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apocalypsosTitle: now jerk that pistol and go to work
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: None
Warnings: None
Summary: The plus side of being in such a fine new place is that a man who can handle a deck of cards and a loaded pistol with the same deadly precision can manage just fine.
Author's note: Erm, I was watching Tombstone. Heh.
*
now jerk that pistol and go to work
*
The plus side of being in such a fine new place is that a man who can handle a deck of cards and a loaded pistol with the same deadly precision can manage just fine.
One picked pocket and a game of faro later and Dean’s got them dressed, armed, horsed, and run out of town.
“Smooth move, jackass,” Sam snaps, tightening his grip on the reins, urging his horse to go faster with a press of his heels.
Dean just chuckles and speeds his own horse up.
John Winchester trained his sons well. You never knew when you’d need to ride a horse like the devil is on your heels.
*
Dean names his damn stud Impala, ‘cause that’s just the sense of humor Sam’s got to put up with.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sam mutters, crouching on the ground next to the fire. It’s Sam’s turn to try cooking beans over a campfire under a clear night sky in the desert. Dean’s made cracks about that clear night sky shit being there to offset just how pissed you get trying to get the beans to cook. So far, Sam can’t argue that one.
Dean laughs, pats the horse on the neck. The fucker would get himself a black one, and one who doesn’t much like slowing down at that.
Sam hisses as he nearly burns himself on the cooking pot and says, “Don’t you think you’re getting a little comfortable here?”
“You’d rather I sit around and feel sorry for myself? Don’t you have that covered?”
Sam glares over the fire at him.
Dean’s horse whickers and nudges his shoulder with its nose, and Dean pats it fondly. “See? Even Impala agrees.”
“I hate you,” Sam says.
Dean shrugs. “Your prerogative, Sammy,” he says, and settles down to toe off his boots for a while. They haven’t broken in just yet, and his heels are killing him.
*
Books are hard to come by in these parts, not even worth it to deserve hauling them here unless you have the money to bring them. And the rich gentlemen strolling through town with their fine suits and their gold pocket watches aren’t about to share with the likes of a pair of card sharps or gunslingers in cheap dirty clothes.
Most towns, they just end up finding the craziest old coot around.
It usually turns out he isn’t half as crazy as people like to think.
“You two been cursed, ain’t you,” one particularly grimy example yells at them as they ride into town, not a question but a statement of fact.
Sam slows his horse, eyes narrowing under the bright glare of the midday sun. “Why would you say that?”
“Got an eye for these things,” he says, and cackles as he points to an empty eye socket.
*
Dean gets picky when it comes to women, won’t touch a girl he hasn’t run into more than a few times and found both trustworthy and clean.
In one town the whores leaning against the railing outside one of the louder saloons take one look at his pretty face and wave and coo, call out, “Hey, handsome,” and an offer for a bit of his time, giggle about “that tall drink of water” every time they see Sam on the next horse over.
“How long ’til they invent penicillin again?” Dean asks as they pass by.
Sam grins as he tugs down the brim of his hat. “Fifty years, give or take.”
“Shit,” Dean mutters, and spurs on his horse with a scowl.
*
Whenever they ride into a town it means the tinny sound of music carrying into the street from the saloons, the occasional echo of gunfire and the thinly concealed complaints about the Chinese immigrants living in the encampment on the outskirts. Most of the time they are the only grown men without a waxed mustache or a damn beard between them.
Dean keeps them flush with cash, fills their packs with ammo and salt, stocks them up with holy water. After the demon run-in outside of Tombstone, they aren’t about to slip again.
Sam asks around, about ghost stories and local superstitions and the like.
Sometimes he asks about a cursed saddle, one that makes you vanish when you touch it. Sometimes he gets confirmation they’ve heard the tale. Mostly he gets laughed at.
Every time they load up to leave, Dean leans over and asks, “You hear anything?”
Sam never answers, just clicks his tongue and eases his horse away.
*
When it had happened, this curse that ruined them and saved them all at once, they hadn’t landed with much more than the clothes on their backs and the brains in their heads, sand and rocks and the occasional cactus the only things in sight. Sam had a goose egg on the back of his head that was aiming to be a classic of the modern era.
“Told you not to touch that damn saddle,” Dean said, crawling over to his brother.
