SPN/J2 BIG BANG: ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST (SAM/DEAN; NC-17) IV
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.)
A couple of days passed, just long enough for folks to start to relax, go off the worry.
On the third day, Dean was sitting in the saloon eating breakfast. Adam was with him, talking nineteen to the dozen about some book he was reading, a spiritualist back east who communed with spirits, and did table rapping sessions, the kind of thing Dean dismissed as so much bunk. Adam was convinced though; Lou had been to see a medium in New York who'd told her she'd marry a tall fair man, and move out west.
"That could be you, or me, or Bobby," Dean laughed. "If Ellen or Bela had been fool enough to go instead. And everywhere's west from New York."
"She ain't a fool," Adam sniffed. "And anyway, that ain't the interesting bit. Madame Blavatsky says that when you die you see a real bright light, and it's the angels coming for you."
"That's the last thing I wanna see," Dean grunted. "The Angels coming for me."
Adam acknowledged that great witticism with a nod. "Seriously though, do you think she's right?"
"I doubt it," Dean said. "Ma used to say angels were watchin' over us, but nobody I ever saw die was smiling."
"I hope it is true," Adam insisted. "It'd be nice, knowing you weren't alone."
"I guess it would," Dean conceded.
He was about to say more, make another, better, joke to lift the suddenly sombre mood, but just then the boy who swept the floors at the mercantile came running in, broom still in hand.
"I'm sorry to bother you, Mr Winchester," he said, awe and excitement and a healthy dose of fear chasing each other across his face. "Mayor Shurley sent me."
"Yeah?"
"The Angels are back," he said in a rush. "They're tellin' everybody in town they're gonna clean you out. There's a bunch of 'em down in that lot right now behind the OK Corral."
Dean sighed, and pushed his plate away.
By the time they got out on the boardwalk, Bobby was walking up to meet them.
"I guess you've heard?" Dean said.
"Yep," Bobby agreed. "Seems Zac’s been up all night drinking, trying to screw up the courage to kill us. The Angels and a few of the Demons came in this morning."
"Where’s Sam?" Dean asked.
"Haven’t seen him," Bobby grunted.
"All right. Let him sleep."
"Is there gonna be a fight, Mister Winchester?" the broom boy asked, excitement winning out.
"I think there must be," Dean replied.
Word spread like wildfire, and folks were spilling out onto the street, gathering in bunches under the shade of the boardwalk, avoiding eye contact, but chattering wildly.
"Just stay calm," Dean insisted. "Keep your heads. It'll be all right."
"Here they are again," Bobby said scornfully, looking at the crowd. "Buncha damn ghouls. Look at 'em."
"Easy, Bobby, they're just tryin' to egg us on. Everyone loves a fight, 'less they're the ones about to get drilled full of lead."
"Well, what the hell are we gonna do?"
"Wait till the liquor wears off. Once they start getting headaches they'll lose interest."
"Dean, they're threatening our lives."
Dean shook his head. "You'll never make that stick."
"They're carrying guns in town."
"That's a misdemeanour."
"They're breakin' the law."
"All right, Bobby," Dean sighed. "You're the Marshal, it's your call."
Sam emerged from the hotel as they passed, clothes rumpled but generally looking pretty good for someone who hadn't been to bed. "Where the hell are you going?" he demanded.
"We’re going down the street," Dean said.
"Think I’ll join you."
"We're going to disarm them and take them in, Sam," Bobby said sternly. "You understand?"
"Oh, I understand perfectly, Marshal," Sam drawled. He tapped Bobby's coach gun. "But do you think they will?"
"Let’s not provoke them," Dean sighed. "Least, not till we’ve had a chance to talk."
"I’ve heard enough talk already," Adam muttered under his breath.
Sam grinned at him. "Let 'em have it? All right."
They started walking down the main thoroughfare, Bobby and Dean in front, Adam and Sam in the rear. The good townsfolk stepped aside, trading whispers as they passed.
Joshua and Jacob were there to see them go as they passed the grocer's.
"There they go," one opined. "Look kinda like preachers."
"Yeah," the other agreed. "I'd say more like undertakers."
The corral came into view and the Winchesters spread out, Bobby to the left, Adam sandwiched between him and Dean, Sam off to Dean's right. The three lawmen looked calm but tense, eyes scanning the street, the windows of the buildings on either side, the shadows between. Sam looked like he always did, alert but relaxed, ambling down the street like he owned it.
"Bobby, you're makin' the arrest," Dean said. "You do the talking; they'll give you a chance they won't give me. Adam'll back you up. I'll keep an eye on both of you; Sam, you keep an eye on me."
"Always," Sam deadpanned.
"Be ready, Sam," Dean insisted, "but you wait for me. Don't you start anything."
Sam gave the barest nod, and shifted his coat so it was hooked behind his holsters on both sides, out of the way. Ready for a fight, and looking it.
Dean sighed and turned his head to the others. "You two be ready, though. And keep your hands on your damn guns. They even look like they're gonna start something, buffalo 'em. Right over the head."
"Dean, I know what I'm doin'," Bobby insisted.
"I know you do," Dean relented. "But I got a bad feeling this time." He cast a baleful eye over the onlookers, and shook his head. "Look at 'em all. They love it. How in the hell'd we get ourselves into this?"
They rounded the corner of the corral and came into view of the lot behind. The cowboys inside glanced around at each other, getting ready. There were six of them, all but Zac visibly armed.
Six to four was decent odds for a fight, but vanishing small for a peaceful resolution. Still, this was it, no turning back now. The cowboys spread out across the lot. It looked like a scene out the Bible, or some dime novel, the six of them in their dusty trail clothes, faded blues and red washed out to pink, bandannas, chaps and all, the Winchesters and Sam in their heavy black coats and white shirts, shiny badges on their lapels, Sam's omnipresent waistcoat the only splash of colour, twenty feet and all the world between them.
Bobby stepped forward, face stern, holding up his empty right hand, the coach gun in his left at his side. "We've come to arrest you," he said. "Throw up your arms!"
