Hiatus - Part 2/2 (complete)
Title: Hiatus
Author: debbiel
Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: PG 13 (language, violence)
Warnings: Spoilers through 5X8, vague spoilers through 5X10; turns AU in the middle of the episode, “Changing Channels.”
Genre: gen, h/c
Disclaimer: Not mine
Word count: 11,000 (both parts)
Part 1
“Sam!”
They’re on horseback again. For some reason, Dean is tugging at him, but Sam’s trying not to fall off of the horse this time. He turns and glares, unclear on why Dean is freaking out, but then he sees what Dean sees.
And there is no way-he’s done with this crap. Not just a little bit done. Totally, one hundred percent done.
“Sonofabitch-we have to get out of here!”
Sam crosses his arms against his chest and leans back in the saddle. “You go ahead. I’m not playing this time. I’m sick of this game.”
“What the hell, Sam? We gotta get out of here!”
“I’m done.”
“Damnit, Sam.”
Dean grabs for his reins, but Sam isn’t budging. He has had a very long, very hard day, but this is too much.
“Dude, I need you to focus. We’re being attacked.”
“I can see that. But I’m not doing this scene.”
“We’re being attacked by Indians.”
“Indigenous peoples.”
“What?”
“We’re being attacked by indigenous peoples, not Indians. And there’s no historical record for this kind of attack in the first place.”
“I’m going to kick your ass.” Dean takes a deep breath. “Fine…whatever. This is a crap show…not historical-I get it. But they have bows and arrows.”
Sam tries to find the right words. “Dean, this is the sort of stereotype has been used for hundreds of years to justify systemic western oppression-”
“It’s a TV show!”
“It’s not just a TV show, Dean. Fiction has real life consequences.”
Dean swears under his breath. “Sam, you need to cut it out with this passive aggressive bullshit and-”
There is a hard punch to his shoulder, and for an instant, Sam is sure that his brother just hit him. It’s so immature-punching someone who has a hard enough time staying in the saddle, but when Sam looks up, Dean is yelling at him, but someone has turned off the sound.
Everything shimmers and blurs. Nothing makes sense until Sam glances down and sees the arrow shaft sticking out of his shoulder. He moves his arm experimentally and feels it scrape against bone.
Oh.
Sound and pain roar back in. Dean is yelling at him, but Sam can’t answer because he’s swaying, sliding, falling from the saddle…
CLICK
Sam opens his eyes and groans. Closing them again doesn’t help either. He’d really been hoping for a romantic comedy this time.
But the pain is a bitch, and Dean is huddled over him, poking and prodding at Sam’s torn up shoulder.
It hurts like hell, and Sam tries to see what’s going on.
“Hold still,” Dean snaps. “I swear I’m gonna beat the crap out of you, Sam.”
“What happened?”
“I’m not talking to you.”
“Where’s the arrow? Was it gone when we got here?”
“No…” Dean drags out the single word. “I dug it out, you stupid idiot.”
“Oh. Okay. Dean…I…I think I’m thirsty.”
Dean lifts a canteen to his lips, and Sam can’t get enough water. “That’s plenty. You already puked on me twice.”
“I don’t remember…what happened?”
“What happened…? You went all Gandhi on me, and now I’ve got your blood and guts under my nails.”
“Sorry,” Sam mumbles, and he really is. They’ve patched each other up a hundred times or more, and it’s always awful, never easy.
Dean just glares at him. “Will you please tell me what’s going on? Cause I mean it, Sammy. I really don’t get it.”
Sam grits his teeth as Dean pours whiskey over the open wound. “Damnit Dean, warn me first… that really hurts… I just decided-I just didn’t want to play by his rules anymore.”
“Helluva time to develop a moral stance.”
“Okay. I get it, Dean. I’m sorry. But I still think it was the right thing to do.”
“I’m just trying to understand,” Dean says roughly. “And I’m just not getting where you’re coming from.”
“I was trying to do the right thing,” Sam says, but he doesn’t want to look his brother in the eye. “I just-I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
“You’re supposed to be playing the game-that means playing your part, Sam.”
“I don’t mean here.” Sam wonders how to make…here…encompass life in general. He doesn’t know how to make Dean understand.
“You gotta have your head in it Sam. You’re gonna get us both killed.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“That’s not why I’m pissed…I swear, Sam. Sometimes, it’s like you’re trying to see how far you can take things without getting yourself killed.”
Sam remembers saying the same thing to Dean countless times, but he supposes that Dean’s right. The truth is that Sam doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. Sam would probably have killed himself after Lucifer came to him as Jess, if he hadn’t sworn to bring Sam back to life. Sam isn’t sure he was telling the truth-he’s Satan after all-but there’s a part of him that wants to find out.
He wishes there was a way he could bow out on a good note…something like parachuting behind enemy lines and taking out as many as he can before he goes. But it’s not that simple. Nothing in his life is simple any more.
Dean is frowning, and Sam can tell that he’s trying to understand. Sam wishes he could explain it, but he’s determined not to hurt his brother any more than he needs to.
“Next time I tell you we’re being attacked by Indians-ingenious people-whatever… you run, got it?”
“Indigenous,” Sam corrects with a small smile, but he does get it. He doesn’t want to give up. He wants to be there for Dean. But he’s already screwed so much up-he can’t help but believe that Dean would be safer without him.
Dean starts bandaging the wound with his bandana. “Sorry, I don’t have anything stronger than whiskey, and I used most of that on your shoulder. The arrowhead broke off… had to dig it out. I’m telling you dude, that was the most disgusting clean up job I’ve had to do since you ate that package of bad hot dogs when you were ten.”
Sam remembers that and groans, his stomach rebelling. “Not a good idea before going on the swings.”
“You’re telling me.”
Sam tries to get a better look at the wound. “Did you stitch it already?”
“I don’t think you need stitches. The wound kind of closed up on its own after I got the arrow out. Luckily, there’s not much blood on these shows-”
“What happened to the horses?”
