A Horseman Comes Riding, for amberdreams
Title: A Horseman Comes Riding
Recipient: amberdreams
Prompt: Winchesters and the United States Civil War
Rating: PG
Warnings: Usual show spookiness
Author's Notes: Timeline? What time line? Alternate Universe before Castiel joined the family and the whole Heaven/Hell mess started.
Word count: 1130
Summary: It was the perfect wedding venue - except when the Horseman came riding. A Winchester slice of life.
Then:
Chickamauga Georgia
The gibbous moon rose about the trees as the wedding commenced to the acoustic guitar music. The pastor had a flashlight on a runner’s headband as she began the service. The couple joined hands as the guests circled them.
The ceremony paused at the sound of a galloping horse. A semi-transparent
rider scattered the guests - many screaming as they realized the rider was headless. The bride screamed the loudest of all and collapsed to the turf.
The groom dropped to his knees beside her - and shouted for help as she began to seize, helplessly thrashing on the ground . . .
Now -
Sam Winchester looked up from his computer screen. “And she died in the ER,” he reported as he grabbed his French fries back from his brother. “Geez, Dean! How much catsup did you put on these?”
“Almost enough,” Dean shoved his last stolen potatoes into his mouth and chewed. “Any history on the ghost?”
Sam glowered protectively over the remains of his fries. “Legend has it that a Union cannon ball decapitated a Confederate cavalry officer. He was buried without his head and investigators . . .”
“Ghost Facer wannabes,” Dean scoffed.
“ . . . Got EVP of groans that are supposed to be him looking for his head,” Sam took a slurp of ice tea. “This is the first reported full body apparition associated with the legend, also the first fatality.”
“So we’re going to a Georgian Sleepy Hollow,” Dean toasted with his soda. “Sounds like a plan, let’s get going.”
“Without your pie?” Sam asked as Dean stood up.
Dean turned. “Pie? I thought they said they didn’t have any,” Sam started laughing. “Cute, real cute, bitch!”
“Jerk!” Sam ducked the crumpled napkin flying at his head, still laughing.
***
The brothers alternated driving until they reached the historic site. They arrived at dusk and stood a moment, looking at the commemorative plaque.
“Okay, where was the wedding?” Dean handed his brother a flashlight.
“About a quarter mile from the parking lot according to the news.”
“Quarter mile in which direction?”
“It didn’t say.”
“Great,” Dean scowled and then pointed. “Ok, let’s start that way.”
***
The moon was near the top of the sky when they found the site. Shreds of ‘caution’ tape wrapped the trees and emergency vehicles that had come down a dirt path on the opposite side from where the brothers started, tearing the ground beyond any hope of finding footprints,
“Shit,” said Sam checking his GPS on his phone and showing the screen to Dean.
“Of course,” Dean grumbled. They had alternated tripping over things, falling and wandering into thorn bushes during their quest. Sam had a smear down one cheek from a grabby branch. Dean was wet to the knees after an unexpected downhill toboggan into a spring.
Their flashlights scanned back and forth across the ground as they circled the area. Dean’s homemade EVP meter flashed silently to itself as he swept.
“Nothing.”
“So maybe it was a freak accident?”
Dean just looked at Sam.
“It could happen.” Sam pointed out. “We could be wrong.”
“No and shut up!” snapped Dean. He turned and traced the only footprints left - the straight line walked by the bride to the pastor. Over the sad remains of the bridal bouquet the meter went off. They glanced at each other. Sam pulled the small recorder out of his pocket.
“Hello,” he said. “Whoever is here, we’re not going to harm you. We’re trying to find out what happened.” He left it recording as Dean swept the area where the pastor had stood. There were a couple more flashes, but nothing as bright as over the bouquet.
Sam clicked off the recorder, rewound and they listened.
“Hey!” came a very human yell. A grey haired older man wearing a park police uniform blazed his flashlight into their eyes. “The park closed at sun down! Jesus wept, the poor girl hasn’t been dead a day and you dumbass ghost hunters are already trying to call her up? Have you no shame?”
Dean spread his hands. “It’s okay officer, we’re only trying to find out what happened.”
“Shut up!” Sam suddenly shouted. “I heard something.”
“You heard me telling you to get off this premises . . .”
“No, be quiet a moment.”
There was a faint whisper over the static.
“Sounded like . . . oily?”
“Oleander,” the park policeman mused. “I heard oleander.”
***
ALLERGY TAKES BRIDE read the local headline.
“Well, we’re sort of heroes,” Dean stole Sam’s French fries. Sam countered by grabbing the catsup bottle and putting it on the table behind them out of Dean’s reach. “At least we found the bouquet.”
“EVP is still not permitted as evidence.” Sam shook his head sadly. “Poor groom, he thought he was making her bouquet from wild flowers and didn’t know he was adding something not only poisonous, but that she was allergic to besides. He’s under a doctor’s care and hope he can get help.”
“There’s still the Horseman,” Dean shrugged. “We can try and put him to rest.”
“How? Nobody knows where he’s buried and the stories all agree he was buried without his head.”
“Well, I’m going to try.” With a defiant look, Dean poured mustard all over Sam’s fries.
“You Jerk! That’s just gross!” Sam yelled.
***
The night was humid and the brothers were slapping mosquitoes before the moon even rose. At least this time they knew where they were going.
Dean loaded a shotgun with salt rounds and gave it to Sam. He paced impatiently with his EVP meter out, listening. Sam muttered the Latin of a summoning spell and dropped a few grains of ambergris into a fat white candle balanced on the picnic table.
It worked too well. They both dove for cover at the first sound of gunfire. The air thickened and swirled with cacophonic chaos of shouts, screams of both man and horse, a trumpeted charge and the boom of cannon.
The terrified horse thundered towards them with his grisly burden.
“Hey!” Dean shouted, running at the apparition. “Hey! You’re dead! You’re dead.” He barely dodged clear as it almost ran him over. He hit the ground as Sam emptied the shotgun into the rider.
The sounds and the sights shut off like a light switch, leaving only the small sounds of trees and wind.
“So much for that,” Sam sighed.
Dean stood up. He’d landed hard and his nose was gushing blood. Sam drove to the nearest twenty-four hour store as Dean tried to stop the bleeding.
“Why didn’t it work?” Dean grumbled.
“Well, he didn’t have a head. No ears.”
Dean huffed in disgust. “There better be pie at the next job.”
“I’ll make sure of it. I’ll shove one in your face.”
“Bitch.”
“Jerk.”