A weird moment of stillness, heavy and slow like the air right before a storm, followed, where nobody seemed to know what to do. Then Raph and Uriel Clanton slapped their hands to their guns. The Winchesters tensed up as one, hands on their pistols. Bobby waved his hand, not believing it was going so wrong so fast. "Hold! I don't want that! Hold up!"
Jim Crowley bolted for cover, ducking behind the corral building. Everyone else stood frozen, breaths shallow and fast, pulses pounding, staring straight into the wide open eyes of the man immediately opposite. Then something in Raph's eyes shifted, and Dean groaned as the awful inevitability of it all hit.
Raph and Uriel jerked their pistols and all hell broke loose. Dean drew and fired, knocking Uriel down with a straight shot to the gut. Adam fired next, blowing Raph back against the wall of the house behind the lot. Gabe Stephens darted for cover behind his horse, as Zac dived into Dean's line of fire shrieking like a woman, "No, no, please! I don't have a gun!"
"This fight's commenced," Dean snapped, cold as ice, shoving the coward away from him. "Get to fightin' or get away!"
Zac sprinted for the feed store next door, slamming the door shut behind him and leaning hard against it. Gabe fired over his saddle at Sam who fired into the air with his left, making the horse rear up, exposing Gabe for a split second. It was all he needed to line up the shot, firing again with his right. Gabe's head exploded, a fine spray of red misting through the air, going down hard like a sack of wheat.
Raph shouldered his way back up, using the wall for leverage, and fired without aiming, the bullet hitting Bobby in his bad leg. He dropped to one knee. Raph fired again, dropping Adam with a shot to the shoulder.
"I'm hit," Adam gasped, sinking to his knees, using his left hand to keep his gun arm steady.
Sam stepped out into the fray, firing wildly with both hands, hitting Raph in the chest twice, while Mike leaped into the fight, firing wildly. Bobby got up, firing back. Dean managed to line up a shot but it was off, just grazing Mike's side, still it knocked him off balance which was enough. The air was thick with smoke, the fight spilling out into the street, those still on their feet jockeying for position. Safe inside the feed store, Zac snatched up a pistol and started firing through the window. His aim was awful, but it attracted Sam's attention.
Sam spun on his heel, coat flapping round his legs, dropping the empty gun in his left hand and using it to fan the hammer of the one in his right, rapid firing three or four times, quick as anything, the bullets ripping through the shop front, showering Zac and the rest with splinters and broken glass.
Raph was somehow still firing from his knees, blood pouring out of holes all over him. Mike made it to his feet too, bearing down on Sam through the smoke, as he reloaded. "I got you now, you son of a bitch!" he shouted.
"You're a daisy if you do!" Sam sneered, spreading his arms, giving Mike a clear shot at his chest. Mike fired, but his aim was off, the bullet scraping Sam's hip. Sam laughed, and fired at his chest, even as Adam, firing from his knees, got him in the head.
Mike went down hard, and stayed down. Uriel and Gabe were already dead, Raph was as good as dead, though he didn't seem to know it, more holes in him than a colander, and still clicking his empty gun as he bled out into the dirt.
Dean helped Adam to his feet, leaned him up against a hitching post and patted under his coat with both hands, looking for the wound. The bullet'd gone right through the meat of his shoulder and come out clean, he'd be okay, thank god. Bobby was already up and pacing, best he could with one good leg, coach gun at the ready and looking out for Crowley, but there was no sign of him; he'd ducked out the back and slunk away like the rattler that he was.
Sam had reloaded both guns and was stalking round the lot like Death come down from his horse, glaring at the townsfolk who were approaching from all directions, now that the fighting was done. Zac was walking round too, crying and blustering about how the Winchesters had murdered his brothers in cold blood, and tried their damnedest to kill him too, an innocent, unarmed bystander.
Pete Sheridan strode in too, elbowing his way through the crowd, sheriff's shield prominent on his coat, and hand on his gunbelt. Even so, he stayed well away from Sam, walking up to Dean instead. "All right, all right," he said, reaching out to take his arm. "You're all under arrest."
Dean shook him off, scorn and disbelief plain on his face. "I don't think I'll let you arrest us today, Pete," he said, and turned back to Adam. Behind him Sam cocked both his guns theatrically, and Sheridan slunk away.
"You were right, Dean," Adam whispered, his face ghostly white, blood loss and something more. "It’s not like I thought."
"Hush up," Dean said, passing him off to the doctor who'd come running at the sound of the gunfire, more guts and decency than the rest of the townsfolk. "It don't matter now."
Sam handed him his gun, and Dean holstered it, looking around at the carnage, the broken windows and shot-up walls, the four bodies being loaded onto the undertaker's wagon. Old man Fredericks'd be having a good week of it, if no one else.
He could hear Lou shrieking and crying from the main street, and Ellen trying to convince her that Adam was okay. He glanced over and Bobby nodded at him. Doc'd tied off the wound in his leg, and it'd keep. Mayor Shurley was there to back him up, Ash Joyce and a couple of the guys from the vigilance committee, arguing forcefully with Sheridan and Zac, and it looked okay to leave 'em to it.
"I guess we did our good deed for today," Dean said, resigned.
"They had it coming," Sam said, no doubt about it. "Let's go."
The townsfolk opened like the Red Sea to let them pass; Dean couldn't help wondering if it was him or Sam they were more afraid of. Sam had a spreading blood stain on his satin waistcoat, but Dean was untouched, not a scratch on him, not even from the flying glass, his shirt as pristine as when he'd put it on that morning, what felt like forever ago, but was in reality less than an hour. He'd walked through the fire unscathed yet again. They made their way up the back stairs at the hotel, avoiding the rubberneckers and lollygaggers in the saloon.
The door to his suite was locked, and when he called Bela didn't answer. She'd been pretty conspicuous by her absence when wifely concern might have been called for, so he shrugged and they continued down the hall to Sam's room. He could sew as well as she could, when it came right down to it, and if she was still asleep - passed out more like - at ten in the morning and through all the excitement, then so be it.