Dean shrugs, but the tense set of his shoulders gives him away. “Don’t know. They were gone once this scene started. Good thing too…no point in ruining a good horse carrying your sorry ass...”
There’s something about the way Dean talks about the horse that makes Sam think about the Impala. He wonders if Dean could fall in love with a horse the same way that he loves his car…
“Hey, stay with me. No crashing, you’ve slept enough, lazy sonofabitch. Always did make me do all the work around here.”
Sam forces himself to keep his eyes open, mostly because he’s missed this. Not the pain or the oozing blood and guts part… but rather the way it feels to know Dean has everything under control.
“What do we do now?”
“I don’t know. As far as I know, no one ever dies from a shoulder wound on a western. They’re usually up and around before the next scene.”
Sam hopes so because this harmless shoulder wound hurts. “I remember you watching those shows all the time. They were so stupid… never could understand what you saw in them.”
Dean makes him drink a little more out of his canteen before he takes some for himself. “They were kind of relaxing, I guess. You always know what’s gonna happen. The bad guys die or they go to jail…the good guys always win, sometimes get the girl. Save some people while they’re at it. Always thought I’d be good at it, you know, being a cowboy. Hard to screw it up.”
“I don’t know…between you and me…we’d have found a way.”
Dean smiles a little, which relaxes Sam more than whiskey ever could. He turns to add more kindling to the fire. Funny… Sam hadn’t noticed the campfire. It feels good, with the sun starting to set behind the ridge and the air getting colder.
Sam tries to take a look around while Dean’s busy. As far as he can tell, there’s not much consistency in the landscape as they switch from scene to scene. Where they are now, rolling hills surround them, studded by an occasional live oak. It reminds Sam of the gold country in Northern California where he and Jess used to go out driving to celebrate being done with finals.
Sam had always been fine with staying home and crashing. He’d have been fine never going on another road trip ever again. But Jess had always been restless and easily bored, kind of like Dean that way. Sam usually went along with what she wanted-like Dean, it was easy to make her happy.
“You still with me?” Dean asks casually, but Sam can hear the worry behind the question.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
But Sam frowns when he catches a glimpse of a small brown bird perched on an upper branch directly overhead. There’s something about the intense way it’s watching him. From his research, Sam knows that tricksters can take on different guises, and he wonders if this is a way the trickster can get a front row seat in the middle of nowhere. Sam’s tempted to throw a rock at it just to see what happens. As if it knows what he’s thinking, the bird steps off the branch and just drops, plunging straight down at them.
For a moment Sam is sure it’s going to crash into Dean’s head, and he grabs for his brother to yank him out of the way. “Dean-look out!”
“What the freakin’ hell are you doing, Sam?”
But at the last possible second, the bird stretches out its wings and lifts up.
“That…that bird,” Sam stammers.
But the bird is already out of sight. Sam’s got to give it credit. More than anyone, he knows how hard is to change directions in the middle of a freefall.
Dean takes hold of his chin and won’t let him look away-something he hasn’t done since Lilith…not since Ruby. Not since life and death and hell and the apocalypse came between them.
“What’s going on with you, Sam?”
“I-I can’t explain. It’s complicated.”
“It can’t be that complicated. But dude, you’re all over the map. One minute, you’ll do whatever I want-all I gotta do is ask. Next thing you wanna make deals. Now it’s like you just wanna give up. Let yourself get shot by a freakin’ arrow ‘cause you’re tired of playing-”
“That’s not fair, Dean. I wasn’t trying to get shot.”
“Sam, I need you back in the game, and I feel like you’re just along for the ride. We can’t afford that.” Dean is eying him with a look that Sam can’t place.
“It’s not that simple.”
Dean lets go and sits back on his heels. “You’re wrong, Sammy, it’s real simple. Bad guys shoot at us-we shoot back. Let’s just have some fun with it while we can.”
“What we’re up against is a helluva lot bigger than that, and you know it, Dean.”
“Maybe. But maybe it’s just the same old story. We keep worrying about the size of it, and that’s what’s getting in our way.”
“So what? Kicking Lucifer’s ass should be just like any old shootout?”
“It’s not like we’ve got much choice.”
Sam thinks about it. His shoulder hurts like hell, and he’s weary to the bone and exhausted. But maybe, Dean’s right. Maybe-
CLICK
They’re standing in the middle of the dirt road that cuts through the center of town. Sam immediately starts to crumple, but it’s the vertigo more than his shoulder. Dean grabs onto him anyway.
“You okay? How’s your shoulder?”
Sam immediately unfastens the first few buttons of his newly mended shirt because he knows Dean won’t quit fussing until he checks it for himself.
“How does it look?”
“It’s good.” Dean grins at him, looking insufferably pleased with himself. “Tells you something about my superior doctoring skills. My back still hurts from you butchering it.”
“The penknife was dull,” Sam protests, but he wonders if they’re going to end up carrying these stupid scars along with all the others.
“So, seriously-your shoulder good enough to use it?”
The wound is a phantom pain of what it was; Dean must have been right about the miraculous healing powers of shoulder wounds on westerns.
Sam shrugs. “Good enough. They even fixed my shirt. Don’t these guys ever change clothes?”
“Not much room in a bedroll for a change of clothing.”
“Right, because they’re really striving for realism…” Sam scoffs, as they slowly start making their way down the street.
Sam is thinking that the town is deserted, until a lone door bangs open. A little girl comes running out of the mercantile.
“You’re here! You’re finally here. I told them you’d come to save us.”
Doors on either side of the street cautiously creak open, and townspeople begin streaming out from the wooden storefronts.
Just like the kid, they’re smiling and all look immeasurably relieved.
“Thank God!” An old man gets to them first, and he pumps Sam’s hand so hard that his shoulder starts aching after all. “We thought you’d never get here.”
