Gallows Gate (SPN OW AU) Part 1/?
Title: Gallows Gate Part 1/?
Author: Tari_roo
Rating: PG13/R (Gen)
Summary: Old West AU: Whilst on the trail of a Hunt, Dean and Sam run into a little horse thief trouble. Afoot, hot, tired and covered in dust, they need to somehow complete the hunt, save a ranch and well… find their horses.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing. I have a thing for Dean as a cowboy - I make no apologies J
Spoilers: None, bar general Sam and Dean hunt evil and the family business.
A/N: I heard the theme for the Magnificent Seven on the radio today so I took it as a sign, that I had to post a second WIP. Who I am to argue with radio signs?
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“Looks promising.”
“Looks like a shithole.”
“Has water.”
Dean’s grunt was the understatement of the last 5 miles sans water. The little ranch was unfortunately even less appealing than promising the closer they got. A tiny house, probably not more than a big room with kitchen, bedroom and sitting area all thrown in one. A dilapidated barn that looked like the grandfather of all kindling, and a broken corral, the majority of its posts missing completed the picture.
A scrawny cur was lying by the door, and its ears perked as it watched them walk in, which they did nice and slow, hands held away from guns and in Dean’s case away from his ribs.
The door opened slowly, the long muzzle of a carbine, maybe a Winchester, poked out followed by, “Get off my land! Ain’t got no use for vagrants or varmints. Get!”
The water pump looked new, its presence more an indication of hopes and dreams than anything else. Its promise of relief was enough that Sam stepped away from Dean, his hands held out, trying for as non-threatening as a 6.4 gun toting stranger could be.
“Ma’am. We’re kinda lost and in need of some water...”
“I said, Get! Now!” The solid sound of a gun being brought to bear snapped through the midday haze and Sam risked a brief glance at Dean, worried. Dean seemed unconcerned, standing stock still in the sun, squinting slightly, not really looking at anything. But Sam knew better and tried for as reassuring and genuine a smile as he could, cracked lips widening.
“Just some water, ma’am, please. From the pump. Then we’ll be on our way.”
The door snapped open, Sam and Dean backed up a step, hands automatically going towards their guns. The dog yelped in surprise but it only moved a few yards, staying in the shade.
She looked like every frontier woman Sam had ever met. Old before her time, hair graying and caught in a tight bun, dress neat and clean but so old it had to be smooth to touch, easy to tear. “I said, get the hell of my land! Now!”
The rifle was unerringly pointed at his chest. But it was her language, her fear, the shake in her voice that had Sam backing off.
“Yes, ma’am. We’re going. Apologies for imposing.”
Dean was already moving away, watching the woman carefully, shooting Sam a disbelieving look as he turned his back on her and opened up that long stride of his. Dean kept a careful eye on the woman, until they were out of range of an average shot and only then matched Sam’s walk a little better. She watched them long enough so that she herself became an indistinct blur, the haze of the trail and sun a veil over her ranch.
“Think someone’s trying to force her off her land?”
Dean shrugged, eyes tracking the horizon and land ahead, behind, around. “Reckon so. She’s buried someone out there. Probably alone.”
“Yeah.”
Eventually it was only the sound of their boots on dirt, the soft hiss of insects and birds that surrounded him. Sam tried very hard not to think about the water they had left behind. He had already shucked his coat, and was getting his white shirt nice and brown. Their sole remaining saddle bag was slung over his shoulder, the no longer wet patch of sweat underneath a growing concern. Dean was still wrapped in his coat, arm wrapped around his ribs now that they were out of sight. When Sam had suggested that they fashion their undershirts into a Beoudin Head Wrap, oh about 5 miles back, Dean’s snort had been final. He was however paying the price now, the back of his neck an angry red, hell his whole face was red, hair matted and stiff with sweat.
“I hope there’s another ranch near enough for us to try again.”
Dean’s grunt said it all.
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Shelling peas was easy, mind-freeing work. Your hands could go through the well-rehearsed motions, your mind free to wander, talk or just worry. Claire remembered a whole household of women, sitting around a table shelling peas and peeling potatoes, washing carrots. Now, miles from that home, she sat with her own daughter, who’d rather be outside with her brothers, a scowl drawing her face into a picture of unhappiness.
At least it was getting cooler, a small breeze rustling the trees outside, flapping the curtains she’d been embarrassed to buy but too inept to make. Another day was half way done.
“Ma!”
Joe’s voice warbled, adolescence warring with childhood, making even a single syllable a smile inducing sound. Just not now. Not when his voice conveyed the tone of trouble.
“Stay here, Gracie.”
