A/N: Despite this being a totally fictional AU, I've tried to excise a few of the movie's worst historical and geographical errors. There's no reason, for example, for someone riding from the Rio Grande (south/west of San Antonio) to go through Cuero (east of San Antonio) on the way to the real town of Eldorado (west of San Antonio)... even ignoring the fact that neither Eldorado nor Sonora existed in the early 1870s, when the movie is set! So I've moved the fictional El Dorado—note the spelling difference; it's pronounced differently, too—to an area where ranchers did settle before the Civil War and shuffled other geographical references accordingly. But I have kept the fiction of "sheriff" being more or less equivalent to "police chief" and not a county-wide office.

Many thanks to jennytork for being an awesome beta and sounding board as usual and for suggesting a couple of the other divergences from the movie!

Warning: Hollywood physics and highly questionable Hollywood-frontier medicine of the absolutely-do-not-try-this-at-home kind. Unfortunately, both figure into the plot too greatly to leave out. There's also at least one major point of lore that is deliberately AU to work with the movie plot (so nolettersonthatpleasethankyou).

This story is complete in five chapters; I'll be posting a chapter a day.

Down the Valley of the Shadow
By San Antonio Rose

Chapter 1
Gaily Bedight

John Winchester let out a sigh of relief as he finally spied the lights of Del Rio, Texas. The last six months or so had been positively hellish, what with the mess in El Dorado and a chupacabra hunt that got him dragged into the El Paso Salt War for months on end, not to mention the souvenir of El Dorado that he still carried in his back. The bullet, of course, he deserved—the pain it caused was fit penance for having accidentally shot a widowed rancher's adopted daughter, the tragic result of a series of missteps brought on by his coming to town at the invitation of one Dick Roman.

The fact that young Madison Mills had rallied enough to steal his gun and finish what he'd started didn't assuage his guilt much. Neither did his surmise that she was a werewolf, a conclusion he hadn't shared with her mother. She'd never killed a human to anyone's knowledge, and the silver bullets being in his revolver had been an oversight after Roman's request for John's services as a gunman caused him to leave the location of his previous hunt sooner after the hunt's conclusion than usual. Jody Mills hadn't blamed John for Madison's death, and neither had her three adopted sons. Her other adopted daughter, Charlie, hadn't believed his story and ambushed him on his way back to El Dorado.

Fortunately, the bullet had missed everything important; unfortunately, it had lodged against his spine, and Dr. Robert, the town sawbones, hadn't felt confident trying to remove it. And John... well, even if he'd been willing to forgo the pain, he hadn't had time to see a specialist during the last six months. He didn't know when he would, either, especially if his hunch played out and put him on the right trail after Yellow-Eyes after all. One thing was for sure, though: he wanted to stay away from El Dorado as long as he could.

But Madison Mills wasn't the only reason. Her death would have been hard enough to take without the similarity to the greenhorn mistake he'd made that had cost Bill Harvelle his life. Yet the similarity wouldn't have seemed quite so strong if he hadn't blundered into one of the last people he'd wanted to see in El Dorado.

Ellen Harvelle owned a saloon there. He hadn't even realized she'd moved, never mind being so far south. And on top of that, she'd offered to help him, said her boy Ash—wild-haired kid, some said former Indian captive—might have a tracking spell. She swore up and down that Jo was back East with Jim Murphy, but John just... he just couldn't let anyone else get killed because of him. Especially not from that family.

In any case, here he was riding into Del Rio, a good two months later than he'd meant to (thank you, El Paso). It had taken Dean's letter nearly that long to catch up to him, letting him know that Dean's 'apprenticeship' to Daniel Elkins had finally achieved the result Elkins had promised when John agreed to it. Better late than never, though, and John had written back to tell Dean to wait for him here. Now the trick was going to be finding the boy.

So he rode up to the jail—and froze at the sight of the deputy lounging outside the open door with his hat over his face and his feet up on the porch rail.

"Well, at least you're outside," John grumbled.

Dean tipped his hat back with a cheeky grin and put his feet on the ground. "Hey, Pa. 'Bout time."

"What sheriff would hire you as a deputy?"

