before speaking the truth as he saw it. "No, Ellen," he said, "you don't. Wives come and go, that's the plain truth of it. They run off. They die."
Bela ran out of the room, crying.
Ellen followed, calling back over her shoulder, "You're a cold man, Dean Winchester. God forgive you, you are cold."
Dean and Bela fought that night. It was nothing new, lately it seemed like they fought every night. Making up wasn't as much fun as it used to be, either. Bela was sewing buttons on one of Dean's shirts, her one concession to domesticity, while Dean was washing up in the adjoining dressing room. He rummaged in the dresser for a clean towel, and when he yanked open the bottom drawer too hard a pile of small brown bottles clattered out onto the floor. Laudanum bottles, all empty.
"What the hell is this?" he demanded, stepping out into the main room, a bottle in each hand.
Bela barely looked up, kept sewing. "It's for my headaches," she said shortly.
"This much?" Dean asked, incredulous. "Where the hell did you get it? Not from Doctor Winter."
"Chinatown," Bela said. "You can get anything there."
"You went to Chinatown by yourself?" Dean demanded, incredulous.
"Well, it's not like you'd come with me," Bela snapped. "I never see you anymore; you never spend any time with me. You're always with your precious Sam."
"Don't start," Dean warned, feeling the last of his grip on his temper fraying.
"I need it, Dean," Bela insisted, close to tears.
"Well, at least you admit it."
"Admit what?" Bela shouted, rising to her feet. "That I'm an opium fiend? No, Dean, I just said I need it. I need something to get me through the day."
"Look, Bela, I know you're-"
"You know nothing. What you don't know would fill a book. Jesus, I miss you so much when you're not around, but then I feel like it's when you are around I need it the most. We used to have fun together, what the hell happened? You used to love me didn't you, just a little bit?"
"Bela…" Dean sighed
"I've been thinking about it," Bela said, visibly calming herself. "And I know what I want. Let's have children, Dean. You're always taking about family. Well, let's have children, a family of our own. Our children, yours and mine. Before I'm too old for it. Before I dry up inside. It's starting, I can feel it."
"Children aren't part of the bargain, Bela," Dean said. "They never were."
"Then leave me my medicine, and go do whatever the hell you want."
It turned out Pete Sheridan wasn't the only one who thought the Winchesters ought to be taking an interest in the legal side of things. Charles Shurley, newly elected mayor of Tombstone, editor-in-chief of the Epitaph, and chairman of the local vigilance committee, visited several times to implore their help, but while Dean grew to consider him a friend, he was adamant in his resolve.
"I've had it with being a lawman, Mr Shurley," he insisted. "I'm sick of being famous."
Things really came to a pass when Shurley tried the old divide and conquer route too, as so many had done before him.
"Now hold on, sir. My brother already told you no," Adam said, loyal as ever, when he came round bothering them when they were playing billiards together at the Alhambra. God forbid anyone got a night off around here in any sort of peace.
"You tell 'im, Adam," Dean endorsed, racking the balls and lining up a shot.
Shurley was not dismayed. "Well, what about you?" he demanded, pointing at Bobby. "You were a law man. I've heard nothing but good about your time in Wichita."
"I'm busy," Bobby said, to the point as always. "We're all busy."
But the fact was, if you looked real close at him, he looked uneasy, and it all went to hell when he stepped out into the street later and saw Widow Jeffers with her cut up face and and her four starveling orphans trailing her skirts, and all the other neer-do-wells that littered the streets of Tombstone, too dumb, or too beaten down, to know when they ought to leave, or just lay down and die. And it only got worse as he walked around. A small shack at the edge of town saw a sobbing woman standing in the street, a lost look on her face, while her eldest child, couldn't have been more than ten, tried to comfort her, the younger kids standing around them, watching in stunned silence as heavies hired by the landlord tossed their furniture and belongings out into the street. There was still no marshal, and as expected, Sheridan did nothing to interfere with anyone who might take exception.
