Title: WBY – Wild, Wild Winchesters
Characters: John, Sam and Dean, Some OCs
Rating: PG-13
Summary: AU, The Winchesters find themselves in the West, circa 1936. They hope to find the Colt but of course find trouble instead. Cowboys, horses, sheriffs and Winchesters. What more could you want? Warning: Parental discipline ahead. If you don't like, don't read.
The town was as nondescript as any they had ridden through. There seemed to be little rhyme or reason to its layout, just a dusty main street with an occasional alley that may or may not have led to another dusty street. The buildings were haphazard at best, built quickly in response to the need for shelter, and with little thought to aesthetics. John didn't mind. Functional was always better than pretty in his book. He jogged the black gelding down the street, tendrils of dust churning up with the motion of the horse's hooves.
A little behind and to John's left rode Sammy, hat pulled low over his head, lean body a bit hunched in the cool of the early spring air. To John's right rode Dean, scanning the town with an eager eye. It had been a while since they hit a town and even one as remote as this one could hold some interest for the seventeen-year-old. John recognized the glint in his eldest's eyes. He slowed the gelding to a walk and waited for Sam and Dean to come abreast him.
"We're here for the job, Dean. Keep that in mind."
"Yes, sir," came the automatic reply. John wondered though; he knew the boy too well to expect completely smooth sailing when they hit a town. Dean wasn't bad, so much as full of himself. And even John had to admit that this life was quite a bit different than the twentieth century. The Wild West, circa 1836, could be challenging to say the least. There were long hours of time in the saddle, days of traveling. Only the promise of Samuel Colt's revolver managed to keep John focused himself.
John had managed to track the Colt to this general area of South Texas, but the trail petered off, somewhere before the Colorado River. This trip back in time hadn't been his idea, but now that he was here he was going to make the best of it. Samuel Colt's gun should have been forged by now and in the hands of a hunter. It was just a matter of time before John found out who had it. Once John had it in his possession, he would take the demon out before this whole game ever even started.
John looked hard at his children. Dean and Sam rode easily in the saddle, both taking to riding with a natural balance that was a bit harder for John. They were young, strong, and leaner than anyone their age had a right to be. They were his legacy. John's ultimate motivation was for them.
John's motivation was clear, but sometimes…sometimes the boys needed a little external help to keep them motivated. John didn't have a problem with external motivation either. He did try to take into account the lack of adolescent entertainment, no TVs, no computer, no phones. He tried to be reasonable with regard to discipline, but reasonable and John Winchester never really saw eye to eye. So the boys trained harder when they were not on the trail. Practiced more with gun and knife. That was one aspect of the West in the 1800's that John was thoroughly enjoying. No one really cared about gunfire, or teaching your kids to hunt. Hell, hunting was a way of survival around here. Once Sammy had gotten over looking at the big brown eyes of bunnies, he learned that rabbit was not half bad and certainly better then an empty stomach. Two months of riding, training hard when not in the saddle and the lean fare that comes from living off the land, put a whole new spin on low fat dieting. Even John, never heavy, was lean hipped and thinner than he had ever been.
John nodded his head in the general direction of the local boarding house. "We'll meet up there for dinner. I'll make sure we have a room.
"You and Sammy take these horses to the livery. See they are cooled down and put up proper. Make sure they get some oats too." John watched as Sam stopped the eye roll that was sure to get a rise out of John. But again there was the familiar "Yes, sir" from them both.
John edged his horse up to the hitching post at the saloon and swung his right leg over the saddle. He landed hard in the dirt, stifled a groan, leaned back into a stretch and handed the reins to Sam.
John eyed both boys with what he hoped looked like a meaningful glare.
"You two stay outta trouble." The boys nodded. For a moment he wondered if he should push for the obligatory "Yes, sir" but opted against it. They knew the rules; no use in beating a dead horse.
John tipped his hat up, eyes scanning the quiet street. It was easy enough to spot the saloon. John's brief time in the West had proven that a saloon was more than just a place to drink. More typical of the Roadhouse than a 21st century bar, it was a gathering place, newsroom and local gossip rag all rolled up into one. Oh, there was definitely drinking involved, but John spent more time nursing his drink than participating. It turned out that cowboys and ranch hands were notorious for indulging in cheap whiskey. Then jawin' about anything and everything. It was simply a matter of sidling up to the bar and listening. John walked past several weathered buildings and stepped into the relative dark of the saloon. He navigated his way to the bar. No shiny brass or laminated bar top, but there was a low wooden step that surrounded the bar itself. The bar was more of a place to lean then sit. He chose a position at the bar with a view of the door and overview of the room. He quickly took stock of the men in the saloon. A quiet poker game to his left. A skinny ferret-eyed kid drinking a watered down beer. The bartender. No red flags. Nothing overly problematic. He quietly leaned into the bar, motioned to the bartender with a brief nod to his head and settled in for a while.
Sam clucked to his horse and ponyed off with John's in tow, Dean riding just a bit in front as they looked for a place to bed the horses down for the night.
" 'Y'Know Dean, some things never change. Stow the gear, gas up the car," Sam tried for pissy, but grinned, because three horses did not the Impala make. " At least, these guys," he gestured roughly toward the horses, "don't guzzle gas like the Impala."
"Don't even start, Sammy. They stink, your horse farts like, well, a horse and let's not even talk about crawling around under the hood." Not having his baby around was the hardest thing for Dean. The Impala was safely parked at Bobby's, but that did little to allay his fears. When Dean thought of horsepower, this was definitely not what he had in mind.
The livery wasn't too hard to find. They unsaddled the horses, both boys thankful that all three were cool to the touch. They had learned pretty quickly that depending on the three horses required as much, if not more, attention than the Impala. Dad was just as nit picky about making sure they were in good working order too. It was no easy feat: Dean's paint mare was a bitch to say the least, and tried more than once to take a hunk out of anyone who got too close to her. Dean simply swatted her when she got obnoxious, her yellow teeth looking for some shoulder or ass to grab. For some reason, the evil mare only seemed moderately interested in sinking her teeth into Dean. Others were fair game though. Even Dad found himself dodging those teeth more than once. If she was not such a trail savvy horse, with an instinct for self-preservation, Dean wondered if Dad wouldn't make good on the threat to put a bullet in her head. What her name was before, Dean had no clue, but "Bitch" worked and certainly fit her.