Sam pulls back but Dean has a hand on the old man’s shoulder and is asking him gently what is wrong. He is immediately surrounded, and Sam retreats even further. He’s not sure why, but he really wants Dean to take this one for himself.
He can hear them talking. It’s all the same old thing… the Bartleby boys and showdowns and impending doom. He wants to get away from all of it, to escape, to just be on his own.
Sam remembers what it felt like to go on that drinking jag before Ruby pulled him out. He remembers waking up to a bottle, turning the phone off, not listening to his messages. He would close the motel curtains and lock the door.
Usually, he’d started with wine, moved up to beer, and finished the night with Jack Daniels. After Ruby came, the booze went away, but the real addiction was just getting started…
Sam takes another step back, away from Dean and the people who need him as their savior. He wonders if this is what the trickster wanted him to see-the person his brother should have been. The person he might have been without the burden of a cursed little brother always weighing him down.
Sam keeps backing up. It would be easy to fall back into old habits. He can remember what it felt like, drinking alone in the dark, holding the real world at bay. He’s in the shadows now, but Dean is too busy to notice. He can read Dean’s body language-he’s organizing the townspeople, coming up with a plan, and Sam believes it could work just because it’s Dean.
He takes a step back and then another. It would be so easy to keep going, so easy to walk away…if it wasn’t for Dean, there would nothing tying him to anything in this life, not any more.
“That’s not the answer,” a quiet voice says, and Sam instinctively reaches for his gun. Her hand grips his wrist, and the hold is shocking-too strong to be human. “You can’t leave your brother-you’re bound together to finish this.”
It’s the woman from the saloon, but she’s different somehow. Sam can see the translucence of her skin, light and air rather than blood and bones. He’s reminded of Castiel and worries for a moment, hopes the angel is all right, even though Cas only tolerates him for Dean’s sake.
“Who are you?”
She shakes her head. “Not yet, not now.” Together, they stand in the shadows watching Dean placate the crowd. “Your brother’s good at this.”
“My brother deserves better than this.”
“So do you,” she says softly.
“I don’t deserve anything.”
“Sam, don’t forget that God took pity on Cain.”
Sam stares at her, scowling. “Okay, that’s a little random.”
“You see yourself as cursed, like Cain. But God took pity on Cain. He didn’t kill him.”
“Cain killed his brother. Do you think maybe that’s not the best story to try and comfort me with?”
She smiles. “I’m not trying to comfort you, Sam. I just need you to accept that your life isn’t over.”
He stares at her. “Who are you?”
She holds onto his arm so tightly it hurts. “Remember who you were. Remember who you still are.”
How can he forget? Because his problem is not in forgetting-it’s in remembering all of it, too much. Because he remembers Ruby in his arms and the taste of blood in his mouth. He remembers the power he was entitled to, the joy and terror of it, the power of life and death over demons, and he misses it. He misses it so fucking much.
“And yet you abstain,” she says, letting go of his arm. The compassion in her eyes scares the hell out of him.
There is a slow, methodical clapping coming from beside them. Sam is supposed to be this awesome hunter, and yet he keeps letting supernatural beings get the drop on him.
It’s the trickster of course, and he looks furious. “Thank you very much,” he says to both of them. “You’ve managed to turn my favorite western into a soap opera. Cue the violins.” Sam hears violins start up in the background. But the trickster’s barely contained rage is directed at her, not Sam. “What are you doing here? This is my show.”
“Change the channel then,” she tells him coldly. “Sam and Dean already won this round.”
“But you didn’t win this round, did you?” the trickster sneers. “Look at him, your gifted hard-luck case-he’s still standing on the sidelines.”
Sam doesn’t know what’s going on, but he doesn’t have time for it anyway. “I’ve got to go help my brother.”
“Impossible odds,” the trickster snaps. “Why don’t you just sit this one out, Sam? Dean has a better chance on his own.”
Of course this is absolutely the wrong thing to say. The trickster doesn’t fully understand stubborn humans-impossible odds are the Winchester birthright. It doesn’t change anything, but maybe the woman’s right, whoever the hell she is. Maybe the fact that he hasn’t fallen off the wagon yet is something. It’s not enough to make up for any of it. But it’s something.
Besides, Sam’s here, and it looks like Dean could use a hand.
“Keep out of our way, and enjoy the show,” he tells the trickster wearily. He steps out of the shadows and joins his brother.
“Where you been?” Dean is obviously pissed.
“Just working stuff out,” Sam says carefully. He doesn’t want Dean to go off half-cocked after the trickster. They’ve got a job to do and don’t need to be distracted. “What’s the deal?”
Dean gives him a hard look but hands him a crate. “I guess Mrs. Bartleby was pretty damn efficient at cranking out babies because as far as I can tell, there are about fifty of them coming to town, and they’re all outlaws.”
“So, we’re trying to stop them with…crates and barrels?”
“Can’t have a shootout without having a way to take cover.” Dean throws a crate on top of the others.
“I take it you and I are holding off all fifty Bartleby boys on our own?”
Dean snorts. “Nothing new, huh Sammy? All these fine citizens say they’re gonna help hold them off, but I’ll believe it when I see it. I’m only counting on me and you.”
“Still…” Sam looks around at the barricade. “You did a good job at getting the civilians on board. You’re good at this, Dean.”
Dean straightens the crate and looks at him strangely. “You feeling okay?”
“Yeah. I’m okay.” And strangely enough, he means it.
The two of them know that sometimes okay is pretty damn good. This is what they do, what they’re good at.
“They’re coming!” a terrified voice cries out. “The Bartleby boys are here!”
Sure enough, the townspeople go running, and it’s just Sam and Dean alone in the street. Sam realizes that he doesn’t mind-this is the way it’s always been, the way they were raised was to save the day. They don’t need civilians to worry about.
The outlaws ride down the center of the street, and Sam figures that fifty is an exaggeration though not by much-forty is probably more like it. They’re garbed in black from head to toe, and each has a hand poised on his holster.
