Last of the Breed Chapter 3
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Chapter 3
Go Down Gambling
THE QUEEN IS DEAD
―
LONG LIVE THE KING
-front page headline of the Carson City Morning Appeal, special mid-day edition, January 22, 1901
Tuesday the 22nd dawned bright and clear, and with their spirits bolstered by laudanum and their plan and the fact that they had the house to themselves, Sam and Dean came to breakfast singing Aerosmith at the tops of their lungs and very slightly off key. Lisa laughed at them, and Dean kissed her.
“Hey, Lisa, any chance of getting our Fed suits cleaned by Thursday?” Sam asked. “They’re gettin’ pretty gross, after nine days on the back of a saddle in a bedroll.”
Lisa shrugged. “Sure. The local place even does dry cleaning now, and they advertise next-day service.”
Dean grinned. “Awesome.” And he kissed her again.
She pushed at his shoulder. “Oh, Dean, sit down and eat your breakfast. Ham and eggs?”
“Biscuits,” the brothers chorused with identical grimaces and stomach rubs.
Lisa nodded and brought the biscuits and jelly to the table. “Hey, what did Ben do yesterday that made you so mad at him?”
“Isn’t what he did,” Dean replied. “It’s what he didn’t do. But we got that straightened out. He’s a good kid. Still wish he was my son. He has the making of something special.”
“I hope so.” Lisa took a drink of coffee and sighed. “I, um... if you want, I can have Rev. Saunders come over tomorrow. I mean, I know that’s not your thing, but... since it’s cancer this time... maybe it’ll make things easier for you.”
“No, thanks,” Sam said. “We’ve made our peace.”
Dean added, “Lisa, we’re tired of people pawing over our death for this reason or that or for any reason. A man’s death is about the most private thing in his life-we should know; we’ve done it before, separately and together. This one doesn’t belong to Dobkins or Rev. Saunders or Thibido. It’s ours.”
“And none of those people know a damn thing about us-I mean, you know Dean pretty well, but to everyone else in this town, we’re just gunslingers. They look down on us for making judgments with a gun barrel poked in our face, but it’s all right for them to judge us on hearsay. We’ve been to Hell; we’ve done our time. And we’re better than they’ve already decided we are, demon blood or not.”
Lisa huffed. “All right, then. I was just offering.”
The meal didn’t last too long after that.
On the way to take their suits to the cleaners, the brothers debated stopping at the barber shop for a haircut but decided to do it themselves so they could salt and burn the clippings afterward. The man at the cleaners agreed to let Lisa or Ben pick up the suits the next day, and the lawyer in town was reluctantly willing to help them draw up power-of-attorney forms to give Lisa full control of their estate (such as it was). Then, after a couple of other errands, Dean decided to stop at the livery stable to talk with Moses and see Impala one last time before they headed back to Lisa’s. The car-turned-horse seemed to know what was happening and nuzzled Dean’s hand and shoulder sadly as he petted her.
“Look after Ben, will you, baby?” he whispered.
She whickered and nodded.
When Dean finally tore himself away and waved goodbye to Moses, however, Sam was standing at the stable door watching someone warily.
“What?” Dean asked.
“Undertaker. He spotted me.”
Dean swore quietly. “You know what he wants.”
“Likely.”
“Probably won’t respect Lisa’s power of attorney.”
“Guess we should tell him straight.”
Dean sighed. “Guess so.”
So they waited until the undertaker, a ghoulish-looking older man who probably wasn’t actually a ghoul, approached and introduced himself as Hezekiah Beckum. “I hope you gentlemen don’t think my stopping by is untimely,” he added.
Sam shrugged. “No, we admire a man with get-up-and-go.”
“As the saying goes in our profession, the early worm catches the bird.”
Both brothers rolled their eyes.
“I, uh, admit to having heard some unfortunate things. I’d like to express my heartfelt regret.”
“All right,” Dean said, “what’s your proposition?”
Beckum rattled off a long list of fine frippery he wanted to provide, stuff like embalming and a fancy casket that no self-respecting hunter would accept, famous gunslinger or not.
Dean let him finish before asking, “For how much?”
“Why, nothing, sir. For the privilege.”
“No, I mean, how much are you gonna make on the deal?”
Beckum feigned outrage. “Sir!”
“Oh, Beckum, you’re gonna do to us what they did to John Wesley Hardin. You’re gonna lay us out, let the public come by and gawp at us for 50¢ a head, 10¢ for the children. When the curiosity peters out, you’re gonna put us in gunny sacks and stick us in a hole while you hurry to the bank with your loot.”