"Move it, Bitch". Dean leaned into the horse's side, ran a hand down her leg and picked up a hoof. Picked out the crud and moved onto the next leg. "Damn, this sucks. If I ever so much as look at another horse again, Sammy, just shoot me."
This time, Dean's comment warranted a full-blown laugh, because the horse thing was all-good for Sam. Sam all but cuddled the bay gelding that he rode. Talked to the horse like it was his best friend. Named him Odysseus. The damn thing followed Sam around like a puppy when he wasn't riding him. The horse even licked Sam like a puppy, slobbery, thick tongue lapping at Sam's hand. Dean thought that maybe Odysseus was even worse than Bitch, because there was just something unnatural about a horse that gave kisses. Only Sam could elicit a puppy-like response from a fuckin' horse. Sam's geekiness knew no bounds. Sam usually wound up taking care of Dad's horse too. It didn't bother the younger boy at all, and Dean usually had his hands full with Bitch so it worked out in the long run.
Just like with everything else they did, John's philosophy - "anything worth doing, was worth doing right" - was in effect, so it took a while to get the horses settled, hayed, watered and fed. It just wasn't worth the grief if the old man checked up on them and Dean was looking forward to some fun this evening. Fun that didn't include Dad and his Marine Corp discipline for a job not done right. The last piss-poor job resulted in push ups - one armed - and Dean didn't want a repeat of that one.
The boys slid their rifles out of the saddle holsters. The modified shotguns fit snuggly in another saddle holster and each one grabbed that as well. They both quickly checked the guns for rounds in their chambers. Satisfied the guns were loaded but safely, each boy finally lifted his bedroll and the pack of supplies that each horse carried on the trail. As they stepped out of the dimly lit barn into the bright early morning sunlight, Dean shielded his eyes against the sun.
He couldn't see a damn thing.
His hunter's instincts caused his gut to clutch a bit, because blind was never good. The thought was fleeting though as Dean plowed, lock, stock and barrel into a girl, knocking her down into the dirt.
Hard.
She landed with a grunt and a swoosh as the air was knocked from her lungs. Momentarily disoriented, Dean found himself face down on top of one of the prettiest faces he had seen in a long time.
Suddenly, things in the wild, wild, west were looking up.
That was just a brief thought though, for as quickly as it surfaced, it was squelched by liquid fire as the girl brought her knee up into his groin.
"Holy shit!"
Dean pulled his hands protectively over his crotch then rolled fetus-like into the dirt, gasping with pain. Yeah, he had been kicked in the stones before, but it had been awhile. It registered somewhere in his brain that Sammy had catapulted onto the girl. Dean heard the swish of her skirts muffled against Sam's body, the grunt and deep breaths of a wrestling match. The two youngsters rolled together in the dirt, a tumble of brown and red hair, cornflower blue dress and dirty jeans swirling dust in the street. Dean was dimly aware of a gruff voice and a yelp as Sam was hauled up by his shirt.
Dean pulled himself up to his knees glared balefully at the girl who sat in the dirt beside him, then at Sam being soundly shaken by a cowboy.
Some piece of shit cowboy had better get their hands of my brother.
Despite the white-hot agony in his balls, Dean pulled himself to his feet and stagger-stepped toward Sam.
"What the hell's wrong with you, boy," the cowboy bellowed at Sam, and shook him again. It took only a moment for Sam to react. Sam jammed an elbow to the cowboy's belly. The resulting chuff of air and reflex of said cowboy buckling in the middle caused him to drop Sam hard in the dirt. That, in turn, made it easy for Sam to grab an arm and used his momentum to throw the cowboy over his shoulder. The cowboy hit Dean, promptly slamming him back into the dusty street.
Now the street was littered with cowboy, girl and Dean, sprawled out like some kind of Twister game gone bad.
"Dude," Dean sputtered as two more burly looking cowboy buddies grabbed each of Sam's arms. A third reached down unceremoniously pulling Dean to his feet.
"You're comin' with us. You too, miss."
The man offered his hand to the girl with a tip of his head. "Let's see if the Sheriff can get to the bottom of this."
There was a low Texas drawl from one of the cowboys, something about boys and girls fighting in the street, but either because of the accent or the fact that Dean's balls were still screaming he couldn't quite make it out.
For a hot minute Dean considered the possibility of escape, but Sam was firmly in the grasp of Twiddle Dee and Twiddle Dum. It didn't seem likely that freedom was an option. The boys grabbed their gear. Dean groaned with the effort, just moving caused his balls to ache. He felt like an idiot, couldn't help the slow burn of a blush. Taken out by a girl. Dad was gonna kill him for this one.
All three teenagers were scowling as they were escorted into the Sheriff's office.
The sheriff glanced up from his desk as the entourage shuffled into his office.
"Sheriff, we were just passin' by when we saw this scuffle in the dirt. Rowan here was tusslin' with these two and the little one there," Tweedle Dee gestured roughly to Sam, "dumped Billy on the ground with some kinda injun wrasslin' move."
The sheriff eyed Sam up appraising the gangly teen and then looked at Billy, who appeared like he had not missed a meal since he was three.
Billy shrugged good naturedly. " Never heared of injun wrasslin' moves like that one before". Then the big cowboy lowered his head and grinned.
"OK boys, I'll take it from here." The Sheriff gestured to the doors and the Tweedles and the Billy filed out. He turned toward the youngsters and leaned back on his chair.
"Let's hear it."
Rowan started, blue eyes flashing in the direction of Dean.
"That boy", she ground out the word, "knocked me into the dirt, Pa. Then the scrawny one jumped me when I tried to fight back."
Dean glanced nervously at Sam, both boys' eyes widening at the "pa" reference. Did she say Pa?
Shit, shit, shit.
Dean squared his shoulders and eyed Sheriff Daddy up. To their credit, both boys remained silent, waiting until they were actually addressed. Best to see how the chips fell.
"Is that how it happened?" The sheriff asked looking at Dean, as if he was the spokesman for the group.
