The Gunslinger's Code

Chapter 3

All Work and No Play

It was the fourth time that month Dean had woken up with the pigs. He blinked, his eyes heavy and his head pounding as the smell of pig shit filled his nostrils. He wretched, last night's drink emptying itself on to the hay below. Dean groaned and lay his head back down. The swine whose rump he landed on oinked in anger, and gave him a shrill kick to his side. Dean groaned again, curling up helplessly. He tried to remember the events of the previous night, tried to think through the hammering in his head, but there was nothing. He barely would have been able to recite his own name if asked. Dean tried then, to stand, but his legs were shaky and his chest felt winded. He touched his face. His left eye was tender, and his bottom lip was torn, half scabbed and still secreting blood.

He had gotten into a fight; that much was certain. Whether he had fared better than his opponent, however, remained a mystery. Dean was no stranger to brawls, but the denizens of Dry Gulch—the dishonourable ones at least—had warmed to Dean over the past few weeks, so he must have done something particularly shameful to lose their favour. He patted himself down, the decided emptiness of his pockets hurling him to realisation. His gun was gone, as were his dice. He looked down at his left hand, to the place where his ring should have been: it was gone as well. Of course, he remembered now. The overweight half-wit who had bet away all his money… he had kept an annoyingly close eye on Dean the rest of the night, and Dean, in all his drunken stupidity, had gotten careless, gotten caught somehow.

He forced himself to stand. If anything had happened to Baby…

He stumbled out of the pigpen. The sun was not yet up, and the street was quiet. If there were a God, Dean would get out of Dry Gulch alive.

He stumbled between the crudely built buildings, fighting back the urge to vomit, until he reached the outskirts. The houses thinned until it was no more than open country. There was an old shack, a quarter of a mile from town, dilapidated and hidden amongst trees. He had been leaving Baby there every night, for he did not like to leave her hitched around people for too long. Too many souls had laid eyes on her and wanted her for themselves. He approached the shack, the pounding in his head almost blinding. There, in the clearing, was Baby, grazing idly at the sparse patches of grass. Dean's chest immediately lightened at the sight of her, and his mouth spread in a goofy, childish grin.

"Baby! Glad you're okay, girl!"

The sound of his voice made her whinny in surprise. She backed away slightly, ready to flee. Dean shushed her, and immediately she was calmed: she knew her master, and she brayed in friendly greeting, nuzzling herself into him. Dean kissed her on the end of her long face, and stroked a hand through her hair.

She was an Arabian, a horse of vast endurance and strength, with a jet-black coat and mane just as dark to match. She had been with the Winchesters for over half a decade. Five years ago she had belonged to his father, and now she belonged to him. She was the most striking, loyal horse he'd ever owned, and the first and only girl he'd ever truly loved.

"You hungry, Baby?" Dean asked her fondly, putting a hand in the knapsack that hung from the saddle. As he reached for the oatcakes she favoured, Dean's hand fell across something cold and heavy: the inimitable feel of gold. He looked into it. The coin of last night's winnings was all there, notes and jewellery, too. Dean closed his eyes and let out a booming laugh of triumph.

"Even drunk," he said to no one, "I'm goddamn resourceful!"

He must have been of a mind to stow his winnings, if only to go back for more. His downfall, of course, but Dean didn't feel so reckless now. If he were to flee from a place he'd grown to enjoy, at least he was doing it with a pocketful of gold. Dean's chuckles of valour were interrupted by the sight of something at Baby's feet: two boots, brown, worn and emitting a foul odour. Dean couldn't help but laugh once more as another memory of last night appeared to him. After a few more rounds, he'd forced the poor soul he'd made penniless to give him his shoes. It wasn't as if he'd even wanted them; it was just another way to be cruel.

Baby neighed at him indignantly, waiting to be fed. He brought out the oatcakes and let her feed from his hand. The pain in his head was still there, but knowing Baby was safe and he was rich for a day, it felt significantly more bearable. After a few minutes quiet, he braced himself to make leave. He was not looking forward to seeing his brother, he realised. Sam had been uncommonly agreeable the last couple of weeks. He had not been quick to say, but Dean figured it had something to do with the rancher's pretty daughter that so often appeared at Sam's side. He did not expect his brother would react well to the news that the local town was most likely gunning for him, and their work at the farm was now forfeit. The sick feeling in his stomach returned as he stepped on to the back of his horse, and willed her forward.

He was starving by the time he made it back to camp. Having been unburdened of his pocket watch, Dean could only assume it was about lunchtime. Thoughts of cooked meat, roast potatoes and steamed vegetables filled his mind, but Dean had to remind himself that he was an outlaw, and outlaws did not eat like kings. A cold tin of baked beans was surely waiting for him, with a helping of brotherly resentment on the side.

Sam was cleaning his pistol, his back arched to him in concentration. The sound of Baby's hooves on the mud-cracked earth made him stop. He raised his gun quickly, aiming it at the place between Dean's eyes.

"Please, not the face," he joked, his arms up in surrender. "It hurts enough already."

Sam lowered the gun instantly, but the bitter expression on his face remained. As Dean got off his horse, they faced each other, Dean's fresh wounds palpable under the midday sun.

"What the hell happened to you?" Sam demanded, noting Dean's fat lip and beginnings of a black eye.

Dean laughed awkwardly, his eyes to the floor.

"Single, or multiple persons may have worked out that Magic Fingers is in fact a fraud."

His brother closed his eyes, exasperated.

"Dean."