"You're lookin' at him," said Caleb, coming to the door. "Bunch o' coyote-form skinwalkers had been attacking the ranches around here, plus making trouble in their human forms. We had enough silver to take out the whole pack. But they'd killed the sheriff just about the time we got here, so..." He put his thumb behind the lapel of his vest, showing off his tin star.

John snorted in amusement and shook his head. "Mind if I steal my son back?"

"Not at all. Glad to see him go," Caleb added with a playful sock to Dean's shoulder.

Dean laughed, took off his badge, and slapped it into Caleb's waiting hand as he stood. "I'll pick up my gear on the way out of town. Want to leave Cochise here with Impala, Pa?"

John considered, nodded, dismounted, and gave his appaloosa's reins to Caleb. "That cantina up the street. Food any good?"

"Good as any," Dean replied. "See you, Caleb."

John and Caleb shared a smile and a nod, and the two Winchesters made their way through the dark streets to the cantina.

As they walked, Dean gave John a more appraising look than he had in front of Caleb. "Heard you got shot," he said quietly.

"Six months ago," John confirmed. "I'm all right, though. But tell me—you did get the gun?"

"I did. It's in the safe at the jail. Town's been quiet enough since the skinwalkers bought it that we've been able to keep it under 24-hour guard."

"Good. You have much trouble convincing Elkins to keep his word?"

Dean huffed. "Might have. He kept adding to the terms of the deal—one more hunt, one more, one more. Caleb was about ready to quit."

"So what happened?"

"Nest got the drop on us. Middle of town, broad daylight. Couple of men from the 10th Cav happened to be riding through town, helped us out, but one of the vamps got Elkins."

"Dead or turned?"

"Dead. Personal grudge, apparently."

John sighed.

"His wife, Darla, she'd been trying to get him to ease up on us. Said she didn't see what was so special about one old gun that he'd be so miserly with it. Gave it to me no questions asked, and paid us both for our trouble."

"Paid?!"

Dean held up a hand. "I tried to turn her down. But she'd been his best girl when he had a saloon up in Wyoming, before the war. She said he'd treated us the way he'd treated his girls—constant demands, promises never quite fulfilled, room and board and just enough pay to be legal but not enough to leave. The work was different, that was all. So she paid us what she thought we were owed, in cash, and wouldn't take no for an answer."

John sighed again. "May be a good thing that vamp caught up to him before I did."

Dean let out a humorless chuckle, and they went into the cantina and ordered. While they waited for their food, a couple of pretty young things came over with a box of dominos, and soon the four of them were engrossed in a game of Mexican Train. John was not so involved in the game, however, that he could miss the arrival of a group of four men led by a tall, gangrel fellow with a deep scar down the middle of one side of his face. The injury had apparently been so severe that it had mangled the man's eye... and John didn't know whether to hope or worry that it looked yellow from a certain angle. The hunch that had led him here hadn't included this potential wrinkle; what it meant remained to be seen.

"Pa," Dean prompted softly. "It's your turn."

John turned his attention back to the game but kept an ear out just in case these fellows meant trouble.

And that's how, despite the volume at which the cantina band was playing, he heard a familiar but unexpected voice say in a quiet but dangerous tone, "Tyson Brady."

Dean's head shot up, but John put a hand on his arm to stop him from calling out. They couldn't risk getting involved—yet. Besides, the unarmed new arrival had his back to them; even if he had seen them, he had other business there.

"Yeah?" returned a blond fellow from the gunmen's table. "Something I can do for you, mister?"

"You remember this ring?" asked the newcomer, displaying something on a necklace.

Brady snorted. "Now why the hell would I remember a ring?"

"You killed the lady who was wearing it."

The cantina went silent at that declaration.

"Ladies," Dean ordered quietly and made a shooing motion.

The girls took the hint and left the room in a hurry.

Brady, however, was focused on his accuser, though judging from his smirk, he didn't seem overly worried. "Just who was this lady I killed? Friend of yours?"

"You could say that," the accuser replied. "We were supposed to get married this spring."

"When did I do this, boy?"

"A few months ago. November 2, to be exact, in Independence. Her name was Jessica Moore; we went to school together at Baylor."

"You remember this girl, Brady?" asked the scarred gunman.

Brady chuckled cruelly. "Yeah, I remember. But Jess was no lady."

"You're a fine one to judge," the accuser stated, making an effort to keep his voice calm and level. "You broke in, cut her up, and burned down the house. You know, you really didn't have to do all that... considering that you were trying to threaten me."