At least he did not just assume because Rowan was his daughter, she was right. Dean was still recovering from the pain of the ball bashing and was agitated enough to feel bull headed about the whole thing. Only the thought of his dad and the ass kicking he was sure to receive if he didn't find a way out of this, caused him to think twice about his answer. Dean carefully thought of Rowan's description, weighed his possible responses then opted for the respectful outsider approach.
"Yes, sir, but it was an accident,"
Dean lifted his head, looked the sheriff square in the eye, trying not to allow his agitation to play across his face.
The sheriff mulled it over a bit, allowed the chair he was in to ease into a more upright position. He looked at the boy making a cursory exam. Tall, lean, a bit scruffy and trail weary, but that was nothing new. He figured him to be about seventeen. Old enough to know better than to fight in the street, young enough to have horse shit for brains. This he knew from personal experience.
"How about we bring your folks in here, let's have us a talk about it. What's your name, boy? Where's your folks?"
Dean grimaced. Things were not looking good in Sammy and Dean-land. It wouldn't help to lie about his name. There was no child protective services to worry about here. Spinning a story wouldn't help with Dad just a few doors down at the saloon. He decided that less was better; typically lies were best told when they were based in truth anyway. So much for flying under the radar…
"Dean Winchester, this is my brother Sam. Our dad is at the saloon."
The sheriff pushed his chair back and stood. Dean couldn't help but notice that Sheriff Daddy was as tall as his own father, narrow-waisted with guns that slung low on his hips. Dean mentally decided Dad could take him, but he figured the fight would not be a quick one.
"Winchester huh?" the sheriff mused.
The jailhouse was little more than a room with a desk and the jail itself. The door to the jail was already open, the sheriff just nodded to the boys and gestured for them to step into the cell.
"Jail? You are putting us in jail? Don't you think that is a bit harsh?" Dean sputtered, clearly feeling that he needed to speak up on this one.
The sheriff grinned, laugh lines framing his face.
"Nah, just want to make sure you two boys stay put while I git your pa. Rowan here ain't going no where." He looked at his daughter, "Girl, you jess sit yourself down and wait 'till I get back."
The boys filed into the jail cell, Dean first followed by Sam. They turned together and faced the cell door as the sheriff shut it with a solid clank. Dean rested his hands through the bars, resignedly looking at his brother. They both watched the retreating form of the sheriff as he walked out the wooden front door.
Dean spoke softly to Sam. "How long we been in this town? Less than an hour and we are locked up?"
Sam shot a look to Dean, "Well, if you had watched where you were going, we wouldn't be in this mess."
"Me? Dude, you are the one who decided to jump a girl. What the hell was going on in your geek head on that one?" Dean hissed.
"I was trying to save your ass from a girl, Dean. A girl. Man, don't you even think about a Samantha joke after this one." Sam scuffed a booted foot against the front of the jail cell.
Dean eyed Rowan through the bars of the cell. How the hell could he diffuse this before Dad got here? Maybe, just maybe he could throw a little Winchester charm the girl's way. Get her on his side.
"Hey, look I, uh…I didn't mean to ram you back there."
Dean allowed a boyish smile to play on his lips, green eyes glinting with just enough twinkle to entice.
Dean knew girls, knew how to push, when to back off, knew how to make them whine, yip and pant. Oh yeah, girls were his specialty. He had to admit, though, it was a bit easier when he didn't have two inch steel bars between him and the object of his affection.
"Me and my little brother here, we just came into town. I was hoping for a good time. I wasn't quite expectin' this." He leaned into the jailhouse bars suggestively, but not too much. A little bit of roguish charm wouldn't hurt.
Rowan huffed. A girl huff with a definite upturn to the nose. She was not at all impressed. If she had been wearing a ponytail, it would have flipped up with the obvious toss of her head. As it was her red hair, somewhat disheveled in a braid, bounced a bit against her back.
"You should listen to your brother. Watched where you are goin'," Rowan said. Dean noticed the present tense…where he was going, not where he had gone. She eyed Dean with overt hostility, then glanced at Sam. Rowan's eyes softened as she looked in Sam's direction. Sam noticed and shyly dropped his head, shuffled his feet awkwardly at the unaccustomed attention. Dean shook his head. How in the hell did Sam do that….C'mon Sam, a little help here. Maybe another track would work. This time his voice hinted at admiration.
"Where'd you learn to fight like that?"
"I have five brothers. Believe me, I know how to stop a boy." Rowan's voice was matter-of-fact, laced with just a bit of disdain. She leaned on the word "boy", making sure that Dean was completely aware of what she thought of him and his entire sex. She swiveled in her father's chair, arms folded against her chest.
"You make it a habit of beating up poor defenseless women?" Rowan asked.
"Me? Beating up on you? Lady, it was my brother who jumped you. I just made an honest mistake. Besides, you don't seem all that defenseless, I am the one injured here." There was a touch of indignance in this voice. He couldn't help the vague wave at his wounded manhood.
In more ways than one, he thought.
Rowan canted her head up to look at Dean. "I reckon you'll live."
It was just then when the jailhouse door was opened, the sheriff entered followed closely by a rather pissed off looking John Winchester. "Then again…" Dean mumbled quietly, instantly chagrined by his dad's appearance.
"Hey, Dad, howzit goin'?" Dean smiled offhandedly at Dad, hoping to bring a little levity to the situation. One quick look at Dad's face quickly crushed that idea. Dean lowered his head momentarily, then eyed his father through the bars.
"Do you find this amusing, Dean?" John spoke quietly, but the sound carried easily through the jail.
"Dad, I…"
"What was the last thing I said to you two boys before we split up? Was I not clear about staying out of trouble? " This was addressed to both boys and they answered in tandem.
"Yes, sir."
John lifted an eyebrow. "This was not what I had in mind."
"Now, John…" There was a soft rebuke in the sheriff's voice. Both boy's eyes widened in disbelief and looked at the sheriff. It was not often that anyone spoke to their dad with any type of recrimination. Bobby Singer maybe or Pastor Jim, certainly not some small town sheriff. "It looks like this might have been a misunderstanding. I just don't want or need fistfights in the streets. Especially with my daughter involved."
"Don't worry, Harlan, you won't have any more trouble with these two."
Dean raised an eyebrow at Sam. John? Harlan? Since when did Dad make friends this fast? Sam's thoughts mimicked Dean's thoughts exactly, except with a small modification since when did Dad make friends at all?
