Fic: Hard Rain's Gonna Fall - 1/6

Aug 26, 2007 20:10

Title: Hard Rain's Gonna Fall
Author: ErinRua
Rating: Gen / PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean, OC's
Notes/Disclaimers/Summary: A haunting in Pennsylvania's Civil War battlefield country turns ugly, and Sam and Dean must deal with hazards both supernatural and secular. ETA: Set in the 3 weeks or so between 3.03 and 3.04. Story title borrowed from Bob Dylan.
(Originally written for spn_xx 's Women of SPN fanfic July/August '07 challenge.)
Special Thanks go to sillimarilli and Celebsul, my dear friends and most awesomest beta-readers ever. This story would not be nearly what it is without the two of you. You so rock! *HUGS!*
Length: @ 19,000 words



PROLOGUE

144 Years Ago
Adams County, Pennsylvania

This is how it happened in the first week of July, eighteen-hundred-and-sixty-three. Dark times those were when the Union tore its own body and left gobbets of its flesh across the land. Places nobody had heard of were named in solemn hush, names that struck the heart like tolling bells: Shiloh, Antietam, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville. On that day, the fat, green fields of Pennsylvania steamed and wraiths of dust curled on the horizon. An army moved, you see, trudging its gaunt grey self north along the summer roads.

There's some folks say the battle was fought for the simple reason of shoes. A lot of those Rebel boys had marched the shoes right off their feet, and someone got wind that Gettysburg had supplies. General Heth made his decision and that's how history changed, on account of a rumor of a warehouse full of shoes.

So the army turned and reshaped itself until it stood in long grey lines, waiting in the shade beneath the trees. Out in the sunlight, insects hung in golden drifting clouds and then the Union guns began to boom. The shriek of incoming shells brought Hell to detonate in the trees, and Confederate messengers galloped hither and yon.

Amongst Robert E. Lee's men were two young solders who crouched side by side, unnoticed amongst the tight-bellied wait for war. They were two but they were one, in that strange way fate sometimes creates, a single creature in heart and mind and purpose. Whatever they had, they shared alike, be it salt pork or stolen Yankee coffee or a campfire sputtering against death and the rain and dark. And when it came to the hurts and misery of war, they divided those cares, too, so neither ever bore the load alone.

Now, with the harbingers of battle battering the summer air, the older leaned and said, "Dex, you stay close, now, y' hear me?"

Dex just nodded, mouth tight while dirty fingers counted cartridges in the leather box at his belt. Forty rounds. Forty rounds - yes, that had to be enough.

"You hear me?"

"Yes, Ethan, I hear you. Ain't like a body could miss you yammerin' in their ear."

Nerves, you see, and Ethan blew a short breath and took a harder hold of his musket. But then Dex looked up and said, "Ethan."

Just the name, that's all, but it meant a thousand other things, and Ethan heard every word Dex never spoke. Saw them shadowed in the summer blue of Dex's eyes.

"I know," he said, smiling soft and slow, and lifted the knuckles of one hand to brush Dex's grimy cheek. "Me, too."

They waited together until the drums rattled again and the Confederate army moved: a tide that surged ponderously into the glaring sun. Forward now, a wave of grey lapped slowly over the fields, some twelve thousand sets of knees lifting together, twelve thousand sets of feet tramping, and the bright banners tilted, leading, commanding - forward to glory!

Until the thud of the great guns became a punching roll of thunder and Death leaned down to swing his grisly scythe.

Shoulder to shoulder, muskets at the ready, onward, onward, onward: thus marched Dex and thus marched Ethan and the Army of Northern Virginia. Thunder slammed in the blue-sky day and windrows of men tumbled in the grass. But the ranks closed up and now the cannons' din mingled with the pops of musket fire, until the volleys grew into a snarling wave of sound.

Nobody ever heard the shot that struck Dex in the throat. The soldier who fired it probably never saw his target. Dex simply staggered, already drowning in blood, and stumbled and dropped to both knees in the grass.

"Dex!" cried Ethan, and the heavens tilted on their axis. "Dear God - Dex!"

Ethan lunged to ease Dex's fall to trampled, dusty grass, but only blood came ever from the youth's slack lips. So much blood, a ghastly fountain that bubbled and poured across Ethan's hands, his useless hands, and the sun flamed in Dex's staring eyes.

War does not pause to watch one man clutch a beloved body close. Nobody saw when Ethan buckled and bent and broke. And nobody saw how his mouth froze in a terrible, silent scream as he pressed his face to Dex's cooling cheek.
#

CHAPTER ONE

Present Day

A long strip of blacktop simmered between farmlands and drowsy red barns; Adams County, Pennsylvania dozing away the hazy days of summer. Until, that is, a rumble shuddered in the air, rising swiftly to the raw-voiced scream of a black Chevy bird of prey - and Aerosmith caterwauling at full blast. It thundered past in a whirl of dust and cinders, and cows stared after the fading streak of sound.

