The Gunslinger's Code
Chapter 7
Riding out the Storm
The loss of the younger brother was… regrettable, but Castiel had not the time to lament defeat. The older one, Dean, was unconscious and would die if he were not treated soon. They had to get away, as quick as lightening. The phantom that watched them from the scope of a rifle could surely fire at any moment. He waited to hear another echo of a bullet as he fled, Dean strapped across the hind of his horse as Castiel pulled her reigns from the seat of his own—but there was nothing he could hear but the bolting of hooves on hard ground.
He rode like this for miles, one arm behind him, pulling at the black horse's reigns, and one in front, holding his own tightly in order to remain balanced. Castiel needed to find a place, somewhere safe and empty, so he could treat the man undisturbed. He took a quick glance behind him as they rode forward. The outlaw's face was curdled white, and slick with sweat. His eyes were closed, but not in rest—his face seemed disturbed, twisted in unwitting affliction. Castiel had covered the wound as best he could before strapping the man to his horse, but it was not enough to stay the bleeding. His whole right side was doused with the dark liquid, and streams of it ran down his neck where his head hung unnaturally to the side.
"Yah!" Castiel cried, bucking his feet together harshly. His steed wagged his head and neighed irately, but carried him faster, until the whole world became a blur.
By the grace of God, Castiel found exactly what he was looking for some minutes later: a handsome cabin with an adjoining stable rested atop a hill, the whole place shrouded by trees. Castiel got off his horse quickly, armed himself with his pistol and bull-rushed the door. There was no one inside, and by the looks of it, hadn't been for some time. Bowls of rotted food amassed the counter tops, and the dining chairs lay strewn on their sides, as if there had been a struggle. Still, Castiel did not need to know the circumstances of the cabin's barrenness. What mattered was that they were alone, and now had four walls as sentry from the quiet spectres with deadly aims. He unstrapped the outlaw, his fingers swift and unshaking, and lifted the man over his shoulder. He brought him inside, laid him out on the bed, and set to work.
It had taken nearly two hours, but Dean Winchester had gotten through the worst of it. Castiel watched him sleep. The man's face had softened, and his breathing was calm, his bare chest rising and falling in rhythmic waves. The wound was bandaged, and had been cleaned thoroughly. He would not die, at least not that day.
Castiel went outside to check on the horses. They were grazing amicably beside each other, but the black horse looked up at him as he closed the door. She was a beautiful creature, Castiel noted. Perhaps, once he had taken Mr. Winchester to his employers, he would have her for his own—either that or sell her. The gunshot had really dampened Castiel's plans, and delayed things indefinitely, but he was a patient man. He would wait, answer any questions the outlaw had, but keep him it a distance. He had no time for pleasantries, for meaningless conversation. Dean Winchester was his captive, after all.
It wasn't until early evening the outlaw began to stir. Castiel's eyes fell to the man from his seat at the table as he heard a shift. Dean's head lolled off the blood stained pillow and he muttered something inaudible, though to Castiel it sounded almost like a name. Finally, he opened his eyes. They looked at each other silently for a moment. He must have forgotten the wound in his right shoulder, because he tried, then, to hoist himself up with his elbow. The pain must have seared through him, because the outlaw closed his eyes and winced sharply, letting himself fall back into his old position in defeat.
"Careful, Mr. Winchester," Castiel said, standing. "You lost a lot of blood. Do you remember what happened?"
Dean was panting again, his jaw tensed in fresh agony.
"You… You shot me," he said breathlessly.
"Now we both know that's not true," Castiel replied calmly.
"Then… then you paid someone to do it."
Castiel sighed.
"Mr. Winchester, why would I do that? You're my commodity, a very expensive one. It's in my best interest you remain as fit as possible before I can get you to Coalfell."
"Coalfell?" Dean asked distractedly. "Never heard of it."
"It's heard of you. I had a rather interesting conversation with the deputy there. He doesn't like you very much."
"What deputy?"
"Calls himself Victor Henriksen."
"Henriksen… Henriksen…" Dean let the name linger on his lips a moment until his eyes lit up in recognition. "Oh, Henriksen."
He allowed himself a soft chuckle, but even that proved too much. His jaw tensed, the pain leaving him rigid, yet he forced himself to endure.
"How is the smug old bastard?" he asked through gritted teeth.
"Seems to have been in a perpetually bad mood the last two years," Castiel answered plainly, "on account of you blowing off his arm."
"Bullshit," Dean retorted immediately, but Castiel continued, undeterred.
"Says you killed a woman to do it."
With that, the outlaw observed him darkly, his face transgressed.
"I've never laid a hand on a woman," he said, his eyes blaring with the sheer outrageousness of it, "let alone killed one."
Castiel raised his brows at the man.
"Henriksen begs to differ. Says you and your brother were spat right out of the bowels of Hell, if I recall."
"That's a reach," Dean said, and he let that same soft chuckle escape his lips. "Look, if you had a face like this you would not mess with explosives…"
Castiel scowled softly, looking away, but the outlaw broke the silence once more.
"So, how'd you find me anyway?"
"Well," Castiel started slowly, having expected this conversation to come up sooner or later, "it was rather easy. You two have been quite careless these past few weeks. I mean, finding steady work, making a name for yourselves? What were you thinking?"
Dean laughed again, not a chuckle, an honest, easy sound, though he winced once more in pain for doing so.
"I blame Sam for that," he said fondly. "There was this girl… I admit I didn't see the harm in it at first."
"Miss Moore?"
"Yeah," he nodded. "Jessica. You met her?"
"She tried very hard to pretend like she didn't know you."
"So where does Fatty come in?" Dean asked then, his eyes rising to the ceiling. "God rest his soul," he added quickly.