John had to force himself not to react beyond gripping Dean's arm harder.

"Well, I'm sure glad you remember, Mr. Brady," the accuser continued. "Went to a lot of trouble to find you. Now I think you'd better stand up."

Brady didn't move.

"Stand up, Brady," ordered the scarred gunman. "I'm curious to see how he does this. He doesn't have a gun. And like he said, you didn't have to burn down the house."

"Why not?" Brady countered. "He was in it."

John's skin crawled.

"Stand up, Brady," the scarred gunman repeated.

Finally, with a contemptuous snort, Brady stood and reached for his gun. But before he could draw, the accuser reached down the back of his shirt and flung a knife so fast that John didn't actually see it until it stuck in Brady's chest. And Brady, lit up from the inside as with hellfire, gasped and fell and died. Everyone froze in shock while the accuser retrieved his knife, wiped it clean on Brady's shirt, and started to leave.

Then one of the other gunmen stood. "You with the ring."

The accuser paused.

"You killed Brady 'cause he killed a friend of yours. Just so happens that Brady was a friend of mine. So let's see if you can do that trick twice!" On twice he pulled his gun—

—and John shot it out of his hand. Then John looked past the idiot to another gunman who was reaching for his own gun. "I'd let it drop, friend."

"Me?" asked the second idiot, feigning innocence, as if his wide-brimmed hat didn't make him totally conspicuous.

"Yes, you," Dean growled, aiming his own gun at said idiot.

Said idiot pulled his gun out with thumb and forefinger and dropped it.

Satisfied, John returned his attention to the first idiot. "Pick up your gun. You want to try again now?"

The first idiot started to reach for his gun, then paused. "Against which one of you?"

John raised one eyebrow. "Me first."

The accuser frowned. "As I recall—"

"Stay out of this," John ordered, then addressed the first idiot again. "Pick it up."

"Now just a second—"

"Tell me about it later."

"I'll tell you now."

"Shut up," John ordered before pressing the first idiot again. "Go on! You were plenty willing when you had a kid—"

"Hold it," the scarred gunman interrupted. "Don't get mad, mister. Before you start anything, I can't afford to lose another man. You promise to take Roy's place?"

The first idiot—Roy—looked shocked. "You got a lot of faith in me, don't you, Nelse?"

"Faith can move mountains, Roy," the scarred gunman—Nelse—replied, not looking away from John. "But it can't beat a faster draw. There's only three men I know with his kind of speed. One's dead; the other's me; and the third is John Winchester."

"There's others," John countered.

"Which are you?"

"I'm Winchester."

Roy gulped and scuttled back from his gun.

Nelse ordered Roy and his pal to pick up their guns and take Brady to the undertaker, then gave the cantina owner permission to start the music again. "Like to talk to you, Winchester," he said after that, leaning back in his chair with a glass of bourbon in his hand. "Name's Nelse McLeod."

No, it isn't, John almost countered, but even if he were sure, the Colt was still at the jail. And if he were wrong, McLeod was notorious as the deadliest gun south of the Nueces. He almost never traveled north of Laredo, and only once as far as Eagle Pass to John's knowledge; for him to be here in Del Rio must mean trouble.

"McLeod," John acknowledged instead, walking forward to cover for Dean, who was edging over to the other kid. "Pretty far off your range, aren't you?"

"Little," McLeod conceded. "You working now?"

"No."

"What would you say if I tried to hire you on?"

"First I'd ask about the money."

"Money's good."

"Then I'd ask about the job."

"There's a little range war up near El Dorado."

John's eyebrows shot up. "El Dorado? Mind telling me who hired you?"

"Fella named Dick Roman. You heard of him?"

"We've met. He offered me the job a few months back. I didn't take it. Know who you're going up against?"

"Yeah, the sheriff. Bobby Singer. I understand he used to be pretty good with a gun."

"Not just pretty good. He's—"

"One of the other men you were talking about. Well, he used to be. He's not anymore."

John frowned. "What happened?"

McLeod snorted. "What usually happens to a man? A woman. Seems he tangled with some wandering petticoat, been drunk ever since."

"And you're figuring to move in before he sobers up or before they get a new sheriff?"

McLeod nodded.