Dean locked the door after them and removed the key, placing it carefully on the dresser and wedging a chair under the handle. It wouldn't hold if anyone was determined to get in, but they'd have warning at least, and anyone entering uninvited would pay a hefty price. Sam unbuckled his gunbelt, hung it in easy reach off one of the bed posts, sat back against the headboard of the unmade bed. He'd gone a little white, now the thrill of battle was wearing off, and his dark hair and eyes made him look washed out. His face was pinched, and he bit his lip when he lifted his arms to get his coat and waistcoat off. Dean helped him with the tiny buttons on his fancy French shirt, and eased a pillow between his back and the wrought iron bed frame. It had been a glancing shot poorly aimed, but the bullet had gouged a furrow through the flesh of his belly before tapering off at his hipbone.
"You got a needle and thread in here?" he asked.
Sam shrugged. "Top drawer."
Dean rummaged in the dresser, finding what he needed, needles and good linen thread, and strips of clean, white cotton for bandaging, cut out of Sam's old shirts from the look and feel of them, heavy and expensive. He rinsed his hands carefully in the basin on the dresser, and poured a splash of Sam's good whiskey over them.
"Hey! I could use some of that," Sam called.
Dean poured him a glass, dunking the cotton reel in it before passing it over.
"Charming," Sam sighed, but he drank it anyway, emptying the glass in a couple of deep swallows.
Dean lit a match and ran the needle through the flame till it glowed red, then, shaking it to cool the metal, moved to the patch of light in front of the window so he could see to thread it. Crossing to the bed, he put everything he needed on the small table beside it, tossed his own gunbelt over the footboard, and sat down. The angle was awkward, and he couldn't really reach. Heaving a sigh, he moved to his knees, shifting one over Sam's mile long legs, and sitting back on his thighs. Sam smiled, and settled his hands on Dean's hips.
The smile disappeared pretty quick as Dean splashed a good slug of whiskey over the wound, patting it dry as gently as he could with one of the cotton strips. It had mostly stopped bleeding, though there was still a sluggish trickle at the deepest point. He quickly pinched the skin together there.
“Hold still,” he grunted, even as Sam snatched the bottle and took another good swig, dispensing with the glass entirely.
The needle went in, and Sam didn’t flinch though he did hiss and clench his teeth. They’d done this more than a few times, over the years, but it was harder on the soft flesh of his stomach than on the more usual arms and legs, well toned muscles notwithstanding. Dean pulled the thread through carefully and lined up the next stitch, as small and neat as possible. He completed the line of stitches as fast as he could, then tied off quickly, breaking the thread and tossing the needle aside. He smeared salve across the length of the wound, thickest over the stitches, and bound it up tightly.
Sam was breathing heavily by the time he'd finished, and his fingers were digging hard into Dean's hips, hard enough he knew he'd bruise, even through his clothes. Dean knew he should move away, put some distance between them and put himself back together, but now that he'd finished his appointed task it was like every last bit of strength and energy had gone out of his body, and it was all he could do to keep breathing, let alone stand up under his own steam.
He hadn't really been afraid for himself, it'd been years since he'd faced a gun fight with less than cool confidence, and even outnumbered he was hard pressed to feel anything but a quiet sense of resignation. But having the others, all three of them, there with him had been an awful as well as a wonderful thing. In this moment he knew with a stunned certainty that his brothers were his greatest weakness as well as his greatest strength. And with a sinking heart he felt that others must know it too, and that could only be dangerous.
He shuddered, suddenly cold on what had been a warm, sunny day, and Sam wrapped his arms tighter around his waist, pulling him in to lean against him. Dean pressed his forehead against Sam's and tried to calm down. It was an odd sort of panic that came after a fight instead of before it, but he'd seen it before, men who'd survived shoot outs and gone completely to pieces after. He knew he should get up, go downstairs, find out for sure that the Doc was taking good care of Bobby and Adam, their wounds not more serious than he'd thought, but Sam's breath was warm on his lips, and his arms supporting him were strong and confident and sure, and surely it wasn't so bad to want to be held sometimes, to not be always the one on guard, the one in charge. Sam would never, ever tell, and he would never want to talk about it either.
If he'd let himself think about it later, Dean couldn't have said for certain who moved to close the distance, but next thing they were kissing, clumsy and unpractised, Sam whiskey warm and fever bright, Dean cold as ice and ashamed of his own weakness, each of them accustomed to taking charge in such situations and unsure where to put their hands or how to lean. It was good not to have to think though, just for a short while, so he closed his eyes tight and opened his mouth and let Sam have what he'd long wanted and Dean just as long resisted, for no good reason he could see just now. Sam grunted as Dean leaned too heavily on his injured side, but didn’t pause. His teeth scraped down Dean’s neck and shoulder, pulling aside the neck of his shirt to gnaw at his collarbones.
Sam shoved, hard, at Dean's waist, using the grip he already had and his greater weight to push Dean sideways and down into the rumpled bed. He shifted on top of him, stretching out, and while the weight should have been uncomfortable it felt instead like shelter. They'd never kissed before, except that one time in Texas, before it'd all gone wrong. Times they'd been together in the past, brief, thoughtless times in temporary lodgings or on the trail, they'd wrestled, fought for dominance, always rough and quick, because it was the worst kind of sin, but somehow less if it was just sport, just relief, just the kind of thing cowboys and reprobates sometimes did when they were far from civilisation, and the prying, judging eyes of civilised folk.
This time Dean lay still, and let Sam lead. His fingers clenched, digging into Sam’s biceps, and Sam shifted one arm to slide under Dean's neck, wrapping tight around him, as tight as the other round his waist, holding him close against his body, and pressing him down into the bed at the same time. They ground against each other for a while, still kissing, breathing hot and wet into each others mouths, and Sam whispering into Dean's ear, so quiet he could barely hear it, and just quiet enough he could pretend not to, "I'll take care of you, I'll take care of you."