“Mr. Winchester, I assure you-”
“Save it, Beckum,” Sam interrupted, pulling his notepad out of his vest. “What good’s your assurance when our veins are full of your juice and some witch decides to pull us out of the hereafter to have her dirty deeds done dirt cheap, stuff we’d have killed her for when we were alive?”
Dean looked slightly impressed at the reference.
“No,” Sam continued, writing as he talked, “here’s what you’re going to do. First, you’re going to give us $50 cash-each.” Beckum looked shocked, but Sam ignored it. “Then early Thursday morning, you’re going to bring us a headstone. We want a small headstone, plain granite, with this written on it.” He handed Beckum the paper he’d written on. “Nothing else. No epitaph, no angels-especially no angels. You got that?”
“Mr. Winchester, you’re a hard man.”
“I’m not finished. You will not embalm us or take so much as one hair from our heads. You have one day to display our bodies, and you’ll make sure no one touches them to take souvenirs of any kind. You can still break even easily in that time, in a town this size. After that, you deliver them to Lisa Braeden to be cremated according to our wishes. She has durable power of attorney.”
“And if you don’t respect it?” Dean added. “You will be the first man we haunt.”
Beckum sighed. “Ah, very well. I’ll set my stonecutter to work on the inscription immediately.” He folded up the paper and tucked it into his pocket, then turned to go.
“Mr. Beckum.”
Beckum stopped.
“The $100.”
Beckum nodded, got out a wad of cash, and handed each brother $50.
Dean nodded once. “Thank you, sir.”
As soon as Beckum was out of earshot, Sam snorted. “Early worm. Dude, even you don’t make jokes that bad.”
Dean huffed a laugh, and they went to catch the streetcar.
That night, they called Ben into their room and gave him a list of six individuals-mostly monsters, plus Patrick-to contact. “Tomorrow morning early,” Dean told him, “we want you to go to each one of them and tell them that we’ll be at the Metropole Thursday morning at 11:00. And don’t tell any of ’em that you’ve told the others.”
Ben blinked. “But Thursday’s your birthday.”
Dean nodded.
Ben bit his lip, then nodded his agreement. “Cobb’s still in jail for attacking a salesman last week.”
“Yeah, well, tell him anyway. Think you can do that for us?”
“I know I can.”
“I talked to ol’ Mose today. You can ride Impala out to the Sweeney spread.”
“Okay.”
“Thank you, and... and good night.” Dean sank down on the bed, breathless from talking so much, and took a swig of laudanum.
Ben looked from one brother to the other worriedly but left.
“He’s gonna figure it out, Dean,” Sam said and took a swig of laudanum himself.
“I know,” Dean replied. “So’s Lisa.”
Sam watched him a moment before stating, “I’ll manage for tonight if....”
“Sammy, I never felt less like having sex in my life.”
“Dean, she’s the closest thing to a wife you’ve ever had. If Jess was here, I’d be happy just to spend the night in her arms.”
Dean worked at catching his breath. “Tomorrow,” he finally said. “If she’s cool with it.”
Sam nodded. “Okay.”
Wednesday night didn’t exactly go according to plan, however. Dean fell getting out of the bathtub, and Sam was in no fit state to help him up, so Lisa had to. They got him into a robe and into the brothers’ room, and then Sam not-so-subtly declared he’d sleep upstairs and skedaddled before either Dean or Lisa could object. Dean chuckled and held her hand for a moment before asking her to sit down while he caught his breath. Then he drank some laudanum to stave off the soreness he knew he’d be feeling from the jolt.
“You’re running low,” Lisa noted. “I’d better call Dr. Hostetler and order some more.”
Dean shook his head. “No, this’ll do.”
She looked at him carefully. “You’re getting ready to do something.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The dry cleaning, the haircuts, the laudanum. Sam giving us space.”
Dean met her eyes. “I want you to promise me something, Lis.”
“Anything, Dean.”
“Ben’s gonna be back any moment; I’ll need to talk to him alone. But when I’m done, I want you to come sleep with me tonight-just sleep. I’m not up to anything else.”
“All right.”
“And then tomorrow, when you see us in our best dry-cleaned clothes, I want you to promise there’ll be no questions. No surmises, no woman’s intuition. All curiosity stops right here and now. Promise me?”
Lisa just looked at him sadly.
“No deals. And no tears, Lis.”
Just then Ben came home and called to Dean from the front hall.
“In here, Ben,” Lisa called back.