John wasn't sure whether he believed that report, and not just because he didn't think that sounded like the way Bobby would react to that kind of abandonment. Bobby definitely hadn't been in that kind of state six months earlier. It had been a shock to have him corner John at the Roadhouse with the truth about that range war, though his story had been enough to convince John not to take Roman's job. But... well, anything could happen in six months. Much as John hated the prospect of going back, he knew he needed to investigate.

The main question was whether or not to let the two behind him tag along. They had, wisely, stayed put long enough to hear this entire exchange. John knew they'd want to help. He just didn't know whether they should.

Before he could decide, though, McLeod turned his head to look past John's shoulder. "You're pretty good with that knife," he said to the kid. "Can you use a gun?"

"If I could, I'd be using one," the kid returned.

John didn't like the sound of that, but he tried not to let his concern show. At least McLeod took the comment for the refusal it was and didn't push his offer.

McLeod looked at Dean next. "You interested?"

"No, thanks," was Dean's only reply.

McLeod snorted and looked back at John. "And you're not coming in."

"No," John replied.

"I suppose you have your reasons." McLeod finally sat forward and put his glass on the table. "Probably just as well. Two like us in the same bunch, sooner or later we'd have to find out which one of us was faster." And there was that flicker of yellow again—in both eyes this time.

John just nodded slowly. "Yeah."

"So long, Winchester. Men," he added with a nod to the boys.

John started to move away from the table but paused, deliberately. "Oh, McLeod... would you like to walk out that door ahead of us?"

"No, I don't believe I would," McLeod replied but stood anyway.

"I didn't think so."

McLeod led the way to the door and paused in the doorway. "Walt, Roy," he called. "Can you hear me?"

"We hear you," Roy called back.

"I'm coming out." McLeod walked outside first, with John and the boys close behind him. "Where are you?"

"Over here," Walt called from the shadows behind a staircase outside the building across the street.

McLeod ordered them to come out into the light and drop their guns, which the boys collected without John's prompting. Then McLeod ordered Roy and Walt back into the cantina. "That all right, Winchester?" he asked then.

"Good enough," John replied. "We'll leave those with the sheriff, if it's all right with you. Your boys can pick 'em up on their way out of town."

"Sounds reasonable."

"Much obliged."

"Call it professional courtesy." And McLeod went back inside.

"C'mon," Dean said quietly. "We can get something to eat at the jail."

So the kid got his horse, and the three of them walked silently back to the jail, where the boys deposited the guns on Caleb's desk. But John was more concerned about the defenses of the place and closed and locked the door behind him. "Caleb," he asked, "you got wards up in here?"

Caleb blinked. "Why?"

"Humor me."

"Iron bars on all the windows, plus that." Caleb pointed up at a devil's trap carved into the ceiling over the door.

John nodded once. "Where's your most secure cell?"

"Back here," Dean replied and led the way to a cell with iron on three sides and windowless rock on the other three. He quickly moved an extra cot into it, and John hustled the kid inside—there wasn't room for a third cot, but John was willing to sleep on the floor.

Then John pulled the cell door shut. "Lock it," he told Caleb.

"John," Caleb objected.

"Dammit, Caleb, humor me!"

Sighing, Caleb locked the door. "Did you have time to eat? You weren't gone all that long."

"No, we didn't. Something came up."

"All right. I'll fix something. Be a few minutes."

"That's fine. Thanks."

Caleb nodded and went back to the front office, which had a small stove.

Only then could John let down his guard and allow himself to think and say the name of the boy he turned to now, taller and thinner but otherwise not much changed by the last four years. "Hi, Sammy."

"Hey, Pa," Sam returned quietly. "Been a long time."

"Too long." And John pulled him into a hug.

Sam stiffened, but only for a moment. Then he let out a shuddering sigh and returned the hug. "Thanks for the help."

"Just wish I hadn't been tied up clear across the state in November."

"Same here," said Dean. "Except Caleb and I were in Colorado. That was when we got jumped by that vamp nest."

Sam backed away from John to give Dean an even warmer hug. Once he broke that embrace, he said, "What are the odds Bobby's girlfriend showed up about the same time?"

"Better than even," John replied, gesturing for the boys to sit down and taking a seat himself. "Tell us what happened."