His fingers cradled Sam’s skull, fingertips gingerly exploring the swelling under his scalp. Idiot would live, thank God, although he’d have a hell of a headache come morning and Dean looked forward to a full night of waking Sam up every couple of hours to make sure his brain hadn’t turned to pudding.
Sam winced and leaned back against the rock they fell near. “You can’t tell me you thought that was going to happen.”
“I didn’t mean not to touch it because it was possessed or something, I meant not to touch it because the damn security guard was eyeing us up like a roast beef sub and a bag of Fritos.”
“The others touched it,” Sam pointed out.
“Yeah, well, doesn’t mean you had to,” Dean shot back.
Off in the distance there had been hoof beats, a whoop and a holler, and while desperation made Dean want to get up and wave for help, instinct had him grabbing onto Sam’s collar and hauling him down into the shadows.
Sam hissed his name, but Dean shook his head.
In the darkness Sam’s eyes were dark and wide in that way that made Dean feel a biological urge to hand over boxes of Lucky Charms and the plastic ring he just got from the candy machine.
The riders steamed past, dust rising up in the wake of their horses.
Cowboy hats and bowlers, antique weapons looking new and used all at once on every hip in sight, spurs and mustaches and not a goddamn modern convenience to be seen.
Dean had cursed under his breath. “I told you,” he’d said.
“Yeah,” Sam had said, sounding stunned, and let Dean drag him to his feet as he stared at the departing riders.
*
Six months pass and Sam thinks Dean might have been meant for this, the freedom of a gun at his hip and a flask in his pocket. The saucy tilt of most women’s hips as he rides past with a mischievous grin, the familiar way he storms into the everyday danger of life in this time, the ease in the way he rolls in the saddle with the movement of his horse as he hums Metallica under his breath.
A world where Dean Winchester isn’t dead or wanted, where he’s just another quick draw cowboy who fights the occasional monster.
Six months, and it ain’t looking like they’re going home any time soon.
Six months, and Sam’s not sure he’d go back even if they knew how.
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: None
Warnings: None
Summary: The plus side of being in such a fine new place is that a man who can handle a deck of cards and a loaded pistol with the same deadly precision can manage just fine.
Author's note: Erm, I was watching Tombstone. Heh.
now jerk that pistol and go to work
*
The plus side of being in such a fine new place is that a man who can handle a deck of cards and a loaded pistol with the same deadly precision can manage just fine.
One picked pocket and a game of faro later and Dean’s got them dressed, armed, horsed, and run out of town.
“Smooth move, jackass,” Sam snaps, tightening his grip on the reins, urging his horse to go faster with a press of his heels.
Dean just chuckles and speeds his own horse up.
John Winchester trained his sons well. You never knew when you’d need to ride a horse like the devil is on your heels.
Dean names his damn stud Impala, ‘cause that’s just the sense of humor Sam’s got to put up with.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sam mutters, crouching on the ground next to the fire. It’s Sam’s turn to try cooking beans over a campfire under a clear night sky in the desert. Dean’s made cracks about that clear night sky shit being there to offset just how pissed you get trying to get the beans to cook. So far, Sam can’t argue that one.
Dean laughs, pats the horse on the neck. The fucker would get himself a black one, and one who doesn’t much like slowing down at that.
Sam hisses as he nearly burns himself on the cooking pot and says, “Don’t you think you’re getting a little comfortable here?”
“You’d rather I sit around and feel sorry for myself? Don’t you have that covered?”
Sam glares over the fire at him.
Dean’s horse whickers and nudges his shoulder with its nose, and Dean pats it fondly. “See? Even Impala agrees.”
“I hate you,” Sam says.
Dean shrugs. “Your prerogative, Sammy,” he says, and settles down to toe off his boots for a while. They haven’t broken in just yet, and his heels are killing him.
Books are hard to come by in these parts, not even worth it to deserve hauling them here unless you have the money to bring them. And the rich gentlemen strolling through town with their fine suits and their gold pocket watches aren’t about to share with the likes of a pair of card sharps or gunslingers in cheap dirty clothes.
Most towns, they just end up finding the craziest old coot around.
It usually turns out he isn’t half as crazy as people like to think.
“You two been cursed, ain’t you,” one particularly grimy example yells at them as they ride into town, not a question but a statement of fact.