Ben came in with a grin. “Oh, so I see.”
“No, you don’t see. Think it over and you’ll know why. You must be hungry.”
“No, Mom, I’m fine,” Ben replied, even though Lisa was heading to the kitchen slowly.
Lisa paused at the door before turning back to Dean and making herself reply, “I promise.”
Dean nodded. “Thank you.”
Once Lisa had left, Ben reported all of the responses he’d gotten. Marshal Thibido had even agreed to let Cobb out of jail. When he’d finished, Dean thanked him and turned out the overhead lights. “I think we both ought to get some sleep,” he added pointedly.
But Ben wouldn’t be put off. “Dean, can I just ask you something about this?”
“No, I’m exhausted. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“But I have to be out before sunrise to do the milk deliveries while Cobb’s in jail.”
“Well, then we’ll all have a busy morning.”
Disappointed, Ben nodded and headed for the door.
Dean went to the table and got his wallet. “Before you go, there’s something I want to give you.”
“No, Dean, no. No, I won’t take pay.”
“And I wouldn’t offer it, son. But you like Impala, don’t you?”
“Best horse I ever rode.”
“Used to be the best car I ever drove. May be again someday; I don’t know. Bobby didn’t explain.”
Ben stared. “You mean....”
“Yep. And she’s yours.” Dean handed him both the title he’d had Moses draw up and the keys that might someday have a use again. Then he patted Ben’s shoulder. “Now let me get some sleep.”
Ben walked slowly toward the door as Dean turned out the electric lamp on the table and sat down on the bed once more. Then he turned back. “Dean? When you asked me to do this, I didn’t realize... and-and I just hope that nothing....”
“Just take good care of my baby,” Dean interrupted. “She’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”
Ben swallowed hard and turned to go. But his voice still broke when he said, “Good night, Dean.”
Once he’d left, Lisa came back. And true to her word, she simply held Dean all night.
They were all awake early the next day, though Dean didn’t actually get up until after Sam had dragged himself downstairs and they’d both gotten another hour’s worth of fitful dozing. After breakfast, they put their joint will and all of their cash, aside from a few dollars for buying a drink, into an envelope that Dean had labeled “For Lisa.” Moments later, the headstone arrived, and Sam had the deliverymen put it down on the bed. Once they’d left, Dean joined Sam to examine the plain grey granite stone:
WINCHESTER
Dean Eric
Born January 24, 1828
Samuel Francis
Born May 2, 1832
Died
1901
Sam had ordered it without the last date on purpose-they weren’t committing suicide, not really. This meeting at the Metropole would be their last hunt, one way or another, but they’d survived longer odds than these before. If they did die, fine; if not... well, maybe they’d be left alone at last.
“Didn’t know you even remembered my middle name,” Dean said quietly.
Sam shrugged. “Yours was Dad’s, mine was Mom’s. Easy enough.”
“Kind of nice to have an actual marker this time, even though we won’t be under it.”
“Maybe Mom and Dad will be able to be under theirs now.”
They looked at each other for a moment, and then Sam pulled Dean into a tight hug that lasted a good minute. Then, after mutual pounding of backs, they separated to put on their jackets and check their period weapons, Dean making sure the Colt was fully loaded and Sam putting silver in the revolvers and tucking the demon-killing knife and a knife forged in dragon blood up his sleeves. The 1911 and the Taurus they left on the nightstand, along with their pocket watches, anchoring the envelope on top of their journals. Finally, they clinked their laudanum bottles in silent salute and drained them before picking up their hats and cushions and heading down the hall to find Lisa.
She called to them from the parlor, and they came in to find her in a frilly navy blouse and coordinating skirt-not mourning per se, but close enough. Yet she was smiling genuinely as she came around the loveseat to talk to them. “You both look amazing.”
“Thank you, Lisa,” they chorused.
“Today’s Dean’s birthday, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Dean replied. “We haven’t been to a saloon for a long time, and we thought we’d get a drink and celebrate.”
“Happy birthday.”
“Thank you.”
Lisa made a visible effort to keep smiling as she glanced out the window. “You have a beautiful day for it. Around here, they call it false spring.”
She and Dean looked at each other for a moment, and then he walked over and gave her a chaste kiss. Sam followed suit by giving her a kiss on the cheek.
“Bye, Lisa,” he said.
“Bye, Sam.”
“Goodbye, Lisa Braeden,” Dean said quietly.
“Goodbye, Dean Winchester,” she returned.