Harlan grabbed the jailhouse keys and unlocked the jail door. It swung open, squeakily protesting at having been opened twice in one day. Dean almost expected Dad to reach into the jail and haul him out bodily, but instead John gruffly nodded in their direction, motioning them out of the jail. They stepped into the main sheriff's office, Dean a half step ahead of Sam. John's look was enough to prod Dean into turning to the sheriff.
"Sorry for the trouble sir and you too miss," He tipped his head slightly at Rowan. Dean elbowed Sam lightly.
"Yes, sir. Sorry," Sam lowered his head.
"You two stay outa my jail, y'hear," Harlan said with a hint of bass in his voice.
"Yes, sir," both boys answered, their inflection exactly the same.
Harlan nodded to John.
"Dinner is at 4:30, John. Don't be late or Sarah will have my hide."
"Seeya then, Harlan," John Winchester nodded toward Harlan, leaving the jail followed by both boys.
The boys shuffled behind John in silence. And truthfully, neither one could think of anything to say. Fighting girls and being locked up in jail was bad enough. John's sudden friendliness and relatively happy-go-lucky personality had given both boys room for worry. And Dad, being Dad, might never fill them in on what was going on. John stopped suddenly, turned and grabbed both boys' collars, dragging them into an alley behind two buildings. He gave them both a rough shake, Dean with his right hand and Sam with his left. He released his fist from their collars a half minute, letting their gray matter settle. John blew quietly through his nose then raked a hand across his hair. He waited a three beat, before he spoke, his voice low and rough but quiet.
"OK you two. Talk."
"It was my fault, Dad," Dean ventured, his voice quiet but determined, "I wasn't paying attention and slammed into that girl. She got the drop on me, kicked me in the balls. I'm sorry."
Dean didn't mention that half the reason he was slow to react had something to do with Rowan, and the feel of a warm girl under him. He dropped his head, but then raised it again. He could feel the blush from his neck to his cheeks. Damn, there were times he surely hated how quickly Dad could make him feel like a moron. Even if it was warranted.
Dad thought for a second.
"Sloppy, Dean. All you needed to do was bring those horses to the livery. One fucking job."
John turned and pinned an icy glare at Sam. "And you, Sam, what were you thinkin' of?"
Sam shrugged but knew better than to leave his answer at that. "I dunno. Dean was hurt and I guess I wasn't thinkin', Dad." Sam looked at John, not offering the sorry that Dean so readily gave. There was no blush to Sam either.
John noticed. He noticed everything.
"Exactly, Sam. You weren't thinking. We have drilled and worked on responding to just about every scenario imaginable. You knew damn well we needed to keep a low profile here. We need to stick to the plan. That does not include fisticuffs in the street with the sheriff's daughter."
Sam spoke without thinking, his voice heavy with disrespect. "The plan…the plan, Dad? How am I supposed to follow the plan, when I don't really know what it is? It seems that you know the almighty plan, but Dean and I haven't been briefed on it."
John rounded on Sam, breathing heavy. "You'll know what I want you to know when I want you to know it. Until then, you'll do what you're told." There was no wiggle room in the order, no chance of Sam realizing it was anything but.
"Dad," Dean interjected. "I think Sammy is just trying to get a handle on what exactly our responsibilities are."
John turned to Dean, jabbed a finger at his chest. "You stay outta this. Sam knows exactly what he's doing, just like he knows exactly what he is supposed to do." John leaned just a bit into Sam's personal space. Sam offered an irritated look but did not roll his eyes. Sam didn't say a word. It was clear that he thought the pissing contest was a bust, but he had the common sense to let it pass. Even the stupidest wolf pup backed down when the pack leader stiff legged it over to him. Sam was not stupid. He was not going to offer his throat, but was not going to growl back either.
"Are you clear on this, Sam?"
"Yes, sir." It was a solid affirmation, without a trace of the earlier disrespect. The set of Sam's shoulders though told a different story.
John drilled his eyes into the thirteen-year-old for a good 30 seconds. It was clear that he was weighing the options. Mentally backing off on his initial anger, he blew hard through his mouth and counted to ten. Then to twenty. John debated on thirty but decided he didn't have the inclination. John made a decision, and turned briskly back out into the street.
"On my six," he grunted quickly as he left the alleyway.
The boys fell in behind Dad, just like they always did.
Damn, Sam Winchester, thought John. The boy was more stubborn than a mule and had a harder head too. The trouble was, John knew well enough where Sam got it from. He was definitely his father's son. Although John did not like to admit it, Sam's stubborn defiance was pure John Winchester. John remembered fights with his own father, especially when Henry Winchester tightened the reins. Henry had little qualms about letting his son know exactly how pissed he was. John and his dad had more than their share of fights. One of the last was one of the worst. His dad had a savage right hook that knocked John out cold at 17. John was certain that leaving his dad to join the Marines was the ultimate in disobedience as far as his father was concerned. But it was that very act of joining the Corps that helped him learn to put some of that classic Winchester stubbornness on the back burner.
John was of a mind that the Marines had discipline down pretty good. They knew how to take piss and vinegar testosterone laden-boys down a notch or three. Teach them self-restraint and the ability to think team instead of self. He knew it was the Corps that saved him, made him at least man enough to love Mary. Maybe that was one of the reasons he stuck to the tried-and-true methods of a drill sergeant. It was John Winchester fallback mode, and both of his boys knew better than to fuck with him when the Marine was in full force. In another life, Dean may have joined the Corps, but that was never going to happen. And Sammy, well John was not even sure if the Marines could push him into something he did not really want to do. That being said, John still could play the Dad card, and the I'm-bigger-than-you card and maybe even the do-what-I-say-or-I-will-kick-your-ass-seven-ways-to-Sunday card and he was up to any and all of them if he needed to.
He could hear the boys following him. Neither one was talking and they were walking quietly enough that even their footsteps where muffled in the dirt. It did not matter, he knew they were there. He could feel the righteous indignation emanating from Sam like a tidal wave. He could feel the solid sense of Dean, walking just a step ahead of Sam, using himself as a shield between John and his youngest. Oddly enough, that made John settle, quiet the raging anger that a few minutes ago had threatened to explode. Dean was on duty, guarding Sammy. It surprised him a bit, that Dean had such a calming effect on him. Yeah, he could try the patience of a saint sometime, and the Lord knew, John was not a saint. But Dean could diffuse John, in a way that only Mary had been able to do. And Mary had methods far beyond the ability of Dean.