Claire stepped out onto the porch, her Pa’s old hunting rifle firmly in hand, but pointed down. The old gun was huge, impressive to see, and hopefully enough to scare off the need to fire it. Joe was on the porch too, his Pa’s gun clutched tight and white knuckled. Little Ben was standing solemnly beside him, a calm to his brother’s vibrating storm.
There were two men, standing on the edge of her property, by the fence, not yet in the yard proper. Strangers.
“Ma’am”, one of them nodded slowly, his hand twitching in reflex to doff a non-existent hat. She nodded politely, noting their guns, clothes and absence of horses.
His smile was warm, desperate, “We had a spot a trouble with our horses a few miles back and would really appreciate it if you would spare us some water.”
Spoke booksmart, from somewhere back East, no accent to be really definable. He seemed an affable fellow, but there were plenty of well spoken and polite thieves and murderers out there. Joe looked fit to burst, his hand trembling near the trigger, but not actually on it, just like his Pa taught him.
The strangers looked done in, though. It was no lie that they had walked miles in the heat and dust. The other one, silent so far, hung back, eyes down and unconcerned. “You two got names?”
Another smile rife with need, “Sam Winchester, ma’am and this is my brother, Dean. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Like they were standing at some party, all toffed up and ready to dance. But his charm worked and Claire nodded, “Then Mr Winchester, you are welcome to avail yourself of our water pump.” She indicated briefly towards the trough and pump, figured that at least she could spare herself the trouble of priming it, putting their guests’ muscles to good use.
“Much obliged, ma’am.”
Joe didn’t move as the two made their way to the trough, nice and easy as if aware that any sudden moves would result in nervous fingers tightened on triggers. Claire lowered her rifle though, and checked the window behind, certain that Grace would be there. Sure enough she was, faced pressed against the glass, studying the men intently.
“Ben, honey, please go help Grace finish up the peas.”
“Yes, Ma.”
The door closed softly behind him, Grace’s scowl back as she reluctantly left the window. Nodding at Joe, his lanky frame already so tall, Claire rested her rifle near the door jamb and picked up her broom. With Joe’s full attention on the men, Sam vigorously pumping the handle, Claire began a half hearted sweep of the porch, her own attention spilt.
Sam had got the water flowing and after the first few spurts of brackish pipe water, the water ran clean and cold, part of the reason she and Henry had bought the land. After a silent disagreement between them, Sam stuck his head under the pump, taking a few mouthfuls every now and then as he washed away the dirt. Dean didn’t even seem overly excited about the prospect of water, his lazy gaze sliding over house, barn, broken corral and distant fields.
Claire and Henry had lucked out on the land, plenty of trees and greenery, meadows readily turned into pastures. It was a pretty spot and Claire loved it. She wasn’t quite sure why Dean Winchester’s indifferent gaze rankled her, but it did.
Finally done, hair still wet, the edges of his collar and cuffs soaked, Sam stood and gave the pump handle a few more turns before stepping back for his brother. Not nearly as free in his refreshment, Dean wet hair and face a few times before taking a few mouthfuls of water. Sam produced a canteen and filled it up, stowing it away in his saddle bag again.
Claire stopped, the ever present dust cloud from her boom dying down, and Joe seemed to relax a fraction when it seemed that the Winchester Brothers were done, Dean already edging towards the fence. “Thank you again, Ma’am. We really do appreciate it.” Claire reckoned Sam was nice enough, probably a good man. He hefted the saddle bag to shoulder and with a small wave followed his brother toward the gate, hurrying to catch up. They both stared at the broken posts of the corral as they passed, a frown flitting across Sam’s face.
He slowed, shot a glance at them, and back at his brother who was still walking towards the gate. There was half a beat of hesitation before the smile was back and he called out, “Ma’am, I know we’ve prevailed on your kindness a great deal already, but perhaps if my brother and I fix your corral for you, you could be persuaded to provide us with some food. For the road?” Before Claire could even open her mouth, Joe was at her side, tense again and Sam was saying, “Nothing much, mind you. Just whatever you can spare.”
They were both big men, taller than her or Henry, and could probably go without food for a while, but Claire’s own Mother had been very clear on her notions of charity and Christian goodness. You never turned away a beggar or someone in need. Her son’s sharp look was chock-full of refusal and fear, but the corral needed fixing, her guests needed food and Claire had taken a liking to at least one of them.
“Alright, agreed. But you best be finished and gone long before sunset. I ain’t putting you up for the night and feeding you.”
“Ma!” Joe’s hiss was accompanied by his rifle swinging to target Sam and both men froze, tense now in their own right. Sighing, she pushed the carbine down, and said softly for him alone, “Never you mind, Joe. You can keep an eye on them from the barn.”