When Dean got up the next day there was an ordnance posted, banning the wearing or carrying of firearms within the town limits, and it was signed Robert Singer Winchester, Marshal.
"God damn it," Dean shouted, kicking his way into the saloon where Bobby was having breakfast. "What in the god damn hell are you doing? I told you we weren't getting involved."
"You got us involved when you brought us here," Bobby said, and kept eating his eggs and not meeting Dean's eye.
"Now, you hold on a minute, Bobby," Dean snapped.
"Hold on nothing!" Bobby shouted, standing up and pushing his plate away. "I walk around this town and look these people in the eye and it's just like someone slapping me in the face. These people are afraid to walk down the street and I'm trying to make money off that like some kind of god damn vulture. If we're gonna have a future in this town it's gotta have some law and order."
"Don't do this to me," Dean pleaded.
"It's nothing to do with you," Bobby countered.
"Nothing to do with me?" Dean shouted. "I'm your brother for God's sake." He turned to Adam in desperation. "Talk to him will you?"
Adam looked sheepish, and ran a finger round the collar of his shirt.
"Aw, god, don't tell me," Dean moaned.
Adam pulled back the lapel of his jacket to show the tin badge underneath. "It's like you always said, Dean," he said quietly. "We're brothers. You gotta back your brother's play. I ain't home with Ma this time, and I ain't gonna sit around while my brothers take all the risks. I just did like I figured you would."
Dean took a firm hold of his temper. Adam was the baby of the family, and Dean felt more than responsible for him.
"You've never been to war," he said earnestly. "You've never killed anyone, Adam, and I can't tell you what that's worth. Truth is, you won't know till it's gone. I sure didn't. We went off to the war, Bobby and me, I was younger than you then, lied about my age to get them to take me, and I thought it'd all be some big fuckin' adventure, but I was wrong. It was just blood and death and flies, and men torn apart screaming for their mothers."
"This ain't a war though, Dean. It's just a few rowdies."
"Yeah," Dean agreed. "But here's the thing, Adam. I know you admire me. Hell, I guess I've encouraged you. But listen to me when I say. There is always a man faster on the draw than you are. And the more you use a gun, the sooner you're gonna run into that man. All gunfighters are lonely. They live alone and they die alone. I don't want that life no more, and you sure as hell don't. We finally got a chance to stop wandering, be a real family. I can't believe you're going to throw that away for this."
"Man's gotta believe in something," Adam said, shaking his head, and followed Bobby out.
Unbeknownst to decent folks, Ruby and Sam fought a lot too. It wasn't that he didn't care. He was genuinely grateful to her, and they had a fair bit in common, disappointments early in life that'd festered, turned mean, made them both harder than they would have been otherwise. She'd travelled some hard roads with him, and he did appreciate it, but now that those roads had come to an end there was less to hold them together. She was finding it harder to adjust to settling than he was, which neither of them had seen coming, though it was no easy thing for him either.
It'd been a long time since he'd tried to rein his temper in, and it was wearing on him, being civil all the time, turning the other cheek. There was nothing else for it, if you wanted to stay in town you couldn't be so quick to fly off the handle, and folks were beginning to notice that the infamous Campbell temper was missing, that the show they'd expected and been waiting for since he breezed into town had not eventuated. It wasn't so bad with the townsfolk, ordinary people going about their business, and glad for the most part to avoid bloodshed in the streets, but the cowboys too had begun to realise that Sam was holding back, that whatever strange friendship he had with the Winchesters it acted as a leash of sorts. It wasn't going to be long before someone commented on it, and then no promise on earth was going to hold Sam back.
His frustration came out in their arguments, all the politeness and patience he had to expend dealing with the townsfolk, the happy face he put on for Dean, evaporating like so much smoke.
"Why you gotta be so mean?" she would ask. "You ain’t no better than me."
"That’s debatable," he'd counter, when the spirits were high. They both drank more than they should, and she took a perverse delight in smuggling fresh bottles, and cases of cigarettes, upstairs, even after Dean had ordered the bartenders to cut him off. The thought of Dean being so high-handed just made him madder, and more inclined to go along with her, even though the doctors back in Abilene had been unanimous in their insistence he should give up both vices.