Dude looks like a lady!
Dude looks like a lady!
Dude looks like a lady!
Dude looks like a lady!

Cruised into a bar on the shore.
Her picture graced the grime on the door.
She a long lost love at first bite -
Baby maybe you're wrong but you know it's all right!
- That's right.

Sometimes, if Sam thought about it, he felt amazed that 'normal' still existed in the world. Amazed that he and Dean could still roll down the same highways as soccer moms, nine-to-fivers, and RVs with bicycles on the back, and perfect strangers didn't turn their heads to stare. Or turn their heads to flash black demonic eyes.

Everything had changed since Cold Oak. Since Wyoming. Since Sam died and Sam killed and Dean sold his immortal soul. It almost felt weird that he could not spot anything different simply looking out the window. But change was there, rumbling beneath the wheels, latent in his hands, constant in the ache of dread and anger that curled against his heart. After the things they'd seen and done lately, he and Dean no longer breathed the same air as 'normal'.

But mostly Sam thought about the gigantic invisible hourglass trickling off the days of Dean's life. They fought a whole new battle, now, the scope of which they were only just beginning to realize. Yellow Eyes' plans for him, everyone close to Mom dead since 2001- he wondered now how much of this Dad had known. He saw no point in freaking Dean out before he could ascertain facts, but he wondered, too, if keeping secrets had made Dad feel as crappy as Sam did, now.

Anyhow, Sam reasoned that even demons were bound by laws, and every law had loopholes, and he had spent three and half years at Stanford, right? So, maybe he just needed to find the right caveat, the right gambit to break a devil's deal. He turned a page of the book in his lap, the print beginning to waver before his eyes - and a hand seized the book, ripped it from his grasp, and it flew with a papery whack into the back seat.

"Dean! You don't treat books like -."

"Leave it alone, Sam."

Eyes on the road, jaw tight, Dean never even looked at him. Fine. Let the idiot act like he wanted the deal to go through. Sam could bounce his latest ideas off Bobby, later. When Dean wasn't there to listen. Thus, his head swam with case law and reams of demonic lore while Steven Tyler screeched and Pennsylvania State Route 34 flowed past his open window. Finally, a sign appeared noting that the town of Biglerville lay ahead, followed by another sign announcing the National Apple Museum. Sam surfaced from his contemplations to idly wonder if that would include a heroic apple statue or plaques commemorating great apples in history. When at last the music wailed away to road noise, he looked over to the driver's seat.

"So, Dean. Remind me what we're doing out here in the land of battlefields and overpriced country inns?"

"A job, Sam," Dean replied, reaching to the radio to turn the volume down. "Saving a damsel in distress from something that goes bump in the night."

"A damsel. Which had nothing to do with your decision to take this job."

Dean frowned but kept his eyes on the road. "Bobby said a friend of a friend of hers called him and it sounded like she needed help. C'mon, Sam, quit lookin' to break my - whoa!"

Three hundred and ninety-six horses suddenly roared and the tires screeched dissonant harmony, as Dean slammed the Impala down a gear and smoked the brakes. Sam grabbed for the dashboard as the car careened off the road and slid into a gravel parking lot. It rocked to a halt in a fog of dust, the engine gurgling to a sedate idle. There Sam sat still braced in his seat and stared at his brother in disbelief.

"Dean, what the hell?"

Right hand pointing through the windshield and the dissipating dust, Dean grinned and said, "Peaches."

Mouth still open, Sam peered at the sign outside that read 'Farm Fresh Produce'. Among the other cars already parked at the stand, tourists stared at the Impala in uneasy confusion.

"You do know, don't you," said Sam, "that this is not the General Lee and you are not Bo Duke."

"Yeah, well, if it was -." Dean flashed a hundred watt grin. "I guess that'd make you Daisy."

He killed the engine, shoved open his door, and stepped out into the sunlight. Which left Sam to heave a sigh - sometimes it just hurt when Dean acted like nothing had changed - and more slowly follow. A few minutes later, they stood next to the car, where a sack of produce sat on the hood awaiting consumption. Dean already had a head start on his share, leaning forward as he ate to avoid dribbling peach juice on himself or the Impala.

"Mm, mm, ish ish good!" he enthused, mouth full. "Shweet! Try shum!"

Like most civilized people, Sam used a pocketknife to halve and pit his peach, but his usual annoyance at Dean's eating habits failed to appear. In its place sighed a pang of melancholy, that his brother could still embrace simple pleasures with so much gusto. Why not let him enjoy it? Well, partly because Dean expected a reaction.

