The stagecoach leaned dangerously, and Samuel Winchester instinctively gripped the leather strap above his head, spreading his other hand flat against the worn seat next to him. The man across from him was unperturbed, shifting his hat lower over his face and folding his arms in a stern, no nonsense way as he went back to sleep. The woman sitting next to him, obviously his wife, smiled at Sam. She held tight to the window sill; she wasn't tall enough to grab the strap.
"Not used to traveling by stagecoach?" she inquired.
"No," said Sam tightly. While he'd attended the university in Chicago, he had mostly walked, or rode, or taken the train when the need arose for it. He'd forgotten that travel by stagecoach still existed, forgotten that Kansas was a young state, and forgotten that there had yet to be a straight road in Kansas. For what seemed like the tenth time in only two days, Sam wished that the railroad station was in Kansas City, and not Witchita.
"So where are you headed?" asked the woman. She had a kind face, and Sam wished he could remember her name. Her husband had introduced them both to him yesterday in the late afternoon as the coach set out, but he had been lost in his own thoughts and both names had quickly escaped him.
"Lawrence," Sam said, tightening his grip as the coach jostled again.
"Oh, you've got a day yet to go, then," she said. "We're headed to Barclay. William's got family there." She glanced at her husband, and there was a tight somber look to her face. There was something in that look that said that their move wasn't temporary, and the shadow behind her eyes said that the reason for it was nothing good, but Sam wasn't about to ask.
"So what brings you to Lawrence?" she asked.
"M'dad," Sam said, slipping into the country dialect easier than thought. He lifted his hand off the seat and touched his hair unconsciously, swaying with the movement of the coach. "He- he passed. Got the telegram last week." Really that wasn't the whole of it. It wasn't even a fraction of it. But there was some truth in it. After all, his daddy might yet be lying dead in a gulch somewhere.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. Sam saw the look in her eye and regretted his deception, because there was a pain there raw and acres deep. He avoided her gaze and looked out the window, tightening his grip on the strap as the stagecoach shuddered through another hole in the road and moved on.
Everyone seems to have lost someone lately, Sam thought, and watched the land roll away beneath the stagecoach.
Every day for seven days after sending the telegram, Dean Winchester sat at the back corner table of the Lawrence saloon and waited for his brother.
He'd mosey into town in the early afternoon, when the sun shone down hot, and the dust rose easily into lazy mushroom clouds at every step, riding in on that big black mare inexplicably named Impala. He hitched her up to the post, loose and easy, so she could break free if the need came. He made sure the water was clean and that she had enough feed, and then drag his hands roughly through her shaggy mane, his deft fingers pulling apart the tangles. The men joked that he'd never love a woman as much as he loved his horse, but the women knew the truth of it. Any man who loved a horse like that was worth loving hopelessly, and many of them did.
He'd step onto the long boardwalk, smacking the dust off his jeans with quick pats. And if a woman crossed his path, he'd pause and touch his hand to his hat, smiling as if she was the prettiest thing in the world. "Ma'am," he'd say, giving her a moment's pause before continuing on his way.
The saloon was dark and quiet at that time of day. The piano player had the piano open, parts askew, tuning and oiling, humming as he worked. The bartender cleaned the bar and the glasses slowly and with the same rag he'd used for ten years. The town drunks were already there, deep into their cups. As the day got on toward dusk, the saloon would fill with people, and the piano player would take up his tunes, and the drunks would slump at the bar, and Dean would help throw them out into the cool night air. But for now he greeted the bartender, who smiled, and asked on his father.
"He's keepin' on," said Dean. Every day it became more of a lie, and it never fell off his tongue as easy as he'd like, but every day the bartender accepted it without question.
"Still waitin' on your brother?" he asked.
"He'll be along soon enough," Dean drawled. "The usual, if ya don't mind."
"Hey there, Dean," called the pianist.
"Hey, Wally," said Dean, sauntering over to clasp his arm, regardless of the oil and gear grease. The pianist's name was Walter, but he was Wally to his friends, and he had quite a few of them.
"You tunin' this old thing again? Seems like you tuned 'er just last week." Dean said, peering down at the hammers and strings. He liked to look at the way things worked, like pianos and telegram machines. A couple months back he'd gotten a look at the inside of a steam engine. Now that there had been a machine. People said that soon there'd be telephones, conversations across lines. People said that some day all these contraptions would be common place, that people would take 'em for granted. Dean himself couldn't imagine such things. He loved the machines, loved seeing them operate, their insides working with gears instead of guts. But it was a love of the unfamiliar, the strange; machines were an oddity to him, not common, and certainly not the future.