“What do you think?” Dean mutters in a low voice.
Sam thinks they’re screwed, but he says, “I think we can take them,” and they both crack up just because they still can.
“Now you’re talking, Sammy. Okay, on the count of three.”
They look at each other longer than they need to and step out from behind the barricade.
And that’s when everything freezes.
“Hold it, hold it! This is stupid!” The trickster walks out into the street. Dean goes for his gun, but Sam grabs his arm. “So you two idiots are going to sacrifice yourselves on some stupid western so the real world can go down in flames? Hello! Apocalypse? Lucifer walking the world ring a bell?”
“You told us to play along.” Dean’s voice is admirably steady, but Sam can feel his brother’s arm shaking from the restraint it takes not to shoot the sonofabitch where he stands.
The trickster sighs dramatically. “I don’t know why I bother.”
Sam says, “We’re doing what you wanted. We’re playing your game, now why don’t you just let us get back to it. We don’t have time to waste on you.”
“You’re talking to me about wasting time? What the hell have you two been doing since setting off the apocalypse? Killing a few ghosts, bitchslapping a few demons? You’re busy playing cowboys and Indians while the world is crawling toward Armageddon.”
“And whose fault is that?” Dean retorts angrily. “We’re stuck here because you put us here.”
“You should be thanking me. I’ve only given you what you wanted.”
“And what’s that? A cowboy hat? No thank you.” Dean’s voice is heavy with sarcasm, but Sam knows he’s not being entirely honest. Dean likes the cowboy hat. He likes this job of working with civilians, making sure justice is done.
“No. Endless opportunities to sacrifice yourself for unworthy human beings who don’t deserve it. Humanity sucks, gentlemen.”
“Methinks that the so-called trickster protests too much,” the woman calls out.
She walks into the middle of the street to stand between them.
“Who’s this?” Dean asks at the same time the trickster demands, “I want you to leave my show now!”
She tells Dean, “I’m here for Sam.”
Dean stiffens, and the idiot actually gets in front of him, like his sheer presence is going to keep the all-powerful yet mysterious being from messing with his kid brother.
“You always were the bleeding heart,” the trickster sneers at her, but there’s raw anger in his voice that Sam does not understand.
“Let them go,” the woman says. “You’ve had your fun.”
“Not done yet.”
“Then change the channel. Put them on a different show. They’ve won this one....”
“Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” Dean snaps.
The trickster turns back to Dean. “You’re destiny’s dupe, aren’t you pal, just as much as your junkie brother. Born in the wrong place and time. But I think you’ve enjoyed this one a little too much.”
There’s no amusement in Dean’s voice when he says, “You almost killed my brother for your entertainment. Not my idea of fun.”
“Lighten up.” The trickster rolls his eyes. “You got to be the good guys, I’m sure you’d have killed every Bartleby boy in cold blood. So you win…you passed-you saved the day. On to the next show-” He turns to the woman. “Satisfied?”
He raises his hand and is poised to snap his fingers when she orders, “Wait!”
“What now?”
“Give them one more scene. They earned it.”
“Who is she?” Dean asks under his breath, but Sam shakes his head. He really doesn’t know, and he’s afraid to believe she’s what she seems to be. They’ve both seen too much to believe that any powerful being has the Winchesters’ best interests at heart.
A little sulkily, the trickster complains, “You were the one who told me to change channels.”
“They deserve a happy ending for this one.” She sees Sam staring and smiles with that odd compassion that makes him feel so unsettled inside. “Sam, you need to find a way to be happy again.”
“Oh please… happiness?” The trickster asks mockingly. “Still idealistic after all these years?”
“I’m done. You can have your game. Just-give them their scene.” Sam shudders at the raw authority in her voice.
Before she disappears, Sam could swear he catches a glimpse of polished steel, the shadow of dark and powerful wings. Of majesty…
And he still has no idea how it’s supposed to fit into a western.
“You sure know how to pick ‘em, Sammy,” Dean mutters under his breath.
Looking miffed, the trickster turns back to Sam and Dean. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
And he snaps his fingers.
CLICK
The wind is warm against Sam’s face. In his whole life, he has never thought about the sound that horse hooves make when at a full gallop-Sam has no idea how much time they have left, but he’s glad he’s had the chance to know it for himself.
Dean’s ahead, but not by much. He glances back at Sam, pure glee all over his face, and it’s worth a lot to see Dean look like that. It’s selfish-they have things to do, people to save. Sam is responsible for damning the world-he doesn’t deserve this kind of simple pleasure.
“Stop thinking!” Dean shouts over his shoulder. “Just ride, Sammy!”
Speed junkie that he’s always been, Dean kicks the horse’s side and is off. Sam’s choking in the dust kicked up in Dean’s wake…it’s no different in this world than the real one. Sam will never catch up. Dean is the one chosen by angels.
But that doesn’t mean he can’t try.
Sam leans over his horse’s neck, pushing the reins forward. He has no idea if he’s doing it right, but it feels good, and the horse picks up speed. They race across fields of wild grasses, dotted with morning glories and asters.
Twisting back to look at him, Dean shouts, “Hey, Sammy! You need me to slow down?”
“I’m right behind you, jerk!” Sam shouts back indignantly.
“First one who rides into the sunset wins!” Dean is still looking over his shoulder, and he’s grinning so hard his face must hurt. Sam wonders if life could really be this easy.
“You’re a pain in the ass,” Sam yells, leaning forward and willing his horse to keep up. “And watch where you’re going-you’re gonna break your neck!”
Dean just laughs, and Sam knows that they’re not breaking their necks-not today. He can feel the sun on his face, the wind at his back, and it feels like he is flying. None of this is real-it’s just a hiatus-a respite granted by an indolent god. Won’t be long before it’s snatched out from under them.
But for now, it’s good enough-it’s better than good. It’s just the two of them riding across an empty field with their whole lives ahead of them. For now…this is their happy ending.