The brothers walked out shoulder to shoulder and pretended they didn’t see Lisa hurry to the parlor window to watch them walk away, tears glittering in her eyes but not falling.
Ben finished his deliveries and stationed himself on the porch of the New Hotel Carson just in time to see Thibido take Cobb’s handcuffs off and shove him into the saloon. He watched as Dobkins hailed Thibido to get another unauthorized story, as Sweeney drove up in his stupid clanky Oldsmobile, as the other three individuals-a shapeshifter, a vampire, and a probable demon, all new in town-made their way inside. Pulford must have already arrived, he surmised as he checked his watch.
Shortly before 11, the streetcar made a stop in front of the Metropole, and the unmistakable figures of the Winchesters got off. Ben wanted to run across the street, to plead with them not to go in there; six against two was hardly a fair fight. But he didn’t. He held onto the shred of hope that time and cancer hadn’t slowed them down that much, that they were still the men who’d taken out whole nests of vampires and packs of werewolves by themselves, the men who’d torched that mother changeling when he was eight.
So he watched them tuck their suit jackets behind their holsters and walk into that saloon side by side, and he braced for the shooting to start.
Although Sam scanned the saloon without seeming to do so as the brothers walked toward the bar, Dean pointedly ignored the other people in the room and focused solely on the bartender. After a pleasant exchange of greetings, Dean informed the bartender that it was his birthday and ordered a shot of the best whiskey in the house for himself and Sam. Sam looked a little surprised that Dean didn’t order him a sarsaparilla as usual, but Dean just winked at him. The bartender handed Dean the bottle and two glasses, and he and the janitor made themselves scarce.
But as the brothers drank, they used the mirror behind the bar to get a good look at where each of their slated opponents was at the time. And then it was just a game of nerves to see which of them would attack first.
In the end it was Cobb, whom Ben had reported to be nervous about the prospect of facing the brothers, and he made such an obvious move to get up that both Sam and Dean had time to dive over the bar before Cobb got off a shot. Sam distracted him by throwing a bottle to make him leave his torso unguarded and took him out with a silver bullet to the heart. He did the same to the shifter while the vampire and the demon charged the bar and found themselves on the business end of the Colt. Then Sweeney got off a shot that hit Dean in the left shoulder, but Sam was able to bury the dragon knife in Sweeney’s side before Sweeney flipped a table to use as a shield and started toward Dean. The knife didn’t kill him immediately, so Dean put a round from the Colt through the table and into Sweeney’s chest.
Sweeney threw the table aside, his wounds burning and sparking. Then he pointed at Dean and cried, “And I’ll tell you that was for Albert!” before he collapsed.
That left Patrick. He threw up a handful of cards as a smokescreen before shooting Sam’s gun out of his hand, whereupon both Sam and Dean hit the floor behind the bar. Patrick crouched low and cautiously made his way up to the bar and started to look around one end before deciding to try attacking from the other, assuming that both brothers would be facing the same way.
They weren’t. No sooner did half of Patrick’s face appear past the far end of the bar than Dean put a hole in his forehead with the Colt.
The hunt was over. And the Winchesters were wounded but alive.
Dean pushed himself up and gave Sam a hand, and they came out from behind the bar. While Dean surveyed the damage, Sam retrieved the knife from Sweeney’s side. Then they both leaned against the bar, facing the door, to catch their breath.
Ben’s pale face appeared above one of the sets of interior swinging doors-and a second later he yelled, “LOOK OUT!!”
And shotgun blasts struck both brothers from behind, fired by the janitor and the bartender-cowardly, fame-seeking amateurs, just the kind of idiots Dean had warned Ben were the most dangerous. The Winchesters weren’t killed outright, though, and while they were writhing in agony on the floor and grabbing for each other and while the civilians fumbled hurriedly to reload, Ben rushed in, grabbed Dean’s other revolver, and fired two shots into each assailant, killing both.
It was Ben’s first kill, and the shock of it left him shaking and staring wild-eyed at the handgun. He glanced down at Sam and Dean, who were watching him closely, and then back at the gun before throwing it as far away as he could.
Dean nodded and Sam smiled, and each with a hand gripping a fistful of the other’s shirt, they breathed their last.
Struggling to keep his composure, Ben pulled off his overcoat and put it over Dean’s face, then took off the light jacket he’d worn under it to put over Sam’s. Then he pulled off his hat and strode out, past a sorrowful Doc Hostetler, past the throngs of gawkers who were running to the saloon, down the street to where his mother stood with Impala, trying desperately to hold herself together. He barely looked at either of them as he turned the corner, and they quietly followed him home.