Unhappy, and obedient, Joe dropped the barrel completely, the gun swinging from one hand in as casual but competent manner as he could manage. “Yes, Ma.”
“There’s wood round back, hammer and nails. Joe will show you.”
Sam’s blinding smile was almost worth Joe’s frown, but she knew her boy had good instincts usually and that if he’d truly thought the Winchesters were trouble, he’d have fired at them from the get go. Recent events though had him on edge, had all of them on edge.
While Joe escorted the brothers to the barn, Claire went inside and relieved her daughter of the vegetables and ended the brief smile Grace had by tasking her with preparing the food for the Winchesters to take with them. Ben followed her outside and sat with his mother, as she continued to peel and shell, keeping her own careful watch.
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Dean was angry. And considering that he’d been irate yesterday and flat out furious this morning, Sam figured this was an improvement, and that nothing short of a miracle was going to improve his brother’s mood. So he just let Dean be, didn’t try to coax him out of the mood, or make him laugh. He just let it be.
He did try to shoulder more of the work than usual, though. They had both spent time on ranches and farms growing up, but Dean had an easy economy of movement when it came to physical labour, would have been a dab ranch hand he been inclined put down roots and settle. But the same ease Dean found in manual labour, made him a damn fine hunter too and well, that was an old argument. Nonetheless, Dean was favouring his ribs, so Sam tried to ‘let’ him do just that but ended up simply following his brother’s silent or murmured instructions as they slotted posts into place, and secured them.
It was good honest work, the kind the Sam had both hated and loved as a child, hating being dragged away from his books but loving the time spent with Dean and their Father, listening as John quietly instructed them in the ‘right’ way to do this and that. While books were Sam’s true forte and love, he couldn’t deny the simply pleasure of honest labour, working for your bread, tools in hand, building something that was real and lasting.
They were more than half way done by the time Sam took his third trip to the water pump, ensuring that they both watered themselves while the opportunity presented. They would be finished with ample time to spare, more than enough to maybe make the nearest town. Maybe.
Sam was still standing by the pump, Dean behind the barn fetching more nails when the sound of a flurry of movement, hooves and tack announced the imminent arrival of men on horseback. Soon enough, the dust cloud heralded them into the yard, the lady of house already on her feet, no need this time for her son to call.
As the dust settled, and relative quiet fell, Sam shifted slightly, instinctively readying himself for a fight. The boy was at his mother’s side again, rifle this time pointed straight at the men. Her own rifle brought to bear, she said loudly, “You ain’t welcome here, Franks. Told you that last time too.”
“Now, now, Mrs McLeod, that was just a misunderstanding. This here is a neighbourly visit to make you and your family are doing well.”
“We’re fine. Now leave.”
Sam couldn’t see Franks, his view blocked by the two burly men who were eyeing him out with outright curiosity, but if Franks looked as slimy as he sounded, the man would be 6 foot slug. “No need to be anxious, Claire, I know how hard it is since Henry…”
Joe had primed his rifle, the crack of preparation making all 5 men twitch towards their own guns. Sam felt his own Colt’s smooth handle, tucked between his high-waist pants and shirt. “Not so fast, Little Thundercloud. Your ma and I are talking.”
Mrs McLeod stepped forward, unwavering, her face set and said sharply, “Got nothing to say to you, Franks. I ain’t selling. I ain’t giving up and I don’t need your help. Get of my land!”
Sam caught a glimpse of Frank’s profile and then all of his face as the man walked his horse forward, edging away from his men. Soft chin, hard eyes, oily smile. Slug. Frank smirked at Mrs McLeod, nodding towards Sam, “I see you’ve hired yourself some help, Claire. Maybe you do need assistance afterall. I’m sure we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement without you having to hire a stranger.”
There was a lot implied in that word ‘stranger’, thief for one, coward for another. Sam just smiled and touched the brim of his absent hat, failing to react as the two men closest to him turned slightly, as if marking him.
“What I do is none of your business. And I’m not telling you again, Franks. Get of my land!” The kid beside her was white, whether with anger or fear, or both, but his gaze was fixed on Franks as if he was making sure that if anything went down, Franks went first.
Unsurprisingly the tension climbed a few tent poles as Franks smiled again, this one far from friendly but still oily. His men tensed too, hands a little too close to gunbutts for comfort. “I reckon you could at least offer us something to eat, maybe a drink or two before we go, Claire. Mighty long ride out to this little … homestead. Mighty far.”
Claire answered simply by raising her rifle, also aimed straight at Franks. “Now, Franks.”