Finally, he found the catches at Dean’s waistband, fumbling at the tiny buttons of his flies and slipping a hand inside. His fingers were rough on Dean’s sensitised flesh, almost too rough, the calluses of his gun hand catching on fragile skin, but in its sheer frankness and lack of art it was a kind of perfection. He stroked Dean a couple of times, then pulled his trousers down roughly, exposing him to view and making him shiver. He couldn't stop the moan when Sam found his rhythm, fingers curling round him just right, just hard enough. The tight channel of his fist slid up and down a few times, then his thumb slid over the tip, gathering moisture and smearing it around, slicking the way, making it even better. Dean writhed against him, body stiffening, back arching, and then - no - Sam was kneeing up and off him, moving away.
"Sam!" Dean cried, but then Sam was leaning back in as he shifted towards the foot of the bed, face dragging down Dean's torso, sharp teeth scraping across his nipple, agonising through the wet fabric, then biting at his ribs, his navel, Sam's head dragging across his stomach, mouth sliding back up and carrying the bottom of his shirt with it, licking a broad stripe across his stomach muscles, then across the head of his -
Dean froze, clenching his hand on Sam's shoulder and pulling so he had to look up, look him in the eye.
"I want to..." Sam breathed. "I want..." He looked debauched, hair mussed to hell and back, mouth wet and swollen from the kissing and the... Dean shuddered again, but didn't let go or look away.
"Let me," Sam insisted.
Dean nodded weakly, and before he was even done nodding Sam was leaning in again. His mouth as it closed around Dean was like a furnace, and while it seemed there should be no logical difference to the saloon girls who'd done it in the past, it did feel different, to be filled with such a sense of genuine affection as well as mounting arousal. Sam licked all around the head, then shifted to lick up one side and down the other, breathing deep. He got as much of Dean in his mouth as he could, and wrapped his big hand back around the rest, stroking and rubbing as he sucked. He was making little choked moaning sounds as he did it, which was certainly different, he sounded like he meant it, and Dean couldn't help himself, he put his hand on the back of Sam's head.
He fought not to push down, though a base, animal part of him wanted to; instead he held him there gently, curling his fingers in Sam's long hair, and from the way Sam sucked harder it was obvious he liked it. Sam leaned down further, lips brushing his own hand, then the hand was moving and his nose was grazing Dean's stomach. Dean felt himself curling into him, and then he was slipping up and in, further than he would have thought possible, and Sam was swallowing convulsively, and god, he was in Sam's throat, and it was hot and wet and tight, and just incredibly good, and Sam was choking for real now, coughing and pulling back. Dean let go of him immediately, gasping as the cold air hit the wetness of Sam's spit on him, and he looked at Sam where he was sprawled, throat working, mouth open and gasping for air.
He felt mortified, and half expected a punch in the jaw, but once Sam recaptured his breath he started laughing, which made Dean relax again.
"Ruby always made it look easier," he choked out.
"Bela too," Dean agreed, though he didn't really want to think about her right now, or Ruby either, and then he was laughing too. Perhaps it didn't have to be such a dreadful, serious thing.
Sam smiled and leaned back in. He was more careful this time, keeping Dean in his mouth, but with the hand that wasn't clamped around Dean's hip he reached out and took Dean's hand and put it back on his neck. The shock had pulled Dean back from the brink, but not far, and another moment or two of Sam's fierce sucking was enough. Dean tried to pull away but Sam followed, held tight, and kept stroking Dean's hip as his release flooded his mouth. He pulled off as Dean started to shudder, resting his head on Dean's leg and gently rubbing his thumb against his hip as he settled.
They lay there for a few moments in companionable silence, then Dean pushed Sam off and rolled him onto his back, careful not to jar his bandaged midriff.
"You up to this, Sammy?" he asked.
"Are you?" Sam shot back, arching a sceptical eyebrow.
The challenge made it easier to set aside his hesitation, and biting his lip in fierce concentration, Dean set to unbuttoning Sam's trousers. Sam moaned harder as Dean's hand slipped inside than he had when being stitched up, and again as his fingers closed around him, which made Dean smile. This far was familiar territory, and he set to it with gusto, knowing he could make Sam come just like this. He didn't want to though, pride and fairness warring with natural reserve, and taking a deep breath he shifted down and gave Sam's impressive length a cautious lick. It didn't really taste of anything but sweat and skin, which was promising, and it twitched and hardened further, which was even more so.
He couldn’t get more than half Sam’s length in his mouth at a time, but he used his fingers on what he couldn’t reach, stroking gently, then, feeling greatly daring, pulled off and licked down the big vein to his balls. The taste was stronger there, but still not unpleasant, and Sam was certainly making appreciative noises so he stuck with it a while, nuzzling and nipping, before sucking the head back into his mouth. Sam came with a sudden, almost surprised, cry, and Dean choked on the salty, bitter flood, which felt like retribution, but a good kind, coughing and spitting most of it back out all over Sam's open trousers.
There was a brief moment, as Sam panted and heaved, where embarrassment and shame almost set in, but Sam grabbed hold of him just in time, hands hooking under his arms to pull him up, heedless of the mess smearing sticky between them, and they kissed again, gentle and quiet, until they both calmed.
"What a day," Dean sighed at last.
Sam shrugged, jostling Dean's head where it was pillowed on his shoulder. "I've wanted this for a long time," he said quietly. "Feels like a good day to me."
"I ain't talking about that," Dean insisted, pulling away and sitting up, annoyed. "This ain't gonna be the end of it all, you know that."
"I know that," Sam agreed. "I just don't care right now. We'll stay here and sort it all out, or we'll leave, head to the next town. Whatever you want. As long as we do it together."
"I ain't your wife," Dean said suspiciously. "I ain't any kind of girl. Don't mistake me, Sam."
"There's no mistaking you, Dean," Sam agreed quietly. "But you're my man. Aren't you?"
Dean slid off the bed and set about putting his ruined clothes to rights. "We'll see," he allowed at last.
Sam smiled and crawled under the covers. "See you downstairs," he murmured, already drifting off as Dean let himself out.