Sam slows his horse, eyes narrowing under the bright glare of the midday sun. “Why would you say that?”
“Got an eye for these things,” he says, and cackles as he points to an empty eye socket.
Dean gets picky when it comes to women, won’t touch a girl he hasn’t run into more than a few times and found both trustworthy and clean.
In one town the whores leaning against the railing outside one of the louder saloons take one look at his pretty face and wave and coo, call out, “Hey, handsome,” and an offer for a bit of his time, giggle about “that tall drink of water” every time they see Sam on the next horse over.
“How long ’til they invent penicillin again?” Dean asks as they pass by.
Sam grins as he tugs down the brim of his hat. “Fifty years, give or take.”
“Shit,” Dean mutters, and spurs on his horse with a scowl.
Whenever they ride into a town it means the tinny sound of music carrying into the street from the saloons, the occasional echo of gunfire and the thinly concealed complaints about the Chinese immigrants living in the encampment on the outskirts. Most of the time they are the only grown men without a waxed mustache or a damn beard between them.
Dean keeps them flush with cash, fills their packs with ammo and salt, stocks them up with holy water. After the demon run-in outside of Tombstone, they aren’t about to slip again.
Sam asks around, about ghost stories and local superstitions and the like.
Sometimes he asks about a cursed saddle, one that makes you vanish when you touch it. Sometimes he gets confirmation they’ve heard the tale. Mostly he gets laughed at.
Every time they load up to leave, Dean leans over and asks, “You hear anything?”
Sam never answers, just clicks his tongue and eases his horse away.
When it had happened, this curse that ruined them and saved them all at once, they hadn’t landed with much more than the clothes on their backs and the brains in their heads, sand and rocks and the occasional cactus the only things in sight. Sam had a goose egg on the back of his head that was aiming to be a classic of the modern era.
“Told you not to touch that damn saddle,” Dean said, crawling over to his brother.
His fingers cradled Sam’s skull, fingertips gingerly exploring the swelling under his scalp. Idiot would live, thank God, although he’d have a hell of a headache come morning and Dean looked forward to a full night of waking Sam up every couple of hours to make sure his brain hadn’t turned to pudding.
Sam winced and leaned back against the rock they fell near. “You can’t tell me you thought that was going to happen.”
“I didn’t mean not to touch it because it was possessed or something, I meant not to touch it because the damn security guard was eyeing us up like a roast beef sub and a bag of Fritos.”
“The others touched it,” Sam pointed out.
“Yeah, well, doesn’t mean you had to,” Dean shot back.
Off in the distance there had been hoof beats, a whoop and a holler, and while desperation made Dean want to get up and wave for help, instinct had him grabbing onto Sam’s collar and hauling him down into the shadows.
Sam hissed his name, but Dean shook his head.
In the darkness Sam’s eyes were dark and wide in that way that made Dean feel a biological urge to hand over boxes of Lucky Charms and the plastic ring he just got from the candy machine.
The riders steamed past, dust rising up in the wake of their horses.
Cowboy hats and bowlers, antique weapons looking new and used all at once on every hip in sight, spurs and mustaches and not a goddamn modern convenience to be seen.
Dean had cursed under his breath. “I told you,” he’d said.
“Yeah,” Sam had said, sounding stunned, and let Dean drag him to his feet as he stared at the departing riders.
Six months pass and Sam thinks Dean might have been meant for this, the freedom of a gun at his hip and a flask in his pocket. The saucy tilt of most women’s hips as he rides past with a mischievous grin, the familiar way he storms into the everyday danger of life in this time, the ease in the way he rolls in the saddle with the movement of his horse as he hums Metallica under his breath.
A world where Dean Winchester isn’t dead or wanted, where he’s just another quick draw cowboy who fights the occasional monster.
Six months, and it ain’t looking like they’re going home any time soon.
Six months, and Sam’s not sure he’d go back even if they knew how.
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Date: 2007-02-16 12:26 pm (UTC)His fingers cradled Sam’s skull, fingertips gingerly exploring the swelling under his scalp. Idiot would live, thank God, although he’d have a hell of a headache come morning and Dean looked forward to a full night of waking Sam up every couple of hours to make sure his brain hadn’t turned to pudding. I loved this whole section, how Dean is giving Sam shit after they've just been magically transported somewhere, but he's still making sure Sam's okay, being gentle and sure.