Next
Chapter 3
Go Down Gambling
THE QUEEN IS DEAD
―
LONG LIVE THE KING
-front page headline of the Carson City Morning Appeal, special mid-day edition, January 22, 1901
Tuesday the 22nd dawned bright and clear, and with their spirits bolstered by laudanum and their plan and the fact that they had the house to themselves, Sam and Dean came to breakfast singing Aerosmith at the tops of their lungs and very slightly off key. Lisa laughed at them, and Dean kissed her.
“Hey, Lisa, any chance of getting our Fed suits cleaned by Thursday?” Sam asked. “They’re gettin’ pretty gross, after nine days on the back of a saddle in a bedroll.”
Lisa shrugged. “Sure. The local place even does dry cleaning now, and they advertise next-day service.”
Dean grinned. “Awesome.” And he kissed her again.
She pushed at his shoulder. “Oh, Dean, sit down and eat your breakfast. Ham and eggs?”
“Biscuits,” the brothers chorused with identical grimaces and stomach rubs.
Lisa nodded and brought the biscuits and jelly to the table. “Hey, what did Ben do yesterday that made you so mad at him?”
“Isn’t what he did,” Dean replied. “It’s what he didn’t do. But we got that straightened out. He’s a good kid. Still wish he was my son. He has the making of something special.”
“I hope so.” Lisa took a drink of coffee and sighed. “I, um... if you want, I can have Rev. Saunders come over tomorrow. I mean, I know that’s not your thing, but... since it’s cancer this time... maybe it’ll make things easier for you.”
“No, thanks,” Sam said. “We’ve made our peace.”
Dean added, “Lisa, we’re tired of people pawing over our death for this reason or that or for any reason. A man’s death is about the most private thing in his life-we should know; we’ve done it before, separately and together. This one doesn’t belong to Dobkins or Rev. Saunders or Thibido. It’s ours.”
“And none of those people know a damn thing about us-I mean, you know Dean pretty well, but to everyone else in this town, we’re just gunslingers. They look down on us for making judgments with a gun barrel poked in our face, but it’s all right for them to judge us on hearsay. We’ve been to Hell; we’ve done our time. And we’re better than they’ve already decided we are, demon blood or not.”
Lisa huffed. “All right, then. I was just offering.”
The meal didn’t last too long after that.
On the way to take their suits to the cleaners, the brothers debated stopping at the barber shop for a haircut but decided to do it themselves so they could salt and burn the clippings afterward. The man at the cleaners agreed to let Lisa or Ben pick up the suits the next day, and the lawyer in town was reluctantly willing to help them draw up power-of-attorney forms to give Lisa full control of their estate (such as it was). Then, after a couple of other errands, Dean decided to stop at the livery stable to talk with Moses and see Impala one last time before they headed back to Lisa’s. The car-turned-horse seemed to know what was happening and nuzzled Dean’s hand and shoulder sadly as he petted her.
“Look after Ben, will you, baby?” he whispered.
She whickered and nodded.
When Dean finally tore himself away and waved goodbye to Moses, however, Sam was standing at the stable door watching someone warily.
“What?” Dean asked.
“Undertaker. He spotted me.”
Dean swore quietly. “You know what he wants.”
“Likely.”
“Probably won’t respect Lisa’s power of attorney.”
“Guess we should tell him straight.”
Dean sighed. “Guess so.”
So they waited until the undertaker, a ghoulish-looking older man who probably wasn’t actually a ghoul, approached and introduced himself as Hezekiah Beckum. “I hope you gentlemen don’t think my stopping by is untimely,” he added.
Sam shrugged. “No, we admire a man with get-up-and-go.”
“As the saying goes in our profession, the early worm catches the bird.”
Both brothers rolled their eyes.
“I, uh, admit to having heard some unfortunate things. I’d like to express my heartfelt regret.”
“All right,” Dean said, “what’s your proposition?”
Beckum rattled off a long list of fine frippery he wanted to provide, stuff like embalming and a fancy casket that no self-respecting hunter would accept, famous gunslinger or not.
Dean let him finish before asking, “For how much?”
“Why, nothing, sir. For the privilege.”
“No, I mean, how much are you gonna make on the deal?”
Beckum feigned outrage. “Sir!”
“Oh, Beckum, you’re gonna do to us what they did to John Wesley Hardin. You’re gonna lay us out, let the public come by and gawp at us for 50¢ a head, 10¢ for the children. When the curiosity peters out, you’re gonna put us in gunny sacks and stick us in a hole while you hurry to the bank with your loot.”