CLICK
Author: debbiel
Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: PG 13 (language, violence)
Warnings: Spoilers through 5X8, vague spoilers through 5X10; turns AU in the middle of the episode, “Changing Channels.”
Genre: gen, h/c
Disclaimer: Not mine
Word count: 11,000 (both parts)
Part 1
“Sam!”
They’re on horseback again. For some reason, Dean is tugging at him, but Sam’s trying not to fall off of the horse this time. He turns and glares, unclear on why Dean is freaking out, but then he sees what Dean sees.
And there is no way-he’s done with this crap. Not just a little bit done. Totally, one hundred percent done.
“Sonofabitch-we have to get out of here!”
Sam crosses his arms against his chest and leans back in the saddle. “You go ahead. I’m not playing this time. I’m sick of this game.”
“What the hell, Sam? We gotta get out of here!”
“I’m done.”
“Damnit, Sam.”
Dean grabs for his reins, but Sam isn’t budging. He has had a very long, very hard day, but this is too much.
“Dude, I need you to focus. We’re being attacked.”
“I can see that. But I’m not doing this scene.”
“We’re being attacked by Indians.”
“Indigenous peoples.”
“What?”
“We’re being attacked by indigenous peoples, not Indians. And there’s no historical record for this kind of attack in the first place.”
“I’m going to kick your ass.” Dean takes a deep breath. “Fine…whatever. This is a crap show…not historical-I get it. But they have bows and arrows.”
Sam tries to find the right words. “Dean, this is the sort of stereotype has been used for hundreds of years to justify systemic western oppression-”
“It’s a TV show!”
“It’s not just a TV show, Dean. Fiction has real life consequences.”
Dean swears under his breath. “Sam, you need to cut it out with this passive aggressive bullshit and-”
There is a hard punch to his shoulder, and for an instant, Sam is sure that his brother just hit him. It’s so immature-punching someone who has a hard enough time staying in the saddle, but when Sam looks up, Dean is yelling at him, but someone has turned off the sound.
Everything shimmers and blurs. Nothing makes sense until Sam glances down and sees the arrow shaft sticking out of his shoulder. He moves his arm experimentally and feels it scrape against bone.
Oh.
Sound and pain roar back in. Dean is yelling at him, but Sam can’t answer because he’s swaying, sliding, falling from the saddle…
CLICK
Sam opens his eyes and groans. Closing them again doesn’t help either. He’d really been hoping for a romantic comedy this time.
But the pain is a bitch, and Dean is huddled over him, poking and prodding at Sam’s torn up shoulder.
It hurts like hell, and Sam tries to see what’s going on.
“Hold still,” Dean snaps. “I swear I’m gonna beat the crap out of you, Sam.”
“What happened?”
“I’m not talking to you.”
“Where’s the arrow? Was it gone when we got here?”
“No…” Dean drags out the single word. “I dug it out, you stupid idiot.”
“Oh. Okay. Dean…I…I think I’m thirsty.”
Dean lifts a canteen to his lips, and Sam can’t get enough water. “That’s plenty. You already puked on me twice.”
“I don’t remember…what happened?”
“What happened…? You went all Gandhi on me, and now I’ve got your blood and guts under my nails.”
“Sorry,” Sam mumbles, and he really is. They’ve patched each other up a hundred times or more, and it’s always awful, never easy.
Dean just glares at him. “Will you please tell me what’s going on? Cause I mean it, Sammy. I really don’t get it.”
Sam grits his teeth as Dean pours whiskey over the open wound. “Damnit Dean, warn me first… that really hurts… I just decided-I just didn’t want to play by his rules anymore.”
“Helluva time to develop a moral stance.”
“Okay. I get it, Dean. I’m sorry. But I still think it was the right thing to do.”
“I’m just trying to understand,” Dean says roughly. “And I’m just not getting where you’re coming from.”
“I was trying to do the right thing,” Sam says, but he doesn’t want to look his brother in the eye. “I just-I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
“You’re supposed to be playing the game-that means playing your part, Sam.”
“I don’t mean here.” Sam wonders how to make…here…encompass life in general. He doesn’t know how to make Dean understand.
“You gotta have your head in it Sam. You’re gonna get us both killed.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“That’s not why I’m pissed…I swear, Sam. Sometimes, it’s like you’re trying to see how far you can take things without getting yourself killed.”
Sam remembers saying the same thing to Dean countless times, but he supposes that Dean’s right. The truth is that Sam doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. Sam would probably have killed himself after Lucifer came to him as Jess, if he hadn’t sworn to bring Sam back to life. Sam isn’t sure he was telling the truth-he’s Satan after all-but there’s a part of him that wants to find out.
He wishes there was a way he could bow out on a good note…something like parachuting behind enemy lines and taking out as many as he can before he goes. But it’s not that simple. Nothing in his life is simple any more.
Dean is frowning, and Sam can tell that he’s trying to understand. Sam wishes he could explain it, but he’s determined not to hurt his brother any more than he needs to.
“Next time I tell you we’re being attacked by Indians-ingenious people-whatever… you run, got it?”
“Indigenous,” Sam corrects with a small smile, but he does get it. He doesn’t want to give up. He wants to be there for Dean. But he’s already screwed so much up-he can’t help but believe that Dean would be safer without him.
Dean starts bandaging the wound with his bandana. “Sorry, I don’t have anything stronger than whiskey, and I used most of that on your shoulder. The arrowhead broke off… had to dig it out. I’m telling you dude, that was the most disgusting clean up job I’ve had to do since you ate that package of bad hot dogs when you were ten.”
Sam remembers that and groans, his stomach rebelling. “Not a good idea before going on the swings.”
“You’re telling me.”
Sam tries to get a better look at the wound. “Did you stitch it already?”
“I don’t think you need stitches. The wound kind of closed up on its own after I got the arrow out. Luckily, there’s not much blood on these shows-”
“What happened to the horses?”