"You do know we'll have to eat all this in like, the next six hours?" asked Sam. "Because I'm pretty sure we don't have a refrigerator in the trunk."

"Ah, Sam, you're such a killjoy." Dean slurped down the last bite of peach and with dripping fingers reached for another. "We're eating healthy for a change, you should be happy."

"I'm dancing on the inside. Okay, so. What do we got?"

Rather than engage in a pointless argument about their respective eating habits, Sam bent to scan the hand-scribbled notes from his latest phone conversation with Bobby. These were now spread on the hood next to the peaches.

"Carly Burns, age twenty, lives alone. Reports odd manifestations such as lights flickering, static on the phone, cold spots, the usual. Oh, and a couple times the sensation of someone sitting on her bed but no one's there."

"Ooh," said Dean. "This sounds disturbingly like a haunted house. How'd we rate an easy job?"

Sam frowned and popped a slice of peach into his mouth while he read further. "Bobby says she's had weird things happen outside the home, as well."

"Yeah, Bobby mentioned that in his first call. He find out what kind of things?"

"Nope. Guess that's why he gave us her phone number."

"Were you able to find an address?"

"Nuh-uh. The number he gave was her cell. I ran it reverse directory, but it only showed as listed to her name."

Dean shrugged, peach juice shiny down his chin, a prime candidate for the now-defunct demon of Gluttony. "So call and let her know we're here."

Sam pulled out his phone and did just that, but reached only an answering machine. He held the phone away from his ear and Dean leaned to listen: 'Hi, this is Carly. If you really gotta reach me, this weekend I'm at the Scribner's Farm reenactment. Go to the Confederate camp and ask for Private Burns. Otherwise, here's the beep.'

Dean scrunched his face in his patented 'what the...?' look and Sam grinned.

"Bobby said she's a Civil War reenactor."

"But ... a chick? Private Burns?"

Sam could literally see Dean's enthusiasm for their client begin an immediate nosedive. Not bothering to hide a grin, he shrugged and tucked his phone back in his pocket, while Dean exhaled, puffing out his cheeks.

"Great," he sighed. "She's probably some Big Bertha who could take us both out with one hand. Well, let's get this over with. Hey, go sweet talk our peach vendor and see if he can tell us how to reach Scribner's Farm."

#

Dean ducked his head to peer beneath the visor as the Impala rumbled slowly through a trampled pasture that served as a parking area.

"This is just all kinds of weird."

Among the gleaming rows of cars, pickups, and SUVs walked people in period garb, including ladies in hoop skirts, men in blue or grey uniforms, and little boys in suspenders who all resembled Huckleberry Finn. Sam snorted at the sight of a rustic-looking Union soldier talking on a cell phone.

"I mean, what's up with this?" Dean continued, beaming a sunny false grin as they idled past a dour-looking Confederate officer. "Grown men dressing up to go out and play army. They must have absolutely nothing else to do with their lives, you know - if they gotta pretend war to get their thrills."

"I dunno. They probably see it as a way to get a tangible taste of history."

"It's ridiculous."

"It's living history."

"It's dress-up with guns. And how the hell hot are those clothes?"

"Short of a time machine, this is the only way these people can experience what their ancestors knew and did. Minus the disease and bullet wounds and malnutrition, of course. There's a spot, park there."

"Yeah, it's still playing army."

Dean wheeled the car into an empty space between a mini-van and a pickup truck, both sporting bumper stickers with Confederate flags and the phrase: 'Heritage Not Hate'. Once out of the car, the brothers followed what seemed to be the general flow of foot traffic, tourists and costumed reenactors alike, heading towards a grove of trees with an open field beyond. Beneath the trees stood a row of open-sided tents, marked by a hand-painted sign that read 'Sutlers Row'.

"Man, this is some freak show," Dean murmured, as they strolled past a canvas tent selling fancy ladies' hats and other feminine frippery. "Look, they even got bloomers. Where can they go to wear this stuff?"

"You think maybe Civil War reenactments?"

Another booth sold uniforms and accoutrements, everything from coats, trousers, shirts, and hats to buttons and period underwear. Yet another sold leather goods; belts, shoes, and cartridge boxes, the rich fragrance perfuming the air. A display of toy wooden rifles invited the younger set to join the fun. The smell of hot metal then caught Dean's attention, and they paused to watch a demonstration of bullet molding.

"Maybe we need a setup like that, huh?" Dean said. "Cast our own silver bullets whenever we need 'em. If we throw out your clothes, I bet we'll have room for the forge in the trunk."

Sam snorted and cast a look around. "Cute. Okay, let's see if we can track down Private Burns."