"I did tune 'er, yeah," said Wally. He sighed. "She's a mean ole bitch, but she plays downright perdy when she's got a mind ta."
"That she does," said Dean. He patted Wally's shoulder once, and moved along. He went to the back table and threw his hat down on it, ruffling through his short sandy hair with one hand as he sat down in the chair facing the door. Sometimes he put his boots on the table. Sometimes he sat back with his arms folded and his legs stretched out in front of him like timber. But always he was settling in for the long wait.
Every day for seven days after sending the telegram, Dean Winchester sat at the back corner table of the Lawrence saloon and waited for his brother.
Not that he often waited alone. As more and more people filed in, done for the day and looking for some booze and talk and maybe a little sin, men would sit at Dean's table. Farmers and homesteaders and trappers and deputies and mayors and sheriffs, all of them would come by, sit at his table, play a couple hands of cards or just talk and laugh. Dean welcomed the company, avoiding the silence of his own thoughts and suspicions. Those could wait for those lonely rides back to the ranch, to a house where his father didn't wait for him. And the men welcomed him, because he was John Winchester's boy, and a good man all on his own besides.
On the eighth day Dean was just picking up his second beer when his brother Sam came back to town.
Sam looked out the window as the stagecoach finally came to a stop, and decided that Lawrence was smaller and even dustier than he remembered. The street was wide and busy, but that just hid the fact that there was only one long main drag. Women in brightly colored dresses with dirty hems walked up and down the boardwalk, socializing in the only way they knew. The town was noisy with the business of the town, but compared to the clamor of Chicago, Lawrence seemed positively silent. Sam tried not to feel disappointed; somehow he'd thought that four years would be enough time for the town of his childhood to catch up with the rest of the modern world.
Apparently not, he thought distastefully, as he got out of the carriage, carefully avoiding the horse droppings that littered the road to spare his shiny black shoes. He should really have worn his hardier boots, but he hadn't thought to change his shoes.
The stagecoach driver threw down his bag at him, and Sam caught it. It was a small bag, with only a few extra sets of clothing; he didn't expect to be here long. Though where he'd go he didn't sure he could say.
"So long, Mister Winchester," the stagecoach driver said around a mouthful of chewing tobacco. He picked up his reins and his whip, but Sam raised his arm, bringing the driver to pause.
"When does the next coach come through?" Sam asked.
The man chewed thoughtfully, and then spat into the dirt. "Wheeell…I'll be back 'ere in town in a week or so. After that, there'll be another coach in about a month I reckon…'less you send out a telegram or sumthin'."
"Thank you. And good travels!" added Sam as the reins snapped tight and the horses shifted into action. The driver favored him with a tip of his hat, and then he was gone, in a cloud of pale fine dust.
Sam took a moment, getting his bearings in this town that was so familiar, and yet felt different. But it was just an illusion; he was the one who had changed, not the town. Maybe he shouldn't have come, maybe he's just too different now – he pushed those thoughts aside. His family needed him, and he wouldn't be any kind of man if he didn't help his family when they needed him. Besides, Chicago had nothing left for him. Not anymore. He lifted his bag and walked off the street and into the shadows of the boardwalk, where the saloon and his brother waited.
He saw his brother's horse standing placidly outside, but when he first entered the saloon, he couldn't find his brother, blinded by the brightness of the day in the cool dark of the saloon. His eyes moved from the bar to the piano, and then to the back corner of the room.
Dean sat with his feet propped up on the table, his boots caked with dirt and mud, among other more unpleasant things. He wore jeans, and a long leather duster, and a blue plaid shirt that had seen a few washings. As Sam approached, Dean put down his glass of beer and tipped his hat back with his thumb to look at his brother properly, and all Sam could think was same old Dean.
Sam stopped in front of his brother, feeling stupid and out of place, in his nice suit and his fancy coat and his damn shiny black shoes. Dean looked him up and down, taking in every detail, and Sam shifted uncomfortably. He was used to the short glances of the city, not these long slow studied looks his brother had always favored. Finally his eyes returned to his brother's face, and Dean said,
"Took you long enough."
He got to his feet, and strode out of the bar and into the sunlight. Sam scrambled after him to follow, feeling foolish and fourteen, because no less than five minutes and already he was chasing after his big brother all over again.