Dean shrugs, but the tense set of his shoulders gives him away. “Don’t know. They were gone once this scene started. Good thing too…no point in ruining a good horse carrying your sorry ass...”
There’s something about the way Dean talks about the horse that makes Sam think about the Impala. He wonders if Dean could fall in love with a horse the same way that he loves his car…
“Hey, stay with me. No crashing, you’ve slept enough, lazy sonofabitch. Always did make me do all the work around here.”
Sam forces himself to keep his eyes open, mostly because he’s missed this. Not the pain or the oozing blood and guts part… but rather the way it feels to know Dean has everything under control.
“What do we do now?”
“I don’t know. As far as I know, no one ever dies from a shoulder wound on a western. They’re usually up and around before the next scene.”
Sam hopes so because this harmless shoulder wound hurts. “I remember you watching those shows all the time. They were so stupid… never could understand what you saw in them.”
Dean makes him drink a little more out of his canteen before he takes some for himself. “They were kind of relaxing, I guess. You always know what’s gonna happen. The bad guys die or they go to jail…the good guys always win, sometimes get the girl. Save some people while they’re at it. Always thought I’d be good at it, you know, being a cowboy. Hard to screw it up.”
“I don’t know…between you and me…we’d have found a way.”
Dean smiles a little, which relaxes Sam more than whiskey ever could. He turns to add more kindling to the fire. Funny… Sam hadn’t noticed the campfire. It feels good, with the sun starting to set behind the ridge and the air getting colder.
Sam tries to take a look around while Dean’s busy. As far as he can tell, there’s not much consistency in the landscape as they switch from scene to scene. Where they are now, rolling hills surround them, studded by an occasional live oak. It reminds Sam of the gold country in Northern California where he and Jess used to go out driving to celebrate being done with finals.
Sam had always been fine with staying home and crashing. He’d have been fine never going on another road trip ever again. But Jess had always been restless and easily bored, kind of like Dean that way. Sam usually went along with what she wanted-like Dean, it was easy to make her happy.
“You still with me?” Dean asks casually, but Sam can hear the worry behind the question.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
But Sam frowns when he catches a glimpse of a small brown bird perched on an upper branch directly overhead. There’s something about the intense way it’s watching him. From his research, Sam knows that tricksters can take on different guises, and he wonders if this is a way the trickster can get a front row seat in the middle of nowhere. Sam’s tempted to throw a rock at it just to see what happens. As if it knows what he’s thinking, the bird steps off the branch and just drops, plunging straight down at them.
For a moment Sam is sure it’s going to crash into Dean’s head, and he grabs for his brother to yank him out of the way. “Dean-look out!”
“What the freakin’ hell are you doing, Sam?”
But at the last possible second, the bird stretches out its wings and lifts up.
“That…that bird,” Sam stammers.
But the bird is already out of sight. Sam’s got to give it credit. More than anyone, he knows how hard is to change directions in the middle of a freefall.
Dean takes hold of his chin and won’t let him look away-something he hasn’t done since Lilith…not since Ruby. Not since life and death and hell and the apocalypse came between them.
“What’s going on with you, Sam?”
“I-I can’t explain. It’s complicated.”
“It can’t be that complicated. But dude, you’re all over the map. One minute, you’ll do whatever I want-all I gotta do is ask. Next thing you wanna make deals. Now it’s like you just wanna give up. Let yourself get shot by a freakin’ arrow ‘cause you’re tired of playing-”
“That’s not fair, Dean. I wasn’t trying to get shot.”
“Sam, I need you back in the game, and I feel like you’re just along for the ride. We can’t afford that.” Dean is eying him with a look that Sam can’t place.
“It’s not that simple.”
Dean lets go and sits back on his heels. “You’re wrong, Sammy, it’s real simple. Bad guys shoot at us-we shoot back. Let’s just have some fun with it while we can.”
“What we’re up against is a helluva lot bigger than that, and you know it, Dean.”
“Maybe. But maybe it’s just the same old story. We keep worrying about the size of it, and that’s what’s getting in our way.”
“So what? Kicking Lucifer’s ass should be just like any old shootout?”
“It’s not like we’ve got much choice.”
Sam thinks about it. His shoulder hurts like hell, and he’s weary to the bone and exhausted. But maybe, Dean’s right. Maybe-
CLICK
They’re standing in the middle of the dirt road that cuts through the center of town. Sam immediately starts to crumple, but it’s the vertigo more than his shoulder. Dean grabs onto him anyway.
“You okay? How’s your shoulder?”
Sam immediately unfastens the first few buttons of his newly mended shirt because he knows Dean won’t quit fussing until he checks it for himself.
“How does it look?”
“It’s good.” Dean grins at him, looking insufferably pleased with himself. “Tells you something about my superior doctoring skills. My back still hurts from you butchering it.”
“The penknife was dull,” Sam protests, but he wonders if they’re going to end up carrying these stupid scars along with all the others.
“So, seriously-your shoulder good enough to use it?”
The wound is a phantom pain of what it was; Dean must have been right about the miraculous healing powers of shoulder wounds on westerns.
Sam shrugs. “Good enough. They even fixed my shirt. Don’t these guys ever change clothes?”
“Not much room in a bedroll for a change of clothing.”
“Right, because they’re really striving for realism…” Sam scoffs, as they slowly start making their way down the street.
Sam is thinking that the town is deserted, until a lone door bangs open. A little girl comes running out of the mercantile.
“You’re here! You’re finally here. I told them you’d come to save us.”
Doors on either side of the street cautiously creak open, and townspeople begin streaming out from the wooden storefronts.
Just like the kid, they’re smiling and all look immeasurably relieved.
“Thank God!” An old man gets to them first, and he pumps Sam’s hand so hard that his shoulder starts aching after all. “We thought you’d never get here.”