Part V
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.)
A couple of days passed, just long enough for folks to start to relax, go off the worry.
On the third day, Dean was sitting in the saloon eating breakfast. Adam was with him, talking nineteen to the dozen about some book he was reading, a spiritualist back east who communed with spirits, and did table rapping sessions, the kind of thing Dean dismissed as so much bunk. Adam was convinced though; Lou had been to see a medium in New York who'd told her she'd marry a tall fair man, and move out west.
"That could be you, or me, or Bobby," Dean laughed. "If Ellen or Bela had been fool enough to go instead. And everywhere's west from New York."
"She ain't a fool," Adam sniffed. "And anyway, that ain't the interesting bit. Madame Blavatsky says that when you die you see a real bright light, and it's the angels coming for you."
"That's the last thing I wanna see," Dean grunted. "The Angels coming for me."
Adam acknowledged that great witticism with a nod. "Seriously though, do you think she's right?"
"I doubt it," Dean said. "Ma used to say angels were watchin' over us, but nobody I ever saw die was smiling."
"I hope it is true," Adam insisted. "It'd be nice, knowing you weren't alone."
"I guess it would," Dean conceded.
He was about to say more, make another, better, joke to lift the suddenly sombre mood, but just then the boy who swept the floors at the mercantile came running in, broom still in hand.
"I'm sorry to bother you, Mr Winchester," he said, awe and excitement and a healthy dose of fear chasing each other across his face. "Mayor Shurley sent me."
"Yeah?"
"The Angels are back," he said in a rush. "They're tellin' everybody in town they're gonna clean you out. There's a bunch of 'em down in that lot right now behind the OK Corral."
Dean sighed, and pushed his plate away.
By the time they got out on the boardwalk, Bobby was walking up to meet them.
"I guess you've heard?" Dean said.
"Yep," Bobby agreed. "Seems Zac’s been up all night drinking, trying to screw up the courage to kill us. The Angels and a few of the Demons came in this morning."
"Where’s Sam?" Dean asked.
"Haven’t seen him," Bobby grunted.
"All right. Let him sleep."
"Is there gonna be a fight, Mister Winchester?" the broom boy asked, excitement winning out.
"I think there must be," Dean replied.
Word spread like wildfire, and folks were spilling out onto the street, gathering in bunches under the shade of the boardwalk, avoiding eye contact, but chattering wildly.
"Just stay calm," Dean insisted. "Keep your heads. It'll be all right."
"Here they are again," Bobby said scornfully, looking at the crowd. "Buncha damn ghouls. Look at 'em."
"Easy, Bobby, they're just tryin' to egg us on. Everyone loves a fight, 'less they're the ones about to get drilled full of lead."
"Well, what the hell are we gonna do?"
"Wait till the liquor wears off. Once they start getting headaches they'll lose interest."
"Dean, they're threatening our lives."
Dean shook his head. "You'll never make that stick."
"They're carrying guns in town."
"That's a misdemeanour."
"They're breakin' the law."
"All right, Bobby," Dean sighed. "You're the Marshal, it's your call."
Sam emerged from the hotel as they passed, clothes rumpled but generally looking pretty good for someone who hadn't been to bed. "Where the hell are you going?" he demanded.
"We’re going down the street," Dean said.
"Think I’ll join you."
"We're going to disarm them and take them in, Sam," Bobby said sternly. "You understand?"
"Oh, I understand perfectly, Marshal," Sam drawled. He tapped Bobby's coach gun. "But do you think they will?"
"Let’s not provoke them," Dean sighed. "Least, not till we’ve had a chance to talk."
"I’ve heard enough talk already," Adam muttered under his breath.
Sam grinned at him. "Let 'em have it? All right."
They started walking down the main thoroughfare, Bobby and Dean in front, Adam and Sam in the rear. The good townsfolk stepped aside, trading whispers as they passed.
Joshua and Jacob were there to see them go as they passed the grocer's.
"There they go," one opined. "Look kinda like preachers."
"Yeah," the other agreed. "I'd say more like undertakers."
The corral came into view and the Winchesters spread out, Bobby to the left, Adam sandwiched between him and Dean, Sam off to Dean's right. The three lawmen looked calm but tense, eyes scanning the street, the windows of the buildings on either side, the shadows between. Sam looked like he always did, alert but relaxed, ambling down the street like he owned it.
"Bobby, you're makin' the arrest," Dean said. "You do the talking; they'll give you a chance they won't give me. Adam'll back you up. I'll keep an eye on both of you; Sam, you keep an eye on me."
"Always," Sam deadpanned.
"Be ready, Sam," Dean insisted, "but you wait for me. Don't you start anything."
Sam gave the barest nod, and shifted his coat so it was hooked behind his holsters on both sides, out of the way. Ready for a fight, and looking it.
Dean sighed and turned his head to the others. "You two be ready, though. And keep your hands on your damn guns. They even look like they're gonna start something, buffalo 'em. Right over the head."
"Dean, I know what I'm doin'," Bobby insisted.
"I know you do," Dean relented. "But I got a bad feeling this time." He cast a baleful eye over the onlookers, and shook his head. "Look at 'em all. They love it. How in the hell'd we get ourselves into this?"
They rounded the corner of the corral and came into view of the lot behind. The cowboys inside glanced around at each other, getting ready. There were six of them, all but Zac visibly armed.
Six to four was decent odds for a fight, but vanishing small for a peaceful resolution. Still, this was it, no turning back now. The cowboys spread out across the lot. It looked like a scene out the Bible, or some dime novel, the six of them in their dusty trail clothes, faded blues and red washed out to pink, bandannas, chaps and all, the Winchesters and Sam in their heavy black coats and white shirts, shiny badges on their lapels, Sam's omnipresent waistcoat the only splash of colour, twenty feet and all the world between them.
Bobby stepped forward, face stern, holding up his empty right hand, the coach gun in his left at his side. "We've come to arrest you," he said. "Throw up your arms!"