Leaning back in the saddle, with not a care in world, Franks yawned and shook his head, “Mighty brave of you, Claire, facing down 5 armed men with nothing more than a boy and a drifter whose more likely working for me than you.”
It was a interesting tableau before Sam, 5 dusty men astride 5 fidgety horses, picking up the tells from their riders, facing off against a gun wielding mother and son, framed in shadow and shade from a sturdy ranch horse. Sun glinting off buckle and brace as muscles twitched and dull flat eyes watched for either a McLeod or a Winchester to make a move.
The spine-tightening sound of a shotgun being loaded and locked snapped all eyes up to the bran. Dean stood in the upper storey of the barn, a sliver of black and blue amidst the hay, stance casual and ready, gun pointing true. His sardonic smirk and quirked eyebrow painted a definitive ‘oh shit’ across Sam’s vision. Dean was itching for a fight.
Sam smoothly drew his own colt, and pointed it at the man nearest him. For a moment, action was a hair breadth away, until Franks uncoiled and laughed, “Picking up more stays I see. More fool you, Claire. Since you have everything so well in hand, we best be getting back home.” He shot Dean a knowing smirk before turning his horse’s head and walking his horse around, turning around his men too by default.
As they passed the corral, one of them saw fit to accidently knock over a few of the posts Sam and Dean had stacked in preparation of finishing up, an errant hoof kicking hammers and spent nails. Claire heaved a sigh of relief as the small group disappeared down the trail and she struggled to keep her hands from shaking as she put the rifle down. “Thank you, Sam Winchester, Dean,” as his brother ambled from the barn toward the house, his hands empty. “Thank you so much.” Dean just nodded, while Sam smiled, feeling a little like his face might break from the strain of it. “It’s the least we could do, ma’am.”
Mrs McLeod’s smile was wane, her hands a little shaky. “None the less, I appreciate it.”
Dean, as always, uncomfortable with grateful, thankful folks, unless it was a pretty available lady who could express that thanks, was already heading back towards the corral. The haunted whorehouse in Virginia was probably still his favourite hunt, what with all those ‘thankful’ ladies. “Come on, Sam.”
Nodding at Claire, Sam reholstered his gun and hurried after Dean.
He caught up quickly, and was about to open his mouth when Dean hissed softly, “Hunt’s in Gallows Gate, right?”
Sam nodded.
“And those damn horse thieves were heading in the opposite direction.”
Sam nodded slowly, not really wanting to poke that angry bear, “Yeah, but … Dad said…”
“I know what Dad said, but they took my horse, Sam. My horse!”
And you’ve been a right pleasure ever since, Sam thought to himself but nodded in agreement nonetheless. There was no arguing around this point, Dean’s horse was … well, Dean’s horse. But they’d had this non argument already, and Sam had reluctantly agreed to follow the trail of the horse thieves first, so why was Dean bringing it up ….
“Did you recognize one of the men, was it…”
Dean shook his head but as he stooped to pick up the knocked over poles he growled, “No, but those soon to be dead idiots that stole my horse were riding horses with a Flying F brand.”
Sam frowned as he picked up his own pile and muttered, “Flying F, as in … Franks? I didn’t see…”
Dean shook his head, maybe at Sam’s failure to pick it up, or in disgust in general, “I did. Two of those hands were riding horses with a Flying F.”
“Maybe the thieves stole their horses from Franks,” Sam supplied reasonably, already knowing Dean’s response.
“Only fools steal branded horses and then ride around on them.”
“Maybe they’re just fools, then Dean.”
“They got the drop on us didn’t they?”
Sam nodded reluctantly. They had indeed, much to Dean’s fury and Sam’s dismay, got the drop on them yesterday. Kept them pinned down with gunfire, and taken off with their horses and saddle bags. Only Sam’s bag with the old laundry and their father’s journal had escaped, because Sam had had it with him. The trail had been clear, away from Gallow’s Gate and their hunt.
And Sam was beginning to see what Dean was perhaps piecing together. Two hunters led away from a town with potential supernatural trouble by men riding Flying F horses. The surrounding ranches under pressure to sell to Owen Franks, the owner of the Flying F ranch and well… it was looking suspicious.
Holding the corral pole in place while Dean hammered away, Sam said with quiet deliberation, “Alright, so things are looking peculiar. What do you want to do?”
Dean shifted the nail pursed between his lips and mumbled around it, “What I want is to get my horse back, and to shoot someone, preferably the cowboy who stole it. But I think if we head into town, we might get lucky and I can do just that and salt and burn ‘em with the damn ghost.”