Sam pulls back but Dean has a hand on the old man’s shoulder and is asking him gently what is wrong. He is immediately surrounded, and Sam retreats even further. He’s not sure why, but he really wants Dean to take this one for himself.
He can hear them talking. It’s all the same old thing… the Bartleby boys and showdowns and impending doom. He wants to get away from all of it, to escape, to just be on his own.
Sam remembers what it felt like to go on that drinking jag before Ruby pulled him out. He remembers waking up to a bottle, turning the phone off, not listening to his messages. He would close the motel curtains and lock the door.
Usually, he’d started with wine, moved up to beer, and finished the night with Jack Daniels. After Ruby came, the booze went away, but the real addiction was just getting started…
Sam takes another step back, away from Dean and the people who need him as their savior. He wonders if this is what the trickster wanted him to see-the person his brother should have been. The person he might have been without the burden of a cursed little brother always weighing him down.
Sam keeps backing up. It would be easy to fall back into old habits. He can remember what it felt like, drinking alone in the dark, holding the real world at bay. He’s in the shadows now, but Dean is too busy to notice. He can read Dean’s body language-he’s organizing the townspeople, coming up with a plan, and Sam believes it could work just because it’s Dean.
He takes a step back and then another. It would be so easy to keep going, so easy to walk away…if it wasn’t for Dean, there would nothing tying him to anything in this life, not any more.
“That’s not the answer,” a quiet voice says, and Sam instinctively reaches for his gun. Her hand grips his wrist, and the hold is shocking-too strong to be human. “You can’t leave your brother-you’re bound together to finish this.”
It’s the woman from the saloon, but she’s different somehow. Sam can see the translucence of her skin, light and air rather than blood and bones. He’s reminded of Castiel and worries for a moment, hopes the angel is all right, even though Cas only tolerates him for Dean’s sake.
“Who are you?”
She shakes her head. “Not yet, not now.” Together, they stand in the shadows watching Dean placate the crowd. “Your brother’s good at this.”
“My brother deserves better than this.”
“So do you,” she says softly.
“I don’t deserve anything.”
“Sam, don’t forget that God took pity on Cain.”
Sam stares at her, scowling. “Okay, that’s a little random.”
“You see yourself as cursed, like Cain. But God took pity on Cain. He didn’t kill him.”
“Cain killed his brother. Do you think maybe that’s not the best story to try and comfort me with?”
She smiles. “I’m not trying to comfort you, Sam. I just need you to accept that your life isn’t over.”
He stares at her. “Who are you?”
She holds onto his arm so tightly it hurts. “Remember who you were. Remember who you still are.”
How can he forget? Because his problem is not in forgetting-it’s in remembering all of it, too much. Because he remembers Ruby in his arms and the taste of blood in his mouth. He remembers the power he was entitled to, the joy and terror of it, the power of life and death over demons, and he misses it. He misses it so fucking much.
“And yet you abstain,” she says, letting go of his arm. The compassion in her eyes scares the hell out of him.
There is a slow, methodical clapping coming from beside them. Sam is supposed to be this awesome hunter, and yet he keeps letting supernatural beings get the drop on him.
It’s the trickster of course, and he looks furious. “Thank you very much,” he says to both of them. “You’ve managed to turn my favorite western into a soap opera. Cue the violins.” Sam hears violins start up in the background. But the trickster’s barely contained rage is directed at her, not Sam. “What are you doing here? This is my show.”
“Change the channel then,” she tells him coldly. “Sam and Dean already won this round.”
“But you didn’t win this round, did you?” the trickster sneers. “Look at him, your gifted hard-luck case-he’s still standing on the sidelines.”
Sam doesn’t know what’s going on, but he doesn’t have time for it anyway. “I’ve got to go help my brother.”
“Impossible odds,” the trickster snaps. “Why don’t you just sit this one out, Sam? Dean has a better chance on his own.”
Of course this is absolutely the wrong thing to say. The trickster doesn’t fully understand stubborn humans-impossible odds are the Winchester birthright. It doesn’t change anything, but maybe the woman’s right, whoever the hell she is. Maybe the fact that he hasn’t fallen off the wagon yet is something. It’s not enough to make up for any of it. But it’s something.
Besides, Sam’s here, and it looks like Dean could use a hand.
“Keep out of our way, and enjoy the show,” he tells the trickster wearily. He steps out of the shadows and joins his brother.
“Where you been?” Dean is obviously pissed.
“Just working stuff out,” Sam says carefully. He doesn’t want Dean to go off half-cocked after the trickster. They’ve got a job to do and don’t need to be distracted. “What’s the deal?”
Dean gives him a hard look but hands him a crate. “I guess Mrs. Bartleby was pretty damn efficient at cranking out babies because as far as I can tell, there are about fifty of them coming to town, and they’re all outlaws.”
“So, we’re trying to stop them with…crates and barrels?”
“Can’t have a shootout without having a way to take cover.” Dean throws a crate on top of the others.
“I take it you and I are holding off all fifty Bartleby boys on our own?”
Dean snorts. “Nothing new, huh Sammy? All these fine citizens say they’re gonna help hold them off, but I’ll believe it when I see it. I’m only counting on me and you.”
“Still…” Sam looks around at the barricade. “You did a good job at getting the civilians on board. You’re good at this, Dean.”
Dean straightens the crate and looks at him strangely. “You feeling okay?”
“Yeah. I’m okay.” And strangely enough, he means it.
The two of them know that sometimes okay is pretty damn good. This is what they do, what they’re good at.
“They’re coming!” a terrified voice cries out. “The Bartleby boys are here!”
Sure enough, the townspeople go running, and it’s just Sam and Dean alone in the street. Sam realizes that he doesn’t mind-this is the way it’s always been, the way they were raised was to save the day. They don’t need civilians to worry about.
The outlaws ride down the center of the street, and Sam figures that fifty is an exaggeration though not by much-forty is probably more like it. They’re garbed in black from head to toe, and each has a hand poised on his holster.