A weird moment of stillness, heavy and slow like the air right before a storm, followed, where nobody seemed to know what to do. Then Raph and Uriel Clanton slapped their hands to their guns. The Winchesters tensed up as one, hands on their pistols. Bobby waved his hand, not believing it was going so wrong so fast. "Hold! I don't want that! Hold up!"
Jim Crowley bolted for cover, ducking behind the corral building. Everyone else stood frozen, breaths shallow and fast, pulses pounding, staring straight into the wide open eyes of the man immediately opposite. Then something in Raph's eyes shifted, and Dean groaned as the awful inevitability of it all hit.
Raph and Uriel jerked their pistols and all hell broke loose. Dean drew and fired, knocking Uriel down with a straight shot to the gut. Adam fired next, blowing Raph back against the wall of the house behind the lot. Gabe Stephens darted for cover behind his horse, as Zac dived into Dean's line of fire shrieking like a woman, "No, no, please! I don't have a gun!"
"This fight's commenced," Dean snapped, cold as ice, shoving the coward away from him. "Get to fightin' or get away!"
Zac sprinted for the feed store next door, slamming the door shut behind him and leaning hard against it. Gabe fired over his saddle at Sam who fired into the air with his left, making the horse rear up, exposing Gabe for a split second. It was all he needed to line up the shot, firing again with his right. Gabe's head exploded, a fine spray of red misting through the air, going down hard like a sack of wheat.
Raph shouldered his way back up, using the wall for leverage, and fired without aiming, the bullet hitting Bobby in his bad leg. He dropped to one knee. Raph fired again, dropping Adam with a shot to the shoulder.
"I'm hit," Adam gasped, sinking to his knees, using his left hand to keep his gun arm steady.
Sam stepped out into the fray, firing wildly with both hands, hitting Raph in the chest twice, while Mike leaped into the fight, firing wildly. Bobby got up, firing back. Dean managed to line up a shot but it was off, just grazing Mike's side, still it knocked him off balance which was enough. The air was thick with smoke, the fight spilling out into the street, those still on their feet jockeying for position. Safe inside the feed store, Zac snatched up a pistol and started firing through the window. His aim was awful, but it attracted Sam's attention.
Sam spun on his heel, coat flapping round his legs, dropping the empty gun in his left hand and using it to fan the hammer of the one in his right, rapid firing three or four times, quick as anything, the bullets ripping through the shop front, showering Zac and the rest with splinters and broken glass.
Raph was somehow still firing from his knees, blood pouring out of holes all over him. Mike made it to his feet too, bearing down on Sam through the smoke, as he reloaded. "I got you now, you son of a bitch!" he shouted.
"You're a daisy if you do!" Sam sneered, spreading his arms, giving Mike a clear shot at his chest. Mike fired, but his aim was off, the bullet scraping Sam's hip. Sam laughed, and fired at his chest, even as Adam, firing from his knees, got him in the head.
Mike went down hard, and stayed down. Uriel and Gabe were already dead, Raph was as good as dead, though he didn't seem to know it, more holes in him than a colander, and still clicking his empty gun as he bled out into the dirt.
Dean helped Adam to his feet, leaned him up against a hitching post and patted under his coat with both hands, looking for the wound. The bullet'd gone right through the meat of his shoulder and come out clean, he'd be okay, thank god. Bobby was already up and pacing, best he could with one good leg, coach gun at the ready and looking out for Crowley, but there was no sign of him; he'd ducked out the back and slunk away like the rattler that he was.
Sam had reloaded both guns and was stalking round the lot like Death come down from his horse, glaring at the townsfolk who were approaching from all directions, now that the fighting was done. Zac was walking round too, crying and blustering about how the Winchesters had murdered his brothers in cold blood, and tried their damnedest to kill him too, an innocent, unarmed bystander.
Pete Sheridan strode in too, elbowing his way through the crowd, sheriff's shield prominent on his coat, and hand on his gunbelt. Even so, he stayed well away from Sam, walking up to Dean instead. "All right, all right," he said, reaching out to take his arm. "You're all under arrest."
Dean shook him off, scorn and disbelief plain on his face. "I don't think I'll let you arrest us today, Pete," he said, and turned back to Adam. Behind him Sam cocked both his guns theatrically, and Sheridan slunk away.
"You were right, Dean," Adam whispered, his face ghostly white, blood loss and something more. "It’s not like I thought."
"Hush up," Dean said, passing him off to the doctor who'd come running at the sound of the gunfire, more guts and decency than the rest of the townsfolk. "It don't matter now."
Sam handed him his gun, and Dean holstered it, looking around at the carnage, the broken windows and shot-up walls, the four bodies being loaded onto the undertaker's wagon. Old man Fredericks'd be having a good week of it, if no one else.
He could hear Lou shrieking and crying from the main street, and Ellen trying to convince her that Adam was okay. He glanced over and Bobby nodded at him. Doc'd tied off the wound in his leg, and it'd keep. Mayor Shurley was there to back him up, Ash Joyce and a couple of the guys from the vigilance committee, arguing forcefully with Sheridan and Zac, and it looked okay to leave 'em to it.
"I guess we did our good deed for today," Dean said, resigned.
"They had it coming," Sam said, no doubt about it. "Let's go."
The townsfolk opened like the Red Sea to let them pass; Dean couldn't help wondering if it was him or Sam they were more afraid of. Sam had a spreading blood stain on his satin waistcoat, but Dean was untouched, not a scratch on him, not even from the flying glass, his shirt as pristine as when he'd put it on that morning, what felt like forever ago, but was in reality less than an hour. He'd walked through the fire unscathed yet again. They made their way up the back stairs at the hotel, avoiding the rubberneckers and lollygaggers in the saloon.
The door to his suite was locked, and when he called Bela didn't answer. She'd been pretty conspicuous by her absence when wifely concern might have been called for, so he shrugged and they continued down the hall to Sam's room. He could sew as well as she could, when it came right down to it, and if she was still asleep - passed out more like - at ten in the morning and through all the excitement, then so be it.