And Sam couldn’t argue with that.
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TBC
Author: Tari_roo
Rating: PG13/R (Gen)
Summary: Old West AU: Whilst on the trail of a Hunt, Dean and Sam run into a little horse thief trouble. Afoot, hot, tired and covered in dust, they need to somehow complete the hunt, save a ranch and well… find their horses.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing. I have a thing for Dean as a cowboy - I make no apologies J
Spoilers: None, bar general Sam and Dean hunt evil and the family business.
A/N: I heard the theme for the Magnificent Seven on the radio today so I took it as a sign, that I had to post a second WIP. Who I am to argue with radio signs?
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“Looks promising.”
“Looks like a shithole.”
“Has water.”
Dean’s grunt was the understatement of the last 5 miles sans water. The little ranch was unfortunately even less appealing than promising the closer they got. A tiny house, probably not more than a big room with kitchen, bedroom and sitting area all thrown in one. A dilapidated barn that looked like the grandfather of all kindling, and a broken corral, the majority of its posts missing completed the picture.
A scrawny cur was lying by the door, and its ears perked as it watched them walk in, which they did nice and slow, hands held away from guns and in Dean’s case away from his ribs.
The door opened slowly, the long muzzle of a carbine, maybe a Winchester, poked out followed by, “Get off my land! Ain’t got no use for vagrants or varmints. Get!”
The water pump looked new, its presence more an indication of hopes and dreams than anything else. Its promise of relief was enough that Sam stepped away from Dean, his hands held out, trying for as non-threatening as a 6.4 gun toting stranger could be.
“Ma’am. We’re kinda lost and in need of some water...”
“I said, Get! Now!” The solid sound of a gun being brought to bear snapped through the midday haze and Sam risked a brief glance at Dean, worried. Dean seemed unconcerned, standing stock still in the sun, squinting slightly, not really looking at anything. But Sam knew better and tried for as reassuring and genuine a smile as he could, cracked lips widening.
“Just some water, ma’am, please. From the pump. Then we’ll be on our way.”
The door snapped open, Sam and Dean backed up a step, hands automatically going towards their guns. The dog yelped in surprise but it only moved a few yards, staying in the shade.
She looked like every frontier woman Sam had ever met. Old before her time, hair graying and caught in a tight bun, dress neat and clean but so old it had to be smooth to touch, easy to tear. “I said, get the hell of my land! Now!”
The rifle was unerringly pointed at his chest. But it was her language, her fear, the shake in her voice that had Sam backing off.
“Yes, ma’am. We’re going. Apologies for imposing.”
Dean was already moving away, watching the woman carefully, shooting Sam a disbelieving look as he turned his back on her and opened up that long stride of his. Dean kept a careful eye on the woman, until they were out of range of an average shot and only then matched Sam’s walk a little better. She watched them long enough so that she herself became an indistinct blur, the haze of the trail and sun a veil over her ranch.
“Think someone’s trying to force her off her land?”
Dean shrugged, eyes tracking the horizon and land ahead, behind, around. “Reckon so. She’s buried someone out there. Probably alone.”
“Yeah.”
Eventually it was only the sound of their boots on dirt, the soft hiss of insects and birds that surrounded him. Sam tried very hard not to think about the water they had left behind. He had already shucked his coat, and was getting his white shirt nice and brown. Their sole remaining saddle bag was slung over his shoulder, the no longer wet patch of sweat underneath a growing concern. Dean was still wrapped in his coat, arm wrapped around his ribs now that they were out of sight. When Sam had suggested that they fashion their undershirts into a Beoudin Head Wrap, oh about 5 miles back, Dean’s snort had been final. He was however paying the price now, the back of his neck an angry red, hell his whole face was red, hair matted and stiff with sweat.
“I hope there’s another ranch near enough for us to try again.”
Dean’s grunt said it all.
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Shelling peas was easy, mind-freeing work. Your hands could go through the well-rehearsed motions, your mind free to wander, talk or just worry. Claire remembered a whole household of women, sitting around a table shelling peas and peeling potatoes, washing carrots. Now, miles from that home, she sat with her own daughter, who’d rather be outside with her brothers, a scowl drawing her face into a picture of unhappiness.
At least it was getting cooler, a small breeze rustling the trees outside, flapping the curtains she’d been embarrassed to buy but too inept to make. Another day was half way done.
“Ma!”
Joe’s voice warbled, adolescence warring with childhood, making even a single syllable a smile inducing sound. Just not now. Not when his voice conveyed the tone of trouble.
“Stay here, Gracie.”