John was not sure if it was the thought of Mary or the thought of Dean, but either way he started relax a bit. John actually felt the tension leave his shoulders. It allowed him to concentrate on what needed to be accomplished. He took a deep breath as he headed toward the boarding house.
He stepped up to the boarding house and opened the door. The boys followed closely behind. John approached the counter, glancing to the left and right before ringing the silver bell. From behind the counter, a thin, reedy man popped his head up. "May I help you, sir?" His voice had a whiney undertone that reminded John of a Japanese import with a wonky transmission.
"I'd like a room for me and my boys." The clerk nodded, but his eyes raked across the three Winchesters with open hostility. He took in the half grown boys, covered in trail dust. The father as scruffy and filthy as them. He noted the dark, dangerous eyes, the well-used gun holsters and corresponding guns. Oh, this group definitely needed the rules to be spelled out loud and clear.
The voiced raised a pitch higher if possible and certainly a decibel louder. "I run a clean establishment here. No drinking. No smoking. No women. No loud noises. No gunplay. No gambling. And no rowdy boys." He glared pointedly at Sam and Dean.
For a moment, John felt a rush of pissed-offedness, then he caught a glimpse of himself and the boys in an ornate mirror just behind the desk. He grinned at the mirror, because smiling was certainly better than scowling at the filthy picture that was his reflection. John had a layer of dust covering him from head to toe. A couple of week's worth of beard and hair that even in John's adolescence had never been so long. He glanced at the boys and saw only the same, except perhaps they looked even more disheveled. In part due to the scuffle in the streets he figured. That and the fact that as of late Sam and Dean had been more antsy than usual and he'd had to pull them off one another more than once in the past week. Yeah, if he were the scrawny-looking hotel clerk, he probably would not want to offer them a room either. Still, it was a hotel and John had the money to pay.
"Ya know mister, you have a point here." John tapped the signature pad and signed his name.
"Boys, we have a change in plans. We are going to get a bath."
The boys looked dubiously at the bathhouse. Although none of the Winchesters were particularly modest, each preferred to bathe one at a time. Despite their months in the West, they were products of the twentieth century. The bathhouse looked a bit rough around the edges. However, it was probably state of the art as far as this town was concerned. There was a sign, hand painted by someone who looked like they were three sheets to the wind. But the sign said Barber and Bath and that was enough for John. There was a barber in the front of the building, bathhouse in the back. From the street, they could see the barber slowly drawing a blade across the strop. The man looked more like a butcher than a barber. but John cared little about that. As far as John was concerned, even if only half the criteria were met, it would be better than their recent attempts at hygiene. John draped an arm over each boy, wrinkled his nose a bit at the smell. Unwashed boy, dried sweat with a slight under-whiff of horse. Yup, they definitely needed this. He smiled slowly, tugged the boys together in a gruff hug and herded them up the steps.
Three Winchesters, all in a row. Each chin deep in a bathtub. Well, bathtub was a stretch, each was little more than a large wooden bucket. The steam rose up, billowing around them. John groaned as he sunk deeper into the heat; allowed it to loosen the muscles in his neck and shoulders.
"Man, Dad, I forgot how much I fuckin' love hot water."
John grunted in Dean's general direction, "Watch your language, boy." But there was no real censure. He just slid his head under the water, agreeing with the sentiment as much as the words.
Sam was under the water too, shaggy head, body folded into the tub. He had heard his brother's comment and, like his Dad, agreed. But Sam had a much larger list of things he missed back home. Libraries and a nice cob salad. He was never going to take toilet paper for granted again, that much he knew. He even missed the familiar throaty roar of the Impala under his hips. Hell, he even missed Dean's double bacon cheeseburgers, with extra onions. But nothing, nothing was missed as much as hot water. This was sweeeet. He seriously considered faking some kind of ailment that would require continued immurements in steaming hot water, but despite a brief but concerted effort, nothing came to mind.
Luckily, his father didn't seem all that ready to get out of the tub either. But eventually, the water became warm and then luke-warm. John stood up and grabbed a towel near the tub. "I'm getting a shave. You two finish up here, get the horses tacked up and meet me out front."
He left the boys after pulling on his clothes that had been freshened up during their bath.
"I wonder what's up?" Sam asked almost to himself.
"Dunno, Sammy," Dean shook his head thoughtfully then stood and dumped a fresh warmed bucket of water over his head and body. Apparently the western way of rinsing off. He dropped his gaze to the murky water he'd recently been in and figured it was efficient enough.
"But we better get moving," Dean said, "Maybe he'll fill us in during the ride to the O'Connell's." It wasn't a question really and the tone of Dean's voice indicated that he doubted it anyway, "Whatever, Sam. We do what we're supposed to do. The old man was right about that. And do me a favor will ya?" Dean rubbed the towel through his hair, "Keep a low profile, man. Dad's workin' on something and you know how he gets."
Sam grunted, dumped his own bucket over his head "Yeah, don't I know it."
"Aw, c'mon Sammy. We're gonna have a good, hot dinner that we didn't have to hunt down and gut and roast. Made by a woman, no less. Plus, ya' know. I'll get to see Rowan."
"Shit, Dean. She'll probably cut your balls off this time."
Dean grinned. "Well, if we get close enough that my balls are in proximity of anything of hers, I guarantee there'll be no knives present."
Sam grimaced, "Shut up."
John had to admit the bath felt good, but he was just as anxious to get to Sarah's cooking as he was to get cleaned up. The boys seemed just as excited and with that came the inevitable carrying on. John's good mood was dissipating with every snide remark and subtle innuendo. Or sometimes not-so-subtle innuendo. Riding three abreast was not the same as John driving. He had an uncanny ability to lean over the front seat, cuff one or both boys upside the head and keep the Impala in a perfectly straight line going at 80 miles an hour. He could take a turn at 60 and still slap them both silly. But riding the gelding was different. Oh, he'd picked up riding pretty quick, but both boys were better than he was and they could evade a slap even if he had the energy to try to reach over and whack one or both of them.