Dean locked the door after them and removed the key, placing it carefully on the dresser and wedging a chair under the handle. It wouldn't hold if anyone was determined to get in, but they'd have warning at least, and anyone entering uninvited would pay a hefty price. Sam unbuckled his gunbelt, hung it in easy reach off one of the bed posts, sat back against the headboard of the unmade bed. He'd gone a little white, now the thrill of battle was wearing off, and his dark hair and eyes made him look washed out. His face was pinched, and he bit his lip when he lifted his arms to get his coat and waistcoat off. Dean helped him with the tiny buttons on his fancy French shirt, and eased a pillow between his back and the wrought iron bed frame. It had been a glancing shot poorly aimed, but the bullet had gouged a furrow through the flesh of his belly before tapering off at his hipbone.
"You got a needle and thread in here?" he asked.
Sam shrugged. "Top drawer."
Dean rummaged in the dresser, finding what he needed, needles and good linen thread, and strips of clean, white cotton for bandaging, cut out of Sam's old shirts from the look and feel of them, heavy and expensive. He rinsed his hands carefully in the basin on the dresser, and poured a splash of Sam's good whiskey over them.
"Hey! I could use some of that," Sam called.
Dean poured him a glass, dunking the cotton reel in it before passing it over.
"Charming," Sam sighed, but he drank it anyway, emptying the glass in a couple of deep swallows.
Dean lit a match and ran the needle through the flame till it glowed red, then, shaking it to cool the metal, moved to the patch of light in front of the window so he could see to thread it. Crossing to the bed, he put everything he needed on the small table beside it, tossed his own gunbelt over the footboard, and sat down. The angle was awkward, and he couldn't really reach. Heaving a sigh, he moved to his knees, shifting one over Sam's mile long legs, and sitting back on his thighs. Sam smiled, and settled his hands on Dean's hips.
The smile disappeared pretty quick as Dean splashed a good slug of whiskey over the wound, patting it dry as gently as he could with one of the cotton strips. It had mostly stopped bleeding, though there was still a sluggish trickle at the deepest point. He quickly pinched the skin together there.
“Hold still,” he grunted, even as Sam snatched the bottle and took another good swig, dispensing with the glass entirely.
The needle went in, and Sam didn’t flinch though he did hiss and clench his teeth. They’d done this more than a few times, over the years, but it was harder on the soft flesh of his stomach than on the more usual arms and legs, well toned muscles notwithstanding. Dean pulled the thread through carefully and lined up the next stitch, as small and neat as possible. He completed the line of stitches as fast as he could, then tied off quickly, breaking the thread and tossing the needle aside. He smeared salve across the length of the wound, thickest over the stitches, and bound it up tightly.
Sam was breathing heavily by the time he'd finished, and his fingers were digging hard into Dean's hips, hard enough he knew he'd bruise, even through his clothes. Dean knew he should move away, put some distance between them and put himself back together, but now that he'd finished his appointed task it was like every last bit of strength and energy had gone out of his body, and it was all he could do to keep breathing, let alone stand up under his own steam.
He hadn't really been afraid for himself, it'd been years since he'd faced a gun fight with less than cool confidence, and even outnumbered he was hard pressed to feel anything but a quiet sense of resignation. But having the others, all three of them, there with him had been an awful as well as a wonderful thing. In this moment he knew with a stunned certainty that his brothers were his greatest weakness as well as his greatest strength. And with a sinking heart he felt that others must know it too, and that could only be dangerous.
He shuddered, suddenly cold on what had been a warm, sunny day, and Sam wrapped his arms tighter around his waist, pulling him in to lean against him. Dean pressed his forehead against Sam's and tried to calm down. It was an odd sort of panic that came after a fight instead of before it, but he'd seen it before, men who'd survived shoot outs and gone completely to pieces after. He knew he should get up, go downstairs, find out for sure that the Doc was taking good care of Bobby and Adam, their wounds not more serious than he'd thought, but Sam's breath was warm on his lips, and his arms supporting him were strong and confident and sure, and surely it wasn't so bad to want to be held sometimes, to not be always the one on guard, the one in charge. Sam would never, ever tell, and he would never want to talk about it either.
If he'd let himself think about it later, Dean couldn't have said for certain who moved to close the distance, but next thing they were kissing, clumsy and unpractised, Sam whiskey warm and fever bright, Dean cold as ice and ashamed of his own weakness, each of them accustomed to taking charge in such situations and unsure where to put their hands or how to lean. It was good not to have to think though, just for a short while, so he closed his eyes tight and opened his mouth and let Sam have what he'd long wanted and Dean just as long resisted, for no good reason he could see just now. Sam grunted as Dean leaned too heavily on his injured side, but didn’t pause. His teeth scraped down Dean’s neck and shoulder, pulling aside the neck of his shirt to gnaw at his collarbones.
Sam shoved, hard, at Dean's waist, using the grip he already had and his greater weight to push Dean sideways and down into the rumpled bed. He shifted on top of him, stretching out, and while the weight should have been uncomfortable it felt instead like shelter. They'd never kissed before, except that one time in Texas, before it'd all gone wrong. Times they'd been together in the past, brief, thoughtless times in temporary lodgings or on the trail, they'd wrestled, fought for dominance, always rough and quick, because it was the worst kind of sin, but somehow less if it was just sport, just relief, just the kind of thing cowboys and reprobates sometimes did when they were far from civilisation, and the prying, judging eyes of civilised folk.
This time Dean lay still, and let Sam lead. His fingers clenched, digging into Sam’s biceps, and Sam shifted one arm to slide under Dean's neck, wrapping tight around him, as tight as the other round his waist, holding him close against his body, and pressing him down into the bed at the same time. They ground against each other for a while, still kissing, breathing hot and wet into each others mouths, and Sam whispering into Dean's ear, so quiet he could barely hear it, and just quiet enough he could pretend not to, "I'll take care of you, I'll take care of you."