Claire stepped out onto the porch, her Pa’s old hunting rifle firmly in hand, but pointed down. The old gun was huge, impressive to see, and hopefully enough to scare off the need to fire it. Joe was on the porch too, his Pa’s gun clutched tight and white knuckled. Little Ben was standing solemnly beside him, a calm to his brother’s vibrating storm.
There were two men, standing on the edge of her property, by the fence, not yet in the yard proper. Strangers.
“Ma’am”, one of them nodded slowly, his hand twitching in reflex to doff a non-existent hat. She nodded politely, noting their guns, clothes and absence of horses.
His smile was warm, desperate, “We had a spot a trouble with our horses a few miles back and would really appreciate it if you would spare us some water.”
Spoke booksmart, from somewhere back East, no accent to be really definable. He seemed an affable fellow, but there were plenty of well spoken and polite thieves and murderers out there. Joe looked fit to burst, his hand trembling near the trigger, but not actually on it, just like his Pa taught him.
The strangers looked done in, though. It was no lie that they had walked miles in the heat and dust. The other one, silent so far, hung back, eyes down and unconcerned. “You two got names?”
Another smile rife with need, “Sam Winchester, ma’am and this is my brother, Dean. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Like they were standing at some party, all toffed up and ready to dance. But his charm worked and Claire nodded, “Then Mr Winchester, you are welcome to avail yourself of our water pump.” She indicated briefly towards the trough and pump, figured that at least she could spare herself the trouble of priming it, putting their guests’ muscles to good use.
“Much obliged, ma’am.”
Joe didn’t move as the two made their way to the trough, nice and easy as if aware that any sudden moves would result in nervous fingers tightened on triggers. Claire lowered her rifle though, and checked the window behind, certain that Grace would be there. Sure enough she was, faced pressed against the glass, studying the men intently.
“Ben, honey, please go help Grace finish up the peas.”
“Yes, Ma.”
The door closed softly behind him, Grace’s scowl back as she reluctantly left the window. Nodding at Joe, his lanky frame already so tall, Claire rested her rifle near the door jamb and picked up her broom. With Joe’s full attention on the men, Sam vigorously pumping the handle, Claire began a half hearted sweep of the porch, her own attention spilt.
Sam had got the water flowing and after the first few spurts of brackish pipe water, the water ran clean and cold, part of the reason she and Henry had bought the land. After a silent disagreement between them, Sam stuck his head under the pump, taking a few mouthfuls every now and then as he washed away the dirt. Dean didn’t even seem overly excited about the prospect of water, his lazy gaze sliding over house, barn, broken corral and distant fields.
Claire and Henry had lucked out on the land, plenty of trees and greenery, meadows readily turned into pastures. It was a pretty spot and Claire loved it. She wasn’t quite sure why Dean Winchester’s indifferent gaze rankled her, but it did.
Finally done, hair still wet, the edges of his collar and cuffs soaked, Sam stood and gave the pump handle a few more turns before stepping back for his brother. Not nearly as free in his refreshment, Dean wet hair and face a few times before taking a few mouthfuls of water. Sam produced a canteen and filled it up, stowing it away in his saddle bag again.
Claire stopped, the ever present dust cloud from her boom dying down, and Joe seemed to relax a fraction when it seemed that the Winchester Brothers were done, Dean already edging towards the fence. “Thank you again, Ma’am. We really do appreciate it.” Claire reckoned Sam was nice enough, probably a good man. He hefted the saddle bag to shoulder and with a small wave followed his brother toward the gate, hurrying to catch up. They both stared at the broken posts of the corral as they passed, a frown flitting across Sam’s face.
He slowed, shot a glance at them, and back at his brother who was still walking towards the gate. There was half a beat of hesitation before the smile was back and he called out, “Ma’am, I know we’ve prevailed on your kindness a great deal already, but perhaps if my brother and I fix your corral for you, you could be persuaded to provide us with some food. For the road?” Before Claire could even open her mouth, Joe was at her side, tense again and Sam was saying, “Nothing much, mind you. Just whatever you can spare.”
They were both big men, taller than her or Henry, and could probably go without food for a while, but Claire’s own Mother had been very clear on her notions of charity and Christian goodness. You never turned away a beggar or someone in need. Her son’s sharp look was chock-full of refusal and fear, but the corral needed fixing, her guests needed food and Claire had taken a liking to at least one of them.
“Alright, agreed. But you best be finished and gone long before sunset. I ain’t putting you up for the night and feeding you.”
“Ma!” Joe’s hiss was accompanied by his rifle swinging to target Sam and both men froze, tense now in their own right. Sighing, she pushed the carbine down, and said softly for him alone, “Never you mind, Joe. You can keep an eye on them from the barn.”