“Mr. Winchester, I assure you-”
“Save it, Beckum,” Sam interrupted, pulling his notepad out of his vest. “What good’s your assurance when our veins are full of your juice and some witch decides to pull us out of the hereafter to have her dirty deeds done dirt cheap, stuff we’d have killed her for when we were alive?”
Dean looked slightly impressed at the reference.
“No,” Sam continued, writing as he talked, “here’s what you’re going to do. First, you’re going to give us $50 cash-each.” Beckum looked shocked, but Sam ignored it. “Then early Thursday morning, you’re going to bring us a headstone. We want a small headstone, plain granite, with this written on it.” He handed Beckum the paper he’d written on. “Nothing else. No epitaph, no angels-especially no angels. You got that?”
“Mr. Winchester, you’re a hard man.”
“I’m not finished. You will not embalm us or take so much as one hair from our heads. You have one day to display our bodies, and you’ll make sure no one touches them to take souvenirs of any kind. You can still break even easily in that time, in a town this size. After that, you deliver them to Lisa Braeden to be cremated according to our wishes. She has durable power of attorney.”
“And if you don’t respect it?” Dean added. “You will be the first man we haunt.”
Beckum sighed. “Ah, very well. I’ll set my stonecutter to work on the inscription immediately.” He folded up the paper and tucked it into his pocket, then turned to go.
“Mr. Beckum.”
Beckum stopped.
“The $100.”
Beckum nodded, got out a wad of cash, and handed each brother $50.
Dean nodded once. “Thank you, sir.”
As soon as Beckum was out of earshot, Sam snorted. “Early worm. Dude, even you don’t make jokes that bad.”
Dean huffed a laugh, and they went to catch the streetcar.
That night, they called Ben into their room and gave him a list of six individuals-mostly monsters, plus Patrick-to contact. “Tomorrow morning early,” Dean told him, “we want you to go to each one of them and tell them that we’ll be at the Metropole Thursday morning at 11:00. And don’t tell any of ’em that you’ve told the others.”
Ben blinked. “But Thursday’s your birthday.”
Dean nodded.
Ben bit his lip, then nodded his agreement. “Cobb’s still in jail for attacking a salesman last week.”
“Yeah, well, tell him anyway. Think you can do that for us?”
“I know I can.”
“I talked to ol’ Mose today. You can ride Impala out to the Sweeney spread.”
“Okay.”
“Thank you, and... and good night.” Dean sank down on the bed, breathless from talking so much, and took a swig of laudanum.
Ben looked from one brother to the other worriedly but left.
“He’s gonna figure it out, Dean,” Sam said and took a swig of laudanum himself.
“I know,” Dean replied. “So’s Lisa.”
Sam watched him a moment before stating, “I’ll manage for tonight if....”
“Sammy, I never felt less like having sex in my life.”
“Dean, she’s the closest thing to a wife you’ve ever had. If Jess was here, I’d be happy just to spend the night in her arms.”
Dean worked at catching his breath. “Tomorrow,” he finally said. “If she’s cool with it.”
Sam nodded. “Okay.”
Wednesday night didn’t exactly go according to plan, however. Dean fell getting out of the bathtub, and Sam was in no fit state to help him up, so Lisa had to. They got him into a robe and into the brothers’ room, and then Sam not-so-subtly declared he’d sleep upstairs and skedaddled before either Dean or Lisa could object. Dean chuckled and held her hand for a moment before asking her to sit down while he caught his breath. Then he drank some laudanum to stave off the soreness he knew he’d be feeling from the jolt.
“You’re running low,” Lisa noted. “I’d better call Dr. Hostetler and order some more.”
Dean shook his head. “No, this’ll do.”
She looked at him carefully. “You’re getting ready to do something.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The dry cleaning, the haircuts, the laudanum. Sam giving us space.”
Dean met her eyes. “I want you to promise me something, Lis.”
“Anything, Dean.”
“Ben’s gonna be back any moment; I’ll need to talk to him alone. But when I’m done, I want you to come sleep with me tonight-just sleep. I’m not up to anything else.”
“All right.”
“And then tomorrow, when you see us in our best dry-cleaned clothes, I want you to promise there’ll be no questions. No surmises, no woman’s intuition. All curiosity stops right here and now. Promise me?”
Lisa just looked at him sadly.
“No deals. And no tears, Lis.”
Just then Ben came home and called to Dean from the front hall.
“In here, Ben,” Lisa called back.
Ben came in with a grin. “Oh, so I see.”