Finally, he found the catches at Dean’s waistband, fumbling at the tiny buttons of his flies and slipping a hand inside. His fingers were rough on Dean’s sensitised flesh, almost too rough, the calluses of his gun hand catching on fragile skin, but in its sheer frankness and lack of art it was a kind of perfection. He stroked Dean a couple of times, then pulled his trousers down roughly, exposing him to view and making him shiver. He couldn't stop the moan when Sam found his rhythm, fingers curling round him just right, just hard enough. The tight channel of his fist slid up and down a few times, then his thumb slid over the tip, gathering moisture and smearing it around, slicking the way, making it even better. Dean writhed against him, body stiffening, back arching, and then - no - Sam was kneeing up and off him, moving away.
"Sam!" Dean cried, but then Sam was leaning back in as he shifted towards the foot of the bed, face dragging down Dean's torso, sharp teeth scraping across his nipple, agonising through the wet fabric, then biting at his ribs, his navel, Sam's head dragging across his stomach, mouth sliding back up and carrying the bottom of his shirt with it, licking a broad stripe across his stomach muscles, then across the head of his -
Dean froze, clenching his hand on Sam's shoulder and pulling so he had to look up, look him in the eye.
"I want to..." Sam breathed. "I want..." He looked debauched, hair mussed to hell and back, mouth wet and swollen from the kissing and the... Dean shuddered again, but didn't let go or look away.
"Let me," Sam insisted.
Dean nodded weakly, and before he was even done nodding Sam was leaning in again. His mouth as it closed around Dean was like a furnace, and while it seemed there should be no logical difference to the saloon girls who'd done it in the past, it did feel different, to be filled with such a sense of genuine affection as well as mounting arousal. Sam licked all around the head, then shifted to lick up one side and down the other, breathing deep. He got as much of Dean in his mouth as he could, and wrapped his big hand back around the rest, stroking and rubbing as he sucked. He was making little choked moaning sounds as he did it, which was certainly different, he sounded like he meant it, and Dean couldn't help himself, he put his hand on the back of Sam's head.
He fought not to push down, though a base, animal part of him wanted to; instead he held him there gently, curling his fingers in Sam's long hair, and from the way Sam sucked harder it was obvious he liked it. Sam leaned down further, lips brushing his own hand, then the hand was moving and his nose was grazing Dean's stomach. Dean felt himself curling into him, and then he was slipping up and in, further than he would have thought possible, and Sam was swallowing convulsively, and god, he was in Sam's throat, and it was hot and wet and tight, and just incredibly good, and Sam was choking for real now, coughing and pulling back. Dean let go of him immediately, gasping as the cold air hit the wetness of Sam's spit on him, and he looked at Sam where he was sprawled, throat working, mouth open and gasping for air.
He felt mortified, and half expected a punch in the jaw, but once Sam recaptured his breath he started laughing, which made Dean relax again.
"Ruby always made it look easier," he choked out.
"Bela too," Dean agreed, though he didn't really want to think about her right now, or Ruby either, and then he was laughing too. Perhaps it didn't have to be such a dreadful, serious thing.
Sam smiled and leaned back in. He was more careful this time, keeping Dean in his mouth, but with the hand that wasn't clamped around Dean's hip he reached out and took Dean's hand and put it back on his neck. The shock had pulled Dean back from the brink, but not far, and another moment or two of Sam's fierce sucking was enough. Dean tried to pull away but Sam followed, held tight, and kept stroking Dean's hip as his release flooded his mouth. He pulled off as Dean started to shudder, resting his head on Dean's leg and gently rubbing his thumb against his hip as he settled.
They lay there for a few moments in companionable silence, then Dean pushed Sam off and rolled him onto his back, careful not to jar his bandaged midriff.
"You up to this, Sammy?" he asked.
"Are you?" Sam shot back, arching a sceptical eyebrow.
The challenge made it easier to set aside his hesitation, and biting his lip in fierce concentration, Dean set to unbuttoning Sam's trousers. Sam moaned harder as Dean's hand slipped inside than he had when being stitched up, and again as his fingers closed around him, which made Dean smile. This far was familiar territory, and he set to it with gusto, knowing he could make Sam come just like this. He didn't want to though, pride and fairness warring with natural reserve, and taking a deep breath he shifted down and gave Sam's impressive length a cautious lick. It didn't really taste of anything but sweat and skin, which was promising, and it twitched and hardened further, which was even more so.
He couldn’t get more than half Sam’s length in his mouth at a time, but he used his fingers on what he couldn’t reach, stroking gently, then, feeling greatly daring, pulled off and licked down the big vein to his balls. The taste was stronger there, but still not unpleasant, and Sam was certainly making appreciative noises so he stuck with it a while, nuzzling and nipping, before sucking the head back into his mouth. Sam came with a sudden, almost surprised, cry, and Dean choked on the salty, bitter flood, which felt like retribution, but a good kind, coughing and spitting most of it back out all over Sam's open trousers.
There was a brief moment, as Sam panted and heaved, where embarrassment and shame almost set in, but Sam grabbed hold of him just in time, hands hooking under his arms to pull him up, heedless of the mess smearing sticky between them, and they kissed again, gentle and quiet, until they both calmed.
"What a day," Dean sighed at last.
Sam shrugged, jostling Dean's head where it was pillowed on his shoulder. "I've wanted this for a long time," he said quietly. "Feels like a good day to me."
"I ain't talking about that," Dean insisted, pulling away and sitting up, annoyed. "This ain't gonna be the end of it all, you know that."
"I know that," Sam agreed. "I just don't care right now. We'll stay here and sort it all out, or we'll leave, head to the next town. Whatever you want. As long as we do it together."
"I ain't your wife," Dean said suspiciously. "I ain't any kind of girl. Don't mistake me, Sam."
"There's no mistaking you, Dean," Sam agreed quietly. "But you're my man. Aren't you?"
Dean slid off the bed and set about putting his ruined clothes to rights. "We'll see," he allowed at last.
Sam smiled and crawled under the covers. "See you downstairs," he murmured, already drifting off as Dean let himself out.
Part V