Sam sighed and fiddled with Jessica's ring for a moment. "I don't know why that thing pretended not to know me, unless it was trying to make me look bad. The real Brady wasn't a gunfighter. He was a friend of mine at Baylor, studying physiology—he'd planned to go to medical school back East. But then our second year, he came back from Christmas break... completely different. He was a laudanum fiend.* What I didn't know at the time was that he was a literal fiend as well."

Dean frowned. "Whoa, wait, what—"

John held up a hand. "Let him tell it, son."

"That spring, Brady introduced me to Jess," Sam continued. "She was studying in the Female College and had been staying in the ladies' dormitory, but her father had just bought her a house with the provision that she find someone to rent a room to help with the upkeep and food and such. The rent she was asking was less than what the boarding house was charging, and we liked each other, so... well, I started out renting a room from her. But after I proposed... well..." He trailed off, blushing.

"You shared her bed?"

Sam nodded. "That's why the demon said she wasn't a lady—but we were faithful, Pa. So we hadn't said the vows yet! It's not like either of us was sharing a bed with anyone else!"

"I'm not judging, Sam. Just tell us what happened in November."

Sam rubbed at his forehead a little. "It started in October, actually. I started having nightmares about Jess dying. But I thought they were just nightmares, so I didn't do anything about it."

John frowned in concern.

"On the day it happened, one of the professors asked me to come help with some repairs—the school's still rebuilding after the way the Rebs treated the place during the war. It was late when I got home, and I thought I heard Jess in the bath, so I went up to our room and lay down on the bed. Then... then I looked up..." Sam's voice broke, and he fought tears for a moment as Dean rubbed his back. "Sh-she was pinned to the ceiling, Pa, right over our bed, with her belly sliced open. And then she burst into flame. I t-tried to get her down, but..." He broke off again, shaking his head.

"How'd you get out?" Dean asked.

"I don't know. I have no memory of it. One minute I was in the house, and the next I was outside and the fire brigade was trying to save the house." Sam sniffled and held up the ring. "This was all that was left of Jess."

John shut his eyes against the flood of memories of Mary's death. The similarities couldn't be coincidental.

Sam waited until John opened his eyes to pick up the story again. "I knew it had to be our kind of thing, after... what you told us about Ma. But I didn't know where you and Dean were, and... even if I had..."

"I woulda come, Sammy," Dean said softly. "If I'd known, if I'd been able, I'da been there."

"So would I," John agreed. "That last fight... I don't know what I was thinking. I'm sorry we weren't there."

Sam sniffled again and leaned against Dean a little. "Well, anyway, I didn't know of any hunters in the area, so... I went to New Orleans and found a friend of yours. Missouri Mosely."

John inhaled sharply. There weren't many places where an unmarried former slave could live in safety, never mind one with Missouri's gifts. She'd been all right in Lawrence back in the '50s, having used her Sight to escape from the Houston area while Texas was still a republic and having established a new identity in Kansas under a new name. There'd been enough abolitionists in the area to shelter her if anyone had come looking. But John had heard she'd been forced to flee to Canada when the Troubles kicked up. Maybe her Sight made New Orleans safer for her now despite her skin color.

"Missouri?" Dean echoed, frowning. "Who's she?"

"A clairvoyant, a real one," Sam explained. "She told me Pa went to her in Lawrence after Ma died. She read my memories and said it looked like either the same thing that killed Ma or the same kind of thing. She didn't know how to help me avenge Jess... but she knew someone who could. A medium, Pamela Barnes—she goes by Mademoiselle Pamela. Turns out, she knows Bobby."

John nodded a little as a vague memory surfaced of Bobby mentioning someone by that name.

"Well, Pamela figured out that Brady was possessed. And she had a weapon that could kill demons."

"That knife."

Sam nodded and pulled it out of the sheath he kept hidden behind his collar. He handed the knife to Dean to examine—a Bowie-style knife with a serrated edge and strange runes on its blade. "She was willing to sell, but she wouldn't take money. Her price was my gun... and my ability to shoot."

John gasped.

"Pa, that's all she took, I swear. Missouri confirmed it. And I figured that was a small price to pay to be able to avenge Jess and kill that demon. I can still defend myself in other ways."

"Pa," Dean said before John could object, "we've got the Colt. As long as Sam sticks with us, he'll be okay."