It was a fairly bitter irony, then, when she started harping on it too.
"Your concern over my health touches me deeply," he snapped when she insisted on fetching a doctor for a minor coughing fit. Dean had been jumpy as hell since Ringo's comment, though he'd been willing, thus far, to leave well enough alone, but his forbearance wouldn't last forever and Sam was waiting for the storm to break. The last thing he needed was some damn sawbones coming up to his room and setting Dean off.
"I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you," she said, trying for sweet and missing by half a mile.
"You’d lose your meal ticket, wouldn’t you?" he said, just sick of the whole pretence.
When she started making eyes at Al Ringo things came to a head. It wasn't easy to tell if she genuinely liked him, or if she was trying to make Sam jealous, or if she had some long term plan he hadn't figured out yet. Ruby always had a plan, and it usually benefitted Ruby. Ringo's motives were also a mystery, but it was clear to Sam that he was playing a long game, and biding his time.
Sam wasn't entirely proud of the way his life had turned out, and he was aware enough of his own actions that he could see the maudlin hypocrisy in resenting Bela with every fibre of his being, and continuing to share a room, if less often a bed, with Ruby. He was still taken aback the night he came upstairs, more than half drunk and considerably riled after a confrontation in the street that had been settled, but only just, with stern words from Dean, and the threat of his own hand on his gun, to find her packing, it being high time, to her way of thinking, they moved on to greener pastures elsewhere.
"I promised Dean I'd stay," he said simply, as though that settled things, which really it did.
"Dean!" she shouted, and it immediately became apparent he'd misjudged her mood, her seriousness, a mistake he didn't often make, and couldn't afford, in his line of work. "Why is it always Dean? Why is he so god damned all fired important? I’m your woman. I do things for you he never could. Why don't you take me into account, not him?"
Sam just looked at her, because when it came right down to it he didn't have an answer.
"Unless that ain't true," she continued, a wicked smile spreading across her pretty face.
"Ruby," he said, wishing she'd get to the point.
"I mean, I remember when we all met up the first time, back in Fort Griffin. You both seemed a mite more interested in each other than you did in me."
It was a shock he felt in his chest, and he could blame the liquor, but it really wasn't that that had him so unprepared for her to turn on him. "Ruby," he said again, trying to sound threatening but not really pulling it off. She knew him too well.
She licked her lips, and grinned at him. "It was a hell of a ride, Sam, one of the best, and truly I'd'a done it for free, two good looking boys like you. But I wasn't so sound asleep come mornin' as you thought. And you ain't never kissed me, in all the years since, the way you kissed him in my bed."
Dean had high-tailed it all the way out of Texas that afternoon, deciding it was just that urgent he apprehend Arkansas Dave Rudabaugh, who was a miscreant to be sure but hadn't crossed him personally, and they hadn't set foot in the same state again for six months, at which point Dean had done his best sanctimonious prig impression, berating Sam for taking up with whores full time. This stunning piece of hypocrisy led to a knock down, drag out brawl, culminating in the destruction of a bridal suite while Ruby watched from the bed, amused, and Dean doing what he'd sworn he never would, echoing John Winchester's words and telling Sam to leave and not come back.
"He gonna let you ride him this time?" Ruby asked. "Or is he still playing the virgin at the church social?"
His hand flew out before he really had time to think about it, caught her full in the face. It was something he'd never done before, and he regretted it as soon as he'd done it. None of this was her fault, not really. Certainly not enough to make him the kind of man who'd beat a woman over it. He'd seen plenty of those in the saloons and bars, and to his mind they were worse than gunfighters. Worse than cowboys.
She was still smiling when she wiped the blood from her mouth, picked up her bags, and walked out of the room and down the hall.
The Angels were riding the Winchesters hard, had been all summer, and Zac especially, who seemed to take a perverse delight in taunting Dean over every little thing. Bobby was Marshal, as he'd pointed out numerous times, and Dean only a deputy, same as Adam, and least interested of all of them in policing the typical infractions of a long, hot night, but Zac had a special knack of making every single fight that broke out, on the street or in the saloon, personal.