Unhappy, and obedient, Joe dropped the barrel completely, the gun swinging from one hand in as casual but competent manner as he could manage. “Yes, Ma.”
“There’s wood round back, hammer and nails. Joe will show you.”
Sam’s blinding smile was almost worth Joe’s frown, but she knew her boy had good instincts usually and that if he’d truly thought the Winchesters were trouble, he’d have fired at them from the get go. Recent events though had him on edge, had all of them on edge.
While Joe escorted the brothers to the barn, Claire went inside and relieved her daughter of the vegetables and ended the brief smile Grace had by tasking her with preparing the food for the Winchesters to take with them. Ben followed her outside and sat with his mother, as she continued to peel and shell, keeping her own careful watch.
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Dean was angry. And considering that he’d been irate yesterday and flat out furious this morning, Sam figured this was an improvement, and that nothing short of a miracle was going to improve his brother’s mood. So he just let Dean be, didn’t try to coax him out of the mood, or make him laugh. He just let it be.
He did try to shoulder more of the work than usual, though. They had both spent time on ranches and farms growing up, but Dean had an easy economy of movement when it came to physical labour, would have been a dab ranch hand he been inclined put down roots and settle. But the same ease Dean found in manual labour, made him a damn fine hunter too and well, that was an old argument. Nonetheless, Dean was favouring his ribs, so Sam tried to ‘let’ him do just that but ended up simply following his brother’s silent or murmured instructions as they slotted posts into place, and secured them.
It was good honest work, the kind the Sam had both hated and loved as a child, hating being dragged away from his books but loving the time spent with Dean and their Father, listening as John quietly instructed them in the ‘right’ way to do this and that. While books were Sam’s true forte and love, he couldn’t deny the simply pleasure of honest labour, working for your bread, tools in hand, building something that was real and lasting.
They were more than half way done by the time Sam took his third trip to the water pump, ensuring that they both watered themselves while the opportunity presented. They would be finished with ample time to spare, more than enough to maybe make the nearest town. Maybe.
Sam was still standing by the pump, Dean behind the barn fetching more nails when the sound of a flurry of movement, hooves and tack announced the imminent arrival of men on horseback. Soon enough, the dust cloud heralded them into the yard, the lady of house already on her feet, no need this time for her son to call.
As the dust settled, and relative quiet fell, Sam shifted slightly, instinctively readying himself for a fight. The boy was at his mother’s side again, rifle this time pointed straight at the men. Her own rifle brought to bear, she said loudly, “You ain’t welcome here, Franks. Told you that last time too.”
“Now, now, Mrs McLeod, that was just a misunderstanding. This here is a neighbourly visit to make you and your family are doing well.”
“We’re fine. Now leave.”
Sam couldn’t see Franks, his view blocked by the two burly men who were eyeing him out with outright curiosity, but if Franks looked as slimy as he sounded, the man would be 6 foot slug. “No need to be anxious, Claire, I know how hard it is since Henry…”
Joe had primed his rifle, the crack of preparation making all 5 men twitch towards their own guns. Sam felt his own Colt’s smooth handle, tucked between his high-waist pants and shirt. “Not so fast, Little Thundercloud. Your ma and I are talking.”
Mrs McLeod stepped forward, unwavering, her face set and said sharply, “Got nothing to say to you, Franks. I ain’t selling. I ain’t giving up and I don’t need your help. Get of my land!”
Sam caught a glimpse of Frank’s profile and then all of his face as the man walked his horse forward, edging away from his men. Soft chin, hard eyes, oily smile. Slug. Frank smirked at Mrs McLeod, nodding towards Sam, “I see you’ve hired yourself some help, Claire. Maybe you do need assistance afterall. I’m sure we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement without you having to hire a stranger.”
There was a lot implied in that word ‘stranger’, thief for one, coward for another. Sam just smiled and touched the brim of his absent hat, failing to react as the two men closest to him turned slightly, as if marking him.
“What I do is none of your business. And I’m not telling you again, Franks. Get of my land!” The kid beside her was white, whether with anger or fear, or both, but his gaze was fixed on Franks as if he was making sure that if anything went down, Franks went first.
Unsurprisingly the tension climbed a few tent poles as Franks smiled again, this one far from friendly but still oily. His men tensed too, hands a little too close to gunbutts for comfort. “I reckon you could at least offer us something to eat, maybe a drink or two before we go, Claire. Mighty long ride out to this little … homestead. Mighty far.”
Claire answered simply by raising her rifle, also aimed straight at Franks. “Now, Franks.”