John didn't get a chance to object to that, either, because just then Caleb returned with their food. "Everything's quiet so far," Caleb reported as he passed a tray with three bowls of stew through the slot in the cell door to John. "What exactly has you so riled up, anyway?"

"Sam killed a demon at the cantina," John replied. "And I'm not sure it was alone."

Caleb hissed. "All right. I'll keep watch. Y'all should be all right in there, though."

"Thanks, Caleb. I'll plan to head out before first light—got to get back up to El Dorado as quick as I can."

Caleb nodded. "Let me get you some coffee." And he left.

"So what's the story about El Dorado?" Dean asked as John sat down and held out the tray for the boys to take their bowls. "Who's this Dick Roman?"

John grimaced. "Carpetbagger from Chicago, seems to make his living off of other people's misery. No one knows where he gets his money, but it spends the same as anyone else's. Bought up a bunch of ranch land right after the war—you know how it was."

The boys nodded and kept eating, needing no further explanation of the town's predicament. Hunters knew better than most what the Civil War had stirred up all over the country and how Reconstruction had devastated the former Confederate states, including Texas. It might take decades for some of the ranchers in that part of the state to get back on their feet. Many had already sold their homesteads and moved to towns where they might have a better chance to earn a living, and folks like Roman were buying up land for a song—or a bullet or a hex. The only thing they couldn't do on the Edwards Plateau without attracting hunters' attention was to magic more water out of the land. Rain was usually plentiful enough in the spring to keep things green and fill stock tanks, but rivers and creeks were few and far between in that corner of the Hill Country, and lakes were as scarce as dragons. Wells might be feasible once drilling equipment improved, but since El Dorado was on the edge of the Llano Uplift, it was tough to get through the granite bedrock to reach any water there might be underground.

"Well, Roman's hit the point where he can't grow any further until he gets more water. Only trouble is, the water rights he needs belong to a widow lady, Jody Mills. She and her husband got here back when Texas was still a republic. Lost her husband and sons in an Apache raid, but then she adopted a passel of kids off the orphan trains. They held on through the rough times, worked real hard to keep the place out of debt, and she's not about to sell up now that the price of beef and horses is coming back up. Bobby's been on her side all along. Roman tried to hire me to push her out, but Bobby set me straight. And to be honest... I didn't like Roman. Something slick and shark-like about that man; I don't trust him."

Dean nodded again. "So we're goin' to El Dorado to check on Bobby and help Mrs. Mills against McLeod, is that it?"

John hesitated. "I'm not so sure about 'we.' I think McLeod might be possessed by the demon that killed your mother."

The boys looked at each other, and then Dean set down his bowl and leaned forward. "Pa, with Sam like he is, he and the Colt need to stay together. If you want the Colt, you'll have to take him. And I'm not lettin' Sammy out of my sight until this is over."

"Dean," Sam objected.

Dean ignored him. "Face it, we're stronger together. Take tonight in the cantina. Sure, Sam handled Brady all right, but what would have happened if you and I hadn't been there to hold off Roy and Walt?"

"I want you boys safe," John stressed.

Sam huffed. "Sure, so safe you sent Dean to Colorado and left me in Independence for four years with no one to contact when the life caught up to me again. I don't need a minder, but I'm starting to wonder if maybe you do."

Caleb interrupted again by bringing in the coffee. "You probably should stick together, John," he said as he handed the cups through. "If the rumors about Bobby are true and Rufus is stuck riding herd on him, who would you call for backup? Ellen?"

John grumbled under his breath but didn't argue. He thought maybe he'd be able to sneak out during the night and get away while the boys were still sleeping.

He should have known they'd be waiting for him behind the jail, with Dean's black mare and Sam's buckskin saddled alongside Cochise. And Dean had the Colt on his left hip and an expression that told John he wouldn't be giving it up any time soon.

"We're coming, Pa," they chorused.

John sighed. "Fine. But I want you out of the action as much as possible."

Both boys rolled their eyes and mounted in perfect unison, leaving John to untie Cochise's reins and join them.

.

* Laudanum was a solution of morphine in alcohol, used for legitimate medical purposes as a painkiller but also often abused just like other opiates are today. (In the 1870s, most other drugs commonly abused in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries either didn't exist, weren't recognized as such, or weren't popular intoxicants.)