One night he stepped up, full of piss and vinegar. Dean had just arrested Raph Clanton, the youngest of the brothers, and was hauling him off to jail to cool down. All told it was a fair and equitable outcome, a lump on the head from the butt of Dean's gun and a night in the calaboose, about right for roughing up a hostess for not extending credit after he'd spent all his money on whiskey. Zac walked right up to Dean in the street, Mike and Uriel at his shoulders, and suggested not so politely that he might oughta let Raph go. Bobby and Adam were still breaking up the brawl inside, but the Angels were trickling out onto the street. Dean was a good shot, but six to one was rough odds on anyone.
Without hesitation Dean flicked his Colt back up, and pointed it right at Zac's head, cocking it and staring straight into his eyes. The other Angels hushed their noise, and Zac froze.
"You die first, you son of a bitch," Dean said coldly. "You understand me? The others might get me in a rush, but before that I'm gonna send you straight to hell."
Zac stood stock still. Uriel stepped forward, undaunted, the thrill of the confrontation still on him. "He's bluffin'!" he said. "Let's rush him!"
Dean had always known he'd die alone. The Angels were moving, hands on guns, waiting for the signal. He'd take a few with him, and Zac for sure.
A voice rang out from the shadows on the other side of the street. "And you, you simpleton, you're next."
The movement stilled. Sam emerged from the Crystal Palace, one of his Peacemakers trained on Uriel. He stood opposite Dean, swaying gently on his heels but focused.
Uriel sneered, "Hell, he can't hit nothin'. He's so damn drunk he's probably seein' double."
Sam pulled his other gun with his left hand, just as smooth as he generally was with his right. It, too, he pointed at Uriel's chest. "I have two guns," he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "One for each of you."
Uriel paused, chastened. Zac was still frozen in Dean's sights. The rest of the boys turned to face Bobby and Adam as they shoved their way through the growing crowd, shotguns cocked and aimed.
"All right," Bobby said. "Break it up. Go home, all of you, go home now."
The crowd dispersed, but no one went home. Sam looked to Dean, but Dean shook his head, gave Raph, who was coming round, another crack for good measure, and dragged him off to the cells. Sam went upstairs to his room, thinking an early night was probably in order.
Zac and the others were at the jailhouse bright and early next morning, to pay Raph's fine and bail him out.
"Your day’s coming," he insisted, as Dean handed his brother's gunbelt back to him.
"Why not make it today?" Sam demanded, before Dean had a chance to respond. He hadn't slept at all after Ruby left, coming back down to the saloon for a rare coffee and a plate of sandwiches that did nothing to fill the gnawing hole in his belly. He'd wandered the streets till first light, pondering, then headed over to join Dean at the jail. "I can't speak for everyone," he went on, "but personally I am sick to death of all this empty talk. If you want to make a fight with us, why not get it over with, right now?"
"You’re first on my list, Doctor Campbell," said Ringo. "You spend the rest of your time from now on waiting to see me."
"Seeing you would be a nice change, Alastair," Sam sneered. "I understand most of your enemies got it in the back."
Adam laughed from the street where he was carrying over a tray of breakfast for Dean. "I think we oughta just kill ’em all," he said.
The Angels glared, and mounted up, rode out.
Sam waited till they were out of earshot, then smiled. "You know, Adam," he said, "I believe you may be my favourite brother after all."
Adam beamed, clearly delighted. Sam was a bad influence on him, and no mistake.
Dean glared, but said nothing. They'd already said all there was to say about the rights and wrongs of Adam following in their footsteps, and Adam was leaning towards taking Sam's part, partly because he was a Winchester, and Winchester men were as perverse as they were stubborn, him no exception, and partly because Sam actually thought of and treated him as an adult, never having known him as a child.
"This ain't gonna end well," was all Dean said. "Watch your backs."
Part IV