“No, you don’t see. Think it over and you’ll know why. You must be hungry.”
“No, Mom, I’m fine,” Ben replied, even though Lisa was heading to the kitchen slowly.
Lisa paused at the door before turning back to Dean and making herself reply, “I promise.”
Dean nodded. “Thank you.”
Once Lisa had left, Ben reported all of the responses he’d gotten. Marshal Thibido had even agreed to let Cobb out of jail. When he’d finished, Dean thanked him and turned out the overhead lights. “I think we both ought to get some sleep,” he added pointedly.
But Ben wouldn’t be put off. “Dean, can I just ask you something about this?”
“No, I’m exhausted. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“But I have to be out before sunrise to do the milk deliveries while Cobb’s in jail.”
“Well, then we’ll all have a busy morning.”
Disappointed, Ben nodded and headed for the door.
Dean went to the table and got his wallet. “Before you go, there’s something I want to give you.”
“No, Dean, no. No, I won’t take pay.”
“And I wouldn’t offer it, son. But you like Impala, don’t you?”
“Best horse I ever rode.”
“Used to be the best car I ever drove. May be again someday; I don’t know. Bobby didn’t explain.”
Ben stared. “You mean....”
“Yep. And she’s yours.” Dean handed him both the title he’d had Moses draw up and the keys that might someday have a use again. Then he patted Ben’s shoulder. “Now let me get some sleep.”
Ben walked slowly toward the door as Dean turned out the electric lamp on the table and sat down on the bed once more. Then he turned back. “Dean? When you asked me to do this, I didn’t realize... and-and I just hope that nothing....”
“Just take good care of my baby,” Dean interrupted. “She’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”
Ben swallowed hard and turned to go. But his voice still broke when he said, “Good night, Dean.”
Once he’d left, Lisa came back. And true to her word, she simply held Dean all night.
They were all awake early the next day, though Dean didn’t actually get up until after Sam had dragged himself downstairs and they’d both gotten another hour’s worth of fitful dozing. After breakfast, they put their joint will and all of their cash, aside from a few dollars for buying a drink, into an envelope that Dean had labeled “For Lisa.” Moments later, the headstone arrived, and Sam had the deliverymen put it down on the bed. Once they’d left, Dean joined Sam to examine the plain grey granite stone:
WINCHESTER
Dean Eric
Born January 24, 1828
Samuel Francis
Born May 2, 1832
Died
1901
Sam had ordered it without the last date on purpose-they weren’t committing suicide, not really. This meeting at the Metropole would be their last hunt, one way or another, but they’d survived longer odds than these before. If they did die, fine; if not... well, maybe they’d be left alone at last.
“Didn’t know you even remembered my middle name,” Dean said quietly.
Sam shrugged. “Yours was Dad’s, mine was Mom’s. Easy enough.”
“Kind of nice to have an actual marker this time, even though we won’t be under it.”
“Maybe Mom and Dad will be able to be under theirs now.”
They looked at each other for a moment, and then Sam pulled Dean into a tight hug that lasted a good minute. Then, after mutual pounding of backs, they separated to put on their jackets and check their period weapons, Dean making sure the Colt was fully loaded and Sam putting silver in the revolvers and tucking the demon-killing knife and a knife forged in dragon blood up his sleeves. The 1911 and the Taurus they left on the nightstand, along with their pocket watches, anchoring the envelope on top of their journals. Finally, they clinked their laudanum bottles in silent salute and drained them before picking up their hats and cushions and heading down the hall to find Lisa.
She called to them from the parlor, and they came in to find her in a frilly navy blouse and coordinating skirt-not mourning per se, but close enough. Yet she was smiling genuinely as she came around the loveseat to talk to them. “You both look amazing.”
“Thank you, Lisa,” they chorused.
“Today’s Dean’s birthday, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Dean replied. “We haven’t been to a saloon for a long time, and we thought we’d get a drink and celebrate.”
“Happy birthday.”
“Thank you.”
Lisa made a visible effort to keep smiling as she glanced out the window. “You have a beautiful day for it. Around here, they call it false spring.”
She and Dean looked at each other for a moment, and then he walked over and gave her a chaste kiss. Sam followed suit by giving her a kiss on the cheek.
“Bye, Lisa,” he said.
“Bye, Sam.”
“Goodbye, Lisa Braeden,” Dean said quietly.
“Goodbye, Dean Winchester,” she returned.
The brothers walked out shoulder to shoulder and pretended they didn’t see Lisa hurry to the parlor window to watch them walk away, tears glittering in her eyes but not falling.