A man in a top hat and tails presided over a display of rough-hewn coffins, and he jovially pointed the way towards the Confederate encampment just over yonder. Getting "over yonder" involved walking through the Union camp, among white tents pitched in two orderly rows, muskets stacked in tripod formations, and men peacefully busy with the many details of Civil War-era camp life. To one side, a squad of blue-coated soldiers marched smartly in formation, going no particular direction.

"Wow," said Sam, "it's like walking into a Matthew Brady photograph."

"Matthew who?"

"Matthew Brady? He like photographed the entire Civil War. Dean, did you stay awake for anything in school at all?"

Dean just kept walking, obviously happy to have yanked his little brother's chain once again. The easiest thing Sam could do was bite back his irritation and follow.

Across a small open field lay the Confederate camp, a more loosely organized jumble of tiny canvas tents, shelter halves, and bedrolls laid on the ground. As on the Union side, men sat about playing cards, talking, smoking pipes, or eating, but the Confederates' appearance was far more casual, their hats alone reflecting a half dozen different styles and their shirts were made of faded homespun.

"Oookay," said Dean. "We're not conspicuous. How do we find our girl?"

The closest group of soldiers stood getting ready for some activity, buckling on gear and shouldering muskets. They included several guys in their late teens, a burly older fellow with a thick grey beard, and a young man sporting a black hat, black hair almost to his shoulders, and a dapper little goatee and moustache.

"Huh," Dean murmured. "So this is what Johnny Depp does on his days off."

Before Sam could frame a reply, the grey-bearded man saw them and left his comrades to greet the newcomers.

"Afternoon, gents," he said jovially. "What can we do for y'all?"

"We're uh ..." Dean cleared his throat and slanted a glance at Sam before saying, "We're looking for Private Burns."

"Are you now." Keen eyes scanned the brothers quickly, though the laugh lines remained. "Friends?"

"Yeah, friends of a friend, so to speak. We were told sh- uh, Burns might be here."

"All right. If you'd kindly wait."

He returned to the group of Confederates and homed in on several who appeared to be in their late teens. A lanky kid in a faded grey cap looked up at the bearded man's approach. They spoke a moment, joined by the guy with the goatee and moustache. All three looked towards Sam and Dean, before the kid nodded and handed off a musket nearly as long as he was tall.

"That her?" muttered Dean.

"I guess so," Sam replied, as the kid walked towards them.

Her. Or him. With a shapeless grey jacket, patched trousers, battered wool cap with a bent leather brim, and soot smudged down one cheek, Private Burns looked neither and both. As a boy, Burns looked sort of gaunt and narrow-shouldered. As a girl ... well, there had to be a girl somewhere under the baggy wool and homespun, and the somewhat bony facial features did look vaguely feminine, but still...

"Can I help you?"

Burns spoke in a quiet, androgynous-sounding voice as the soldier halted several steps away. Straight blond brows lowered as he - she - it? - scanned them.

"Yeah, uh -." Dean fumbled, evidently having trouble fitting Burns into his mental files, and Sam hastened to save them all from embarrassment.

"Hey, I'm Sam, this is my brother Dean. We got word you're having a little trouble? Bobby Singer sent us to talk to you. We can help."

"Ah." Burns tilted her chin in comprehension. "Trouble. Guess you could call it that. Here."

Burns reached into a dirty canvas haversack that hung at one hip, and rummaged in it for a pencil stub and a small notebook that had seen better days. Long, slender hands, arguably a woman's hands, but the nails were short and the fingers grimy, nothing overtly feminine in her gestures. She scribbled quickly and tore off the page, offering it.

"This here's my address in Biglerville. You boys stop by this evenin', if you like."

She met Dean's gaze as he took it, pale blue eyes opaque, even a bit wary.

"I, ah …" Dean pasted on a smile. "You bet. We'll talk to you later."

Burns nodded once, touched a grubby finger to the brim of her cap, and walked back to her comrades. All of whom eyed Sam and Dean as if they were suspected of stealing the family dog. The brothers took that as their cue to make a prompt exit.

Once clear of the Confederate camp, Dean shook his head. "Okay, now that just weirds me out."

Sam's face crimped into an expression of uncertainty. "Care to elaborate?"

"Because she's not - it's not -."

"It's not normal for women to dress like men? News flash, Dean. Women have been wearing pants in public for like seventy years."

"Yeah, maybe. But they don't hang with guys who look like they're about to strike up a few choruses of Dueling Banjos. Which reminds me, if we see a banjo in her house? We are so outta there"

#

TBC ...

Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six.

.

X-posted to spn_gen, supernaturalfic, and spn_xx

my supernatural fics, my fan fiction

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