"You know," Dean tried then, his arms in a shrug, "in my defence, most instances those men would have been too drunk or stupid to ever work it out, but that guy I was betting with, he'd obviously been keeping a close eye on me. Wasn't happy he'd lost all his money—uh, and, the fact I'd also made him give me his boots."

There was a pause, the look on Sam's face murderous.

"What can I say?" Dean said in the silence, attempting to jest. "I'm a sore winner."

He expected Sam to blow up, to yell at him in a way that so reminded him of John. Instead his brother merely sighed, sitting back down to resume the tending of his weapon.

Somehow it was worse, the silence. Dean was used to being yelled at. It was how he was raised; it was how he knew his father had loved him enough to care. The silence, though, there was apathy in silence, and that terrified him.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Dean said finally, almost desperate. "I messed this town up for us."

Sam said nothing for a moment, as if contemplating. Finally, he nodded.

"Then we have to leave," he said, standing. "It's not safe anymore, we have to move on."

Dean was staggered. Sam hated moving, deplored it, yet now he was the one actually suggesting it. Something wasn't right.

"That's awfully quick to understanding. What about blondie?"

Sam's face fell, ever so slightly, but he remained composed, refusing to betray his true thoughts. It was something their father would have done.

"It's for the best," was all he said.

Dean did not like this, the acceptance, the placidity. He wanted Sam to yell, to beg Dean to stay. He shook his head at his younger brother, struggling to find the words.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I know you liked her."

"She was the first—"

Sam stopped himself from continuing. His breath had halted sharply, too painful for him to continue. He collected himself once more.

"She was the first person who ever saw me," he forced himself to finish.

He looked at Dean, his eyes expectant, pleading for something. Dean didn't understand—he couldn't. He had never been in love. Women saw right through him, to the drunken letch beneath. Dean had no substance; he knew that. It was how he'd always been. The brothers stared at each other in obstinate silence a few moments longer, until Sam gave up, shaking his head in defeat.

"Forget it," he finished, turning away. "You wouldn't understand."

Despite the fact it was the truth, Dean found himself offended.

"Hey, I know what it's like to get my dick wet, Sammy. There are women I still think about sometimes."

Sam laughed grimly, shaking his head once more.

"Unbelievable."

He had always been this way, Dean thought mutinously: a prince in pauper's rags, a romantic in a realist's world. Too many times did Sam have ideas above his station, his head stuck in a fantasy that he was anything more than the son of a lawbreaker, anything more than a common thug. Dean accepted that about himself. He knew he would never own a home, have a wife or children to love him. He was born free, on the edges of society where men still lived the old way, before rich officials in government buildings had proclaimed the world was civilised. The world was not civilised. It was built on the back of a million dead souls under the guise of progression, and it would continue under that guise for as long as those government buildings remained. Dean had lived twenty-six years here, in this world of gravestones, rode through it on the back of his horse. He had seen just how uncivilised the world could be, and he knew his place in it. He would not die an explorer, a scholar, even as a good man. He would die an outlaw, like his father before him. No one would remember him fondly, and eventually, no one would remember him at all.

"You know," Dean said irritably, "the self-righteousness is getting quite tiresome about now, Sam."

"And your drunken incompetency isn't?" Sam rallied back.

Reactively, Dean grabbed the knapsack on Baby's side and yanked it off, the horse neighing crossly at him for his roughness. He emptied the sack on to the ground, last night's winnings emptying themselves in a messy pile.

"My drunken incompetency has made us enough to get through the next three months," he said furiously.

Sam was not impressed.

"Look at you, Dean," he said wearily. "You're covered in shit. Look around us, look at how we live. We had five years to make something of ourselves, move on from the old life, start again. Instead we simply followed our father into mayhem, chasing a vengeance that should have died with him."

"Are you saying we should just forget?" Dean asked incredulously.

"I'm saying I'm tired!" said Sam, his voice loud enough to jolt the horses. He sighed then, shook his head, and sat back down.

"John made his choices," he continued, his voice now quiet, "and because of him, our mother died before she could raise us, John got himself shot, and the Colt is gone. Why should we suffer for his sins? Why should we be outcasts, living on the fringes of civilisation, forced to rob graves and cheat folk in order to get by?"

"It's that girl, isn't it?" Dean said unkindly, almost laughing. "She turned you soft. You wanna be a rancher, Sammy, grow old with her on the farm?"

He expected to be yelled at again, but Sam simply closed his eyes.

"I don't delude myself with such things," he said, his voice barely higher than a whisper. "I know I can never be with her in the way I want, and I can make peace with that. But this existence, Dean," he continued, opening his eyes, "this crusade we are on to avenge the family name, to regain a priceless heirloom and ride away into the sunset… It's a child's dream; it's fiction."

It was so easy for him to say that, Dean thought, so easy not to miss something he'd never had. For Sam could not recall what life had once been like, before the man with the yellow eyes had come.

"I know you don't remember Mom," Dean said, his anger dissipating. "You were just a baby when she died… I do, Sam. I remember her. It's not fiction to me."

He could say no more; it hurt too much. The brothers instead remained silent, their eyes on the horses feeding lazily from the dry patches of grass that surrounded them.

Dean loved his brother, and he knew Sam loved him, even if they disagreed on most things, even if they did want to kill each other a proportionate amount of the time.

He put a hand on Sam's shoulder.

"Go to her, Sam," he said, relenting. "Go to your woman. Tell her goodbye; tell her you're sorry, whatever it is love makes a man say. We'll leave tonight."