He settled for a low growl, "Boys. Knock it off."
Sam grumbled. Of course Sam would grumble. "It's not my fault, Dad. Dean is being a dick."
John sighed, "Dean is always being a dick…"
Dean interjected, "Hey Dad, that's not the way to talk about your number one son!"
"Well, Sam's gonna be the only son if you don't knock it off. And if you interrupt me again – I swear I'll stop this horse and tan your hide so hard you will want to finish walking to dinner 'cause your ass won't want to sit that saddle."
Dean wisely shut his mouth.
"And you…" John glared at Sam, "had better watch your mouth. The O'Connells are good folks and you and Dean had better watch your Ps and Qs. This may be the Wild West but you don't talk like that in front of women, not in our time and not in this time either. We are going to be eating with civilized folks and 'dick' better not come up in dinner conversation unless one of Harlan's kids is named Dick. Got it?"
"Yes, sir," Sam meekly replied.
They rode for a while at a quick walk. There was no need to jog, they had time. Besides, Bitch had decided to be a, well, bitch and she kept trying to take hunks out of Sam's horse, Odysseus. Dean had his hands full just trying to keep Ody…yes, Ody, in one piece.
John sighed, "Move the damn horse away from Sam's. Christ, Dean do I have to think of everything for you?" He regretted his choice of words for a moment. Dean really didn't deserve it, but between the boys fighting and his lack of ability to swat someone, he'd just about had it.
Dean swung Bitch sulkily to the left, edging her over with his left leg. She obeyed, but Dean could swear she looked smug, as if that was her intent all the time. Dean felt grumpy himself. It wasn't his damn fault the horse was evil. Dad didn't have to think of everything for him. He just didn't particularly care if Bitch took a bite of Ody. Hell, he didn't care if she bit Sam. Sam and all of his whining and howling about this and that and everything else.
Then he thought of Rowan O'Connell and he instantly felt better. True, she had kicked his ass, but she was a beautiful girl and it had been a long time since he had seen anything feminine except his unruly horse.
The road up to the O'Connell's had regular dirt, not that Dean had expected anything else. The house was pretty impressive though by the town's standards, there was a big porch that encompassed the whole front of the house. There were curtains at the windows and flowers carefully tended on either side of the porch railings. Dean could see the barn and outbuildings, a sturdy corral, but before he could check anything else out, two huge dogs came barreling down the road toward them. Both mutts he guessed, one shaggy and gray and the other a hound of some kind. They were barking for all they were worth although the hound made those baying noises Dean always associated with prison flicks when the guy breaks out and they send the hounds after him. There was a sharp whistle from the porch and both dogs stopped and turned around, trotting back to the porch.
Harlan stood there on his porch with a black and white collie dog. Unlike the others, it simply sat next to him.
"John," Harlan stepped off the porch. "Glad you could make it."
Harlan turned to the boys, "Good to see you two saying out of jail." He chuckled low and Dean felt the warmth of a blush creep up his neck.
"You can put the horses in the corral. There's plenty of fresh water and hay for them."
John handed the reins of the black gelding to Dean without a look back and followed Harlan up the steps. Dean didn't even sigh. Take care of the horses. Again.
"Micah," Harlan gave a shout and around the corner came a boy about Dean's age.
"Give them a hand with their stock. Make sure ours is watered and hayed too."
"That's Daniel's job today," Micah said.
"Where's he?" Harlan asked taking a quick look around.
"Dunno, probably with that Daisy Fitzpatrick."
"Well, it's your job now. I'll talk to Daniel when I see him."
"Pa, why have chores if other kids have to do them?"
Harlan turned toward Micah, "'Cause I told you to. Don't make me tell you again."
Dean glanced at the minor altercation, but realized it was over as Micah headed over toward him and Sam.
"You don't know how to take care of your own horses?" Micah asked low, far too low for his father to hear, especially since both John and Harlan were heading in the house.
"Don't need your help," Dean said as he untied the cinch from Bitch. He nodded toward Sam, "Neither does he, so go play with your cows or something."
"When my pa says to do something, he means for me to do it. I don't know how your pa is…"
"Worse," Sam interrupted.
"Well, then I'm helping." Micah reached for Bitch's bridle and she promptly took a bite out of his shoulder.
"SONOFABITCH!"
A moment later, Mrs. O'Connell strode out of the house, wielding a spoon and a bar of brown soap.
Micah had that deer in the headlights look, which was weird considering headlights weren't even invented.
"Sorry, Ma!" he yelled, but to know avail. She was spooning his ass like she meant business. Right over his jeans. Dean couldn't help but appreciate a little woman like Mrs. O'Connell with a swing like Babe Ruth. Micah, danced a bit to the right and left but no matter which way his ass went she was there first. Then, quick as a chupacabra, she slammed the bar of soap in his open mouth. Open because he was hollering like a banshee.
That shut him up quick. He didn't move to take the soap out but he was still trying to avoid the spoon. She stopped swatting long enough to lecture. "Micah O'Connell, if I ever hear that word come out of your mouth again, I'm gonna beat you within an inch of your life and then your daddy's gonna whip you again. Got it?"
Micah nodded, a small dribble of brown soap, saliva and what could be bubbles that looked a lot like shit, dripped out of his mouth.
She ripped the soap out, "What did you say?"
"Yes, ma'am!" he answered with military precision. She turned abruptly away from them, soap in one hand and spoon in the other and headed back to the house.
Micah promptly ran over to the horse trough and gulped mouthful after mouthful of water, spitting them out until Dean figured he'd gotten most of whatever that brown soap was made of out of his system.
Dean looked at Sam. Sam at Dean. Sam whispered low, "I guess you really better watch it. That's your favorite curse word."
Dean nodded enthusiastically, still in a state of shock.
He and Sam were no strangers to getting their asses whipped, but they'd never been shoved in the face with a bar of soap. Especially not something as brown and disgusting as that soap.
"What kind of soap is that?" Sam asked, ever curious.
"Lye, you dummy. Made from wood ashes and animal fat. Whatcha think?" Micah said, still spitting a bit.
Sam's eyes widened. "Animal fat and ashes?"