“What do you think?” Dean mutters in a low voice.
Sam thinks they’re screwed, but he says, “I think we can take them,” and they both crack up just because they still can.
“Now you’re talking, Sammy. Okay, on the count of three.”
They look at each other longer than they need to and step out from behind the barricade.
And that’s when everything freezes.
“Hold it, hold it! This is stupid!” The trickster walks out into the street. Dean goes for his gun, but Sam grabs his arm. “So you two idiots are going to sacrifice yourselves on some stupid western so the real world can go down in flames? Hello! Apocalypse? Lucifer walking the world ring a bell?”
“You told us to play along.” Dean’s voice is admirably steady, but Sam can feel his brother’s arm shaking from the restraint it takes not to shoot the sonofabitch where he stands.
The trickster sighs dramatically. “I don’t know why I bother.”
Sam says, “We’re doing what you wanted. We’re playing your game, now why don’t you just let us get back to it. We don’t have time to waste on you.”
“You’re talking to me about wasting time? What the hell have you two been doing since setting off the apocalypse? Killing a few ghosts, bitchslapping a few demons? You’re busy playing cowboys and Indians while the world is crawling toward Armageddon.”
“And whose fault is that?” Dean retorts angrily. “We’re stuck here because you put us here.”
“You should be thanking me. I’ve only given you what you wanted.”
“And what’s that? A cowboy hat? No thank you.” Dean’s voice is heavy with sarcasm, but Sam knows he’s not being entirely honest. Dean likes the cowboy hat. He likes this job of working with civilians, making sure justice is done.
“No. Endless opportunities to sacrifice yourself for unworthy human beings who don’t deserve it. Humanity sucks, gentlemen.”
“Methinks that the so-called trickster protests too much,” the woman calls out.
She walks into the middle of the street to stand between them.
“Who’s this?” Dean asks at the same time the trickster demands, “I want you to leave my show now!”
She tells Dean, “I’m here for Sam.”
Dean stiffens, and the idiot actually gets in front of him, like his sheer presence is going to keep the all-powerful yet mysterious being from messing with his kid brother.
“You always were the bleeding heart,” the trickster sneers at her, but there’s raw anger in his voice that Sam does not understand.
“Let them go,” the woman says. “You’ve had your fun.”
“Not done yet.”
“Then change the channel. Put them on a different show. They’ve won this one....”
“Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” Dean snaps.
The trickster turns back to Dean. “You’re destiny’s dupe, aren’t you pal, just as much as your junkie brother. Born in the wrong place and time. But I think you’ve enjoyed this one a little too much.”
There’s no amusement in Dean’s voice when he says, “You almost killed my brother for your entertainment. Not my idea of fun.”
“Lighten up.” The trickster rolls his eyes. “You got to be the good guys, I’m sure you’d have killed every Bartleby boy in cold blood. So you win…you passed-you saved the day. On to the next show-” He turns to the woman. “Satisfied?”
He raises his hand and is poised to snap his fingers when she orders, “Wait!”
“What now?”
“Give them one more scene. They earned it.”
“Who is she?” Dean asks under his breath, but Sam shakes his head. He really doesn’t know, and he’s afraid to believe she’s what she seems to be. They’ve both seen too much to believe that any powerful being has the Winchesters’ best interests at heart.
A little sulkily, the trickster complains, “You were the one who told me to change channels.”
“They deserve a happy ending for this one.” She sees Sam staring and smiles with that odd compassion that makes him feel so unsettled inside. “Sam, you need to find a way to be happy again.”
“Oh please… happiness?” The trickster asks mockingly. “Still idealistic after all these years?”
“I’m done. You can have your game. Just-give them their scene.” Sam shudders at the raw authority in her voice.
Before she disappears, Sam could swear he catches a glimpse of polished steel, the shadow of dark and powerful wings. Of majesty…
And he still has no idea how it’s supposed to fit into a western.
“You sure know how to pick ‘em, Sammy,” Dean mutters under his breath.
Looking miffed, the trickster turns back to Sam and Dean. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
And he snaps his fingers.
CLICK
The wind is warm against Sam’s face. In his whole life, he has never thought about the sound that horse hooves make when at a full gallop-Sam has no idea how much time they have left, but he’s glad he’s had the chance to know it for himself.
Dean’s ahead, but not by much. He glances back at Sam, pure glee all over his face, and it’s worth a lot to see Dean look like that. It’s selfish-they have things to do, people to save. Sam is responsible for damning the world-he doesn’t deserve this kind of simple pleasure.
“Stop thinking!” Dean shouts over his shoulder. “Just ride, Sammy!”
Speed junkie that he’s always been, Dean kicks the horse’s side and is off. Sam’s choking in the dust kicked up in Dean’s wake…it’s no different in this world than the real one. Sam will never catch up. Dean is the one chosen by angels.
But that doesn’t mean he can’t try.
Sam leans over his horse’s neck, pushing the reins forward. He has no idea if he’s doing it right, but it feels good, and the horse picks up speed. They race across fields of wild grasses, dotted with morning glories and asters.
Twisting back to look at him, Dean shouts, “Hey, Sammy! You need me to slow down?”
“I’m right behind you, jerk!” Sam shouts back indignantly.
“First one who rides into the sunset wins!” Dean is still looking over his shoulder, and he’s grinning so hard his face must hurt. Sam wonders if life could really be this easy.
“You’re a pain in the ass,” Sam yells, leaning forward and willing his horse to keep up. “And watch where you’re going-you’re gonna break your neck!”
Dean just laughs, and Sam knows that they’re not breaking their necks-not today. He can feel the sun on his face, the wind at his back, and it feels like he is flying. None of this is real-it’s just a hiatus-a respite granted by an indolent god. Won’t be long before it’s snatched out from under them.
But for now, it’s good enough-it’s better than good. It’s just the two of them riding across an empty field with their whole lives ahead of them. For now…this is their happy ending.
CLICK