Leaning back in the saddle, with not a care in world, Franks yawned and shook his head, “Mighty brave of you, Claire, facing down 5 armed men with nothing more than a boy and a drifter whose more likely working for me than you.”
It was a interesting tableau before Sam, 5 dusty men astride 5 fidgety horses, picking up the tells from their riders, facing off against a gun wielding mother and son, framed in shadow and shade from a sturdy ranch horse. Sun glinting off buckle and brace as muscles twitched and dull flat eyes watched for either a McLeod or a Winchester to make a move.
The spine-tightening sound of a shotgun being loaded and locked snapped all eyes up to the bran. Dean stood in the upper storey of the barn, a sliver of black and blue amidst the hay, stance casual and ready, gun pointing true. His sardonic smirk and quirked eyebrow painted a definitive ‘oh shit’ across Sam’s vision. Dean was itching for a fight.
Sam smoothly drew his own colt, and pointed it at the man nearest him. For a moment, action was a hair breadth away, until Franks uncoiled and laughed, “Picking up more stays I see. More fool you, Claire. Since you have everything so well in hand, we best be getting back home.” He shot Dean a knowing smirk before turning his horse’s head and walking his horse around, turning around his men too by default.
As they passed the corral, one of them saw fit to accidently knock over a few of the posts Sam and Dean had stacked in preparation of finishing up, an errant hoof kicking hammers and spent nails. Claire heaved a sigh of relief as the small group disappeared down the trail and she struggled to keep her hands from shaking as she put the rifle down. “Thank you, Sam Winchester, Dean,” as his brother ambled from the barn toward the house, his hands empty. “Thank you so much.” Dean just nodded, while Sam smiled, feeling a little like his face might break from the strain of it. “It’s the least we could do, ma’am.”
Mrs McLeod’s smile was wane, her hands a little shaky. “None the less, I appreciate it.”
Dean, as always, uncomfortable with grateful, thankful folks, unless it was a pretty available lady who could express that thanks, was already heading back towards the corral. The haunted whorehouse in Virginia was probably still his favourite hunt, what with all those ‘thankful’ ladies. “Come on, Sam.”
Nodding at Claire, Sam reholstered his gun and hurried after Dean.
He caught up quickly, and was about to open his mouth when Dean hissed softly, “Hunt’s in Gallows Gate, right?”
Sam nodded.
“And those damn horse thieves were heading in the opposite direction.”
Sam nodded slowly, not really wanting to poke that angry bear, “Yeah, but … Dad said…”
“I know what Dad said, but they took my horse, Sam. My horse!”
And you’ve been a right pleasure ever since, Sam thought to himself but nodded in agreement nonetheless. There was no arguing around this point, Dean’s horse was … well, Dean’s horse. But they’d had this non argument already, and Sam had reluctantly agreed to follow the trail of the horse thieves first, so why was Dean bringing it up ….
“Did you recognize one of the men, was it…”
Dean shook his head but as he stooped to pick up the knocked over poles he growled, “No, but those soon to be dead idiots that stole my horse were riding horses with a Flying F brand.”
Sam frowned as he picked up his own pile and muttered, “Flying F, as in … Franks? I didn’t see…”
Dean shook his head, maybe at Sam’s failure to pick it up, or in disgust in general, “I did. Two of those hands were riding horses with a Flying F.”
“Maybe the thieves stole their horses from Franks,” Sam supplied reasonably, already knowing Dean’s response.
“Only fools steal branded horses and then ride around on them.”
“Maybe they’re just fools, then Dean.”
“They got the drop on us didn’t they?”
Sam nodded reluctantly. They had indeed, much to Dean’s fury and Sam’s dismay, got the drop on them yesterday. Kept them pinned down with gunfire, and taken off with their horses and saddle bags. Only Sam’s bag with the old laundry and their father’s journal had escaped, because Sam had had it with him. The trail had been clear, away from Gallow’s Gate and their hunt.
And Sam was beginning to see what Dean was perhaps piecing together. Two hunters led away from a town with potential supernatural trouble by men riding Flying F horses. The surrounding ranches under pressure to sell to Owen Franks, the owner of the Flying F ranch and well… it was looking suspicious.
Holding the corral pole in place while Dean hammered away, Sam said with quiet deliberation, “Alright, so things are looking peculiar. What do you want to do?”
Dean shifted the nail pursed between his lips and mumbled around it, “What I want is to get my horse back, and to shoot someone, preferably the cowboy who stole it. But I think if we head into town, we might get lucky and I can do just that and salt and burn ‘em with the damn ghost.”
And Sam couldn’t argue with that.
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TBC