Micah rolled his eyes, "Sure ain't no perfumed lavender soap from the ladies' store."
Dean and Sam shared another look then continued to untack the horses and turned them into the corral where Bitch promptly rolled in the dirt. Although she wasn't really sweaty, it had rained the night before and there were puddles of mud. Of course, Bitch found the biggest puddle, smearing mud and probably shit all over her bright splashes of white markings that were intermingled with bay spots.
Oh man, trying to clean all that mud off was going to be a bitch! Once again he thought how well named the mare was.
Ody shook once then walked over to a large mound of hay thrown by Micah and started eating quietly. He was joined by the black gelding.
Figures. Only Bitch would roll in the shit.
"So, Micah, I'm Dean." Dean offered a hand. Might as well try to be sociable. He nodded to Sam. "That's Sammy."
"It's Sam," Sam corrected.
"Well, Sam and Dean, thanks for getting my ass beat."
"What? We didn't do anything," Dean protested.
"No, your stupid horse did. Who lets a horse go around biting people like that?"
"Hey look, man. Bitch is a bitch. I don't have anything to do with it."
"Your horse, your problem and now it's my problem because my ass is screaming bloody murder."
Dean snickered. "Your mom spooned you. Not exactly the whipping of the year. My old man has wacked me harder with his freakin' hand."
"Yeah, well you ain't never been hit with a spoon by my ma, so shut up – " Micah's comment was interrupted by a boy of maybe eight.
"Pa says to come on in. Dinner's ready and Ma says you best get in."
"Aye, Ian, we're on our way," Micah said, heading toward the door. Dean needed no more invitation. He was hungry. Sam too was looking for a home cooked meal that didn't involve their father and whatever they caught the hour before. Obviously Micah wasn't going to not eat simply because his ass hurt.
There was a mad rush for the front door. At the same time, two more O'Connell boys had materialized from somewhere. Through the confusion and tussling, they all managed to make it in the house.
"Boys!" Mrs. McConnell spoke sharply over the instant cacophony of feet, boisterous voices and the struggle to make it in the house.
All five boys, including Sam and Dean, stopped forward momentum and filed almost single file into the house. There were two more O'Connell boys between the age of Micah and Ian already sitting at the table. Two plus the two that just came in plus Micah, yup five boys.
And of course, Rowan.
Dinner was pleasant and delicious. Roasted venison with onions and carrots, simply made, but cooked to perfection. Fresh sweet butter and homemade bread, crusty on the outside and dense on the inside. Mashed potatoes, smooth and silky and so damn good that Dean could have lapped them up. Milk for the boys and Rowan. Coffee for the adults. Dean looked longingly at the coffee and noticed that Sam looked skeptically at the milk. Sam nudged Dean with his shoulder and whispered low. "It's not pasteurized Dean. We will be slammed with cow bacteria and things I don't even want to think about."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Sam, you've had enough unprocessed food in the past few months to have your immune system kicked into overdrive."
"Cooked food, Dean. This stuff is warm. There is a hungry calf out there." He nodded toward the door.
John glanced over at the boys and their quiet conversation, obviously figuring out what was going on.
"Drink your milk, Sam." John said easily. The rest of the O'Connells continued with casual conversation and the slightly boisterous banter of five boys. Their parents didn't seem to notice or care about it, as if their family meal, while following some type of decorum, wasn't exactly Brady Bunch material.
Sam refused. He didn't push the milk away but he wouldn't drink it either.
"Sam," John said warning in his voice.
Sam looked at John, "I'm lactose intolerant."
That stopped all the talking, as if maybe the family had been listening or maybe it was just the way Sam said it.
Dean reached for his milk and took a big gulp, grinning then wiping off his milk mustache with a flourish.
Sam did nothing.
"Harlan, Sarah, can you excuse us for a moment?" John asked grim but far more polite than he usually asked anything.
"Sure," Harlan said.
"Dad, can't you just let it go?" Dean asked.
"You too," John said.
All three Winchesters rose and walked out the front door.
On the porch, John crossed his arms and glared at both boys.
"Up and backs, twenty. Now."
Sam and Dean took off together at a fast sprint toward the road.
A few moments later, Harlan stepped out on to the porch and stood next to John.
He tilted his head like a dog listening for his master's voice. "Why are your boys running up and down the house road?"
"Discipline," John said simply.
Harlan's expression never wavered, "Why?"
"Why not?"
"Makes no sense, John. They are just gonna get tuckered out. Maybe puke up their dinner Sarah made. Is this how in the hell you people punish your kids in the future? Seems kinda dumb to me." Harlan scratched his head, totally bewildered.
John dropped his head a moment. "Didn't think of the puking thing."
"Look, John," Harlan watched as the boys tagged some invisible mark on the road and then ran full speed back to another invisible mark.
"Ain't my business, truly it ain't, but Sarah's gonna bring out that spoon if those boys harf up that dinner. And don't be surprised if she starts whackin' at you as well. Now, I'm all for that boy drinkin' his milk. We work too hard for any of us to waste food…you eat what's put in front of ya or ya suffer the consequences. But this?" He nodded toward Sam and Dean, "Just plain dumb. There's a perfectly good woodshed right over there."
John looked at the boys running for a moment.
"See your point, Harlan."
John whistled sharp a little like Harlan had whistled for the dogs earlier and that did give him a little pang of guilt. Both boys stopped and trotted back to where he was standing with Harlan. Neither boy was blowing hard, they hadn't even gotten a quarter way through the down and backs.
"Change in plans," John said. "With me."
Sam and Dean exchanged glances of bewilderment, but followed their father.
John stopped in front of the woodshed. "You first, Sam."
"Huh?" Sam asked almost mimicking Harlan's puppy dog look a few moments ago.
John opened the wooden door and gestured with a curt nod.
"Huh?" Sam said again.
"Did you lose your ability to speak when you became lactose intolerant?"
"No, sir. I just…I'm not sure what we are doing."
"You are going in that woodshed, I'm gonna follow you and then I'm gonna give you an old fashioned lickin' Wild West style."
Sam's expression went from puzzled to shocked to indignant in the space of a heartbeat.
"For not drinking toxic milk?"
"For not following my orders, for fighting with your brother the whole way here, for being a pain in my ass since first thing this morning."