Ben finished his deliveries and stationed himself on the porch of the New Hotel Carson just in time to see Thibido take Cobb’s handcuffs off and shove him into the saloon. He watched as Dobkins hailed Thibido to get another unauthorized story, as Sweeney drove up in his stupid clanky Oldsmobile, as the other three individuals-a shapeshifter, a vampire, and a probable demon, all new in town-made their way inside. Pulford must have already arrived, he surmised as he checked his watch.
Shortly before 11, the streetcar made a stop in front of the Metropole, and the unmistakable figures of the Winchesters got off. Ben wanted to run across the street, to plead with them not to go in there; six against two was hardly a fair fight. But he didn’t. He held onto the shred of hope that time and cancer hadn’t slowed them down that much, that they were still the men who’d taken out whole nests of vampires and packs of werewolves by themselves, the men who’d torched that mother changeling when he was eight.
So he watched them tuck their suit jackets behind their holsters and walk into that saloon side by side, and he braced for the shooting to start.
Although Sam scanned the saloon without seeming to do so as the brothers walked toward the bar, Dean pointedly ignored the other people in the room and focused solely on the bartender. After a pleasant exchange of greetings, Dean informed the bartender that it was his birthday and ordered a shot of the best whiskey in the house for himself and Sam. Sam looked a little surprised that Dean didn’t order him a sarsaparilla as usual, but Dean just winked at him. The bartender handed Dean the bottle and two glasses, and he and the janitor made themselves scarce.
But as the brothers drank, they used the mirror behind the bar to get a good look at where each of their slated opponents was at the time. And then it was just a game of nerves to see which of them would attack first.
In the end it was Cobb, whom Ben had reported to be nervous about the prospect of facing the brothers, and he made such an obvious move to get up that both Sam and Dean had time to dive over the bar before Cobb got off a shot. Sam distracted him by throwing a bottle to make him leave his torso unguarded and took him out with a silver bullet to the heart. He did the same to the shifter while the vampire and the demon charged the bar and found themselves on the business end of the Colt. Then Sweeney got off a shot that hit Dean in the left shoulder, but Sam was able to bury the dragon knife in Sweeney’s side before Sweeney flipped a table to use as a shield and started toward Dean. The knife didn’t kill him immediately, so Dean put a round from the Colt through the table and into Sweeney’s chest.
Sweeney threw the table aside, his wounds burning and sparking. Then he pointed at Dean and cried, “And I’ll tell you that was for Albert!” before he collapsed.
That left Patrick. He threw up a handful of cards as a smokescreen before shooting Sam’s gun out of his hand, whereupon both Sam and Dean hit the floor behind the bar. Patrick crouched low and cautiously made his way up to the bar and started to look around one end before deciding to try attacking from the other, assuming that both brothers would be facing the same way.
They weren’t. No sooner did half of Patrick’s face appear past the far end of the bar than Dean put a hole in his forehead with the Colt.
The hunt was over. And the Winchesters were wounded but alive.
Dean pushed himself up and gave Sam a hand, and they came out from behind the bar. While Dean surveyed the damage, Sam retrieved the knife from Sweeney’s side. Then they both leaned against the bar, facing the door, to catch their breath.
Ben’s pale face appeared above one of the sets of interior swinging doors-and a second later he yelled, “LOOK OUT!!”
And shotgun blasts struck both brothers from behind, fired by the janitor and the bartender-cowardly, fame-seeking amateurs, just the kind of idiots Dean had warned Ben were the most dangerous. The Winchesters weren’t killed outright, though, and while they were writhing in agony on the floor and grabbing for each other and while the civilians fumbled hurriedly to reload, Ben rushed in, grabbed Dean’s other revolver, and fired two shots into each assailant, killing both.
It was Ben’s first kill, and the shock of it left him shaking and staring wild-eyed at the handgun. He glanced down at Sam and Dean, who were watching him closely, and then back at the gun before throwing it as far away as he could.
Dean nodded and Sam smiled, and each with a hand gripping a fistful of the other’s shirt, they breathed their last.
Struggling to keep his composure, Ben pulled off his overcoat and put it over Dean’s face, then took off the light jacket he’d worn under it to put over Sam’s. Then he pulled off his hat and strode out, past a sorrowful Doc Hostetler, past the throngs of gawkers who were running to the saloon, down the street to where his mother stood with Impala, trying desperately to hold herself together. He barely looked at either of them as he turned the corner, and they quietly followed him home.
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