"That's like retro punishment! You already decided in town not to whack us for the jail thing! You never really decided one way or another when we were fighting on the way here, you just threatened a hiding and that was mostly for Dean and now you are gonna beat my ass for not drinking fucking milk?"
"And for cussing. I told you no cussing."
"DAAA-"
Sam's plea was cut off as John grabbed him by his collar and pulled him into the woodshed, firmly shutting the door behind them both.
"Drop your jeans," John said with a low growl.
"Dad, I can't believe this," But Sam was unfastening his jeans because he knew without a doubt once his father had decided someone was getting an ass kicking, stopping it was less likely than stopping a poltergeist from wreaking havoc in a damn china shop.
Fuck the bull.
John glanced at the strop hanging on the inside of the shed and then hooked his hands through his belt. The strop didn't look much different, a little wider maybe, certainly just as supple. But his belt was familiar, he knew the weight, the heft and swing.
Besides, he just wanted to warm the kid's butt a bit, make him wake up. Sam was kind of right about him letting the stuff go earlier. He probably shouldn't have but he did - so that was his fault. Still, a man could only take so much disobedience and disagreeable behavior before he lost it.
Both Sam and Dean knew that John's threshold for that was low to lower so it really should not have surprised either one of them.
Sam dropped his jeans, but kept his drawers up. They were tied at the waist, cotton and gave him a little more protection then the boxers he wore back home.
John didn't seem to care, he unbuckled his belt, having left his guns hanging up in the O'Connell's house, it didn't seem right to wear your guns to the dinner table. John tipped Sam over a sawhorse that looked like it was there for exactly that purpose and brought the belt down with a sharp smack.
Sam gasped as the first lick of the belt striped across his ass, a perfectly placed whack. Well, if the lick of a belt on your ass could be perfect. There were three more licks in quick succession but only two stripes, each one placed directly on the previous lick. How could the old man even know exactly where he spanked the first time? Sam couldn't help yelping at the last two nailing his previous stripes.
John stopped then. He was tough. He spanked to make it hurt and drive a lesson home, but he wasn't into whipping either boy into a blubbering frenzy. They usually cried, that was okay, but spankings were doled out directly related to the severity of the crime. This was more about forcing Sam to realize that orders were orders be they hunting or milk or harassing his brother.
Sam turned toward John head down and a trail of tears smearing his relatively clean face.
"I'm sorry, Dad. For the jail thing and the fighting and even the milk, although I still think it's unhealthy to drink unpasteurized milk."
John looked fondly at Sam. "Sam, these folks have been drinking this milk forever. They don't look sick to you do they?"
"No, sir."
"Back home there are people who search out organic, nonpasteurized milk. Grant you, we never did." John offered a small smile and ruffled Sam's hair.
"Now get on outside and send your brother in."
Sam sniffled once and then opened the woodshed. The late afternoon light spilled in and he blinked once and then nodded to Dean.
Dean offered Sam a sympathetic look, but it wasn't long or hard. He was the next one whose head was on the chopping block.
Dean stepped in the woodshed, noticed the wood stacked in the back, the sawhorse, the strop and his father with a belt dangling from his hands in one quick sweep.
"Dean, jeans down, over the sawhorse."
Dean complied without a sound, except he wore no drawers like Sam. Oh, he had them, but he preferred not to wear them most days. They felt weird to him and as long as they weren't riding all over hell's half acres, he preferred commando. Today he wished he had.
John was just as thorough as he had been with Sam. Quick, hard and technically as accurate as he had done Sam, but he gave six lashes instead of four.
Dean grunted at each one, felt the burn on his naked ass like fire. The last one was the worse and Dean couldn't help the non-Winchester whimper that escaped him, nor could he stop the silent tears.
He heard his father thread the belt through the belt hoops of his jeans as he stood and gently pulled well-worn jeans over his blazing ass. He turned to face John.
"You got two more than Sammy."
"I figured as much."
"Wonder why?"
"Sort of. I drank my milk."
Dean wiped his hands down his face, removing the last tears.
John chuckled, "True, but it was just 'cause Sammy wasn't."
"I don't give a shit about cow bacteria."
"No, but I doubt you like the idea of sloppy seconds after a calf."
"Ewwe, Dad. That's just plain gross."
"Kinda is."
Dean waited.
"It's your job to be a role model for your brother."
"Well, Dad, that's just never gonna happen. I'm a pain in the ass, literally. I routinely fuck up. I got my ass kicked by a girl today!"
John leaned over and pulled Dean into a brief hug, touching the slightly damp head and smelling the man-boy scent of him.
"Nah, you are a great role model. He looks up to you for everything and mostly both of you are right."
Dean backed up and lifted an eyebrow at that.
"Now, Dad. You just whipped my ass over being wrong and you don't go around saying things like that all the time."
"Well, maybe I should…you know, give you more attaboys, but things are tough in our world and Christ, maybe even tougher here. You boys have to be tougher than anything and anyone. You also need to know the chain of command."
"Dad, you've been hammering chain of command even before Mom…" Dean trailed off, unable to finish the statement.
"True but, things were different then. Chain of command was just a…" John offered a hand wave in lieu of an actual statement.
"I know."
"Well, I just felt you boys needed to be reminded. It's not a game we are playing. It's not some damn soccer meet, we are fighting for our lives here and you and Sammy need to know that what I say goes. For everything."
"Yes, sir."
They walked out together and met Sam outside.
Soon enough they were back in the house finishing dinner.
Micah was sitting next to Dean and elbowed him in the ribs, whispering low, "So howzit feel sitting here with your butt blazing?"
Dean whispered back, "Worse than you and your momma's spoon."
Micah glanced knowingly at Dean, "Well, I reckon, at least this time you're right."
"Damn straight, " Dean said.
Mrs. McConnell lifted her spoon from the table and glared at Dean with a look that was pure momma and no nonsense and meaning completely clear.
"Sorry, ma'am," Dean sputtered, not daring to say or do anything else.
He heard his father's deep chuckle and dropped his head to the mashed potatoes with an intensity that rivaled any cheeseburger he'd ever eaten.
It was the second time he was defeated by an O'Connell woman in one day and he was not going to say or do a darn thing about it.
End.