"Well," Castiel began, "I loitered around the ranch after, hoping one of you would show yourselves, but Jessica, she got a couple of her father's guards to chase me off. So I went back to Dry Gulch, where your friend was waiting for me."
"Oh, yeah?"
"He told me he knew where you two were camped, said he'd followed your brother back to it after one of his evening visits with Miss Moore. He wanted to come with me, so he could get his belongings back under my protection."
Dean nodded, sated by his answer.
"That's pretty smart of him, actually. Too bad what happened. You really don't know who it was that shot us?"
"I told you," Castiel said impatiently, "no."
"Just seemed kinda convenient."
Was he purposefully goading him? Castiel swallowed, but remained blank faced.
"Convenient that you got shot and your brother got away?"
"Hey," Dean reminded him, his eyes glittering daringly, "you let him go."
Castiel glared.
"For now."
Silence begot the room, then. Castiel had been alone for so long, he was not used to this. Talking with this man, his captive, was new and exhausting and so very different to what he had predicted when he had picked up the Winchester's bounty a week ago. In truth, Castiel had expected a lot worse of the brothers from the story the deputy had told him. The way they had acted in the clearing—Dean's flippant, playful nature, Sam's boyish panic, the loyalty from his woman the few days before, who, despite the situation, seemed an honest, pious sort… playing cards, ranch work… these did not seem the happenings of godless, evil men.
And now, Mr. Winchester's composure, his light, easy laugh—it all seemed so foreign for a man who had a thousand dollar bounty on his head. Castiel scowled silently. Dean Winchester was a stranger, his hostage. It was not Castiel's business to uncover this man, to assess his honour or his truth. And yet…
"So, you got the bullet out?" Dean asked him, and Castiel's thoughts were pushed away.
"Didn't have to," he shrugged, grateful for the distraction. "The bullet went right through you; it was the dirt and the bits of fabric from your shirt that were the problem. We just need to keep an eye on it from now on, make sure the wound doesn't fester, change the dressings every few hours."
Dean looked impressed.
"You know your stuff."
Castiel looked away. He did not like the way Dean was looking at him—familiar, like an equal.
"I've done this before," he said quietly.
"Well, that sounds like an interesting story."
"One I won't be telling."
He heard Dean sigh.
"Well, thanks anyway," he said quietly. "For saving my life, I mean."
Castiel did not like this, did not want this outlaw's gratitude. He could feel anger rising in him, like molten lava emerging from deep, dormant rock.
"You think I saved your life?" Castiel asked him incredulously. "I don't get paid until you hang, remember?"
Dean smiled sarcastically.
"How could I forget?"
Despite himself, Castiel wanted to argue, to slap some sense into him. Dean Winchester was going to die; it was absolute, unavoidable. If fate such existed it would be written in the stars. Most men in his position would seek to hate the man that had imprisoned them, but in Dean there was no animosity, and instead something so bewildering it unnerved Castiel completely.
"Sleep," he ordered quietly. "You're still too weak to travel."
"Fine by me," Dean said with false cheer, settling his head back on the pillow. "The longer I can prevent my untimely death the better."
They did not speak the rest of the night. Castiel could hear Dean's light snores from the worn, bloodied bed. He had nowhere to sleep himself, except the chair at the dining table. He slept like that a while, one arm on the table acting as a pillow, the other on his revolver strapped to his side.
He woke early the next day; his neck and back achingly stiff. He cleaned the cabin as best he could, discarded the bowls of rotting food and searched the cabinets for anything worth eating.
"What is it?" Dean asked haughtily, as Castiel set a cold tin and rusted spoon upon his lap.
"Beans."
Dean smiled at him hopefully.
"Got any meat?"
"Your horse is outside," Castiel offered, and Dean immediately picked up the spoon and started eating.
"Delicious," he said, a pained look in his eyes and his mouth full to bursting.
They remained like this, subdued together, for the next few hours. Castiel busied himself with clearing debris and rubbish from the cabin, whilst Dean took great pleasure in complaining about his shoulder pain, of his sheer, agonising boredom—until Castiel relented and shut him up with a healthy dose of morphine. Dean slept the rest of the day, and Castiel was grateful for the silence.
The silence didn't last forever, unfortunately. As nightfall approached, Dean stirred once more.
"How are you feeling, Mr. Winchester?" Castiel asked the outlaw politely.
"I'm fine, I guess," he answered simply. "Oh, and call me Dean," he added. "I won't have you address me like I'm some kinda gentleman. What's your name, anyway?"
Castiel looked away.
"Doesn't matter."
"Okay," said Dean, chuckling, "nice to meet you, Doesn't Matter."
"Quiet," Castiel ordered suddenly.
"What is it?"
"There's a storm coming," he said, unable to hide the panic in his voice.
"How'd you know?"
Castiel stared out the window, his expression a mix of distance and foreboding as he studied the world outside.
"The clouds are billowing to the east," he said quietly after a moment, "and the birds, they're circling low; most are headed for shelter. We should stay here."
"A little rain never hurt nobody," Dean said light-heartedly, but Castiel could not tear his eyes away from the window.
"My horse doesn't like the rain," was all he said.
They stayed in the cabin for two more days, only speaking to one another if it concerned the horses or Mr. Winchester's wound. He was no longer asking for morphine, even though Castiel could tell the pain was still near unbearable. He wasn't sleeping either, judging by the soft silence of his breathing compared to the muffled snores Castiel had become acquainted to. Perhaps he was bidding his escape; counting on Castiel to have his guard lowered, the sound of the storm muffling his movement and the sound of his horse's hooves. It was the dead of night, and the storm was at its angriest. If he were to flee, it would be the perfect time to do it. But Dean wasn't stupid. He knew Castiel was awake from his spot at the dining table. In the darkness, Castiel heard him; the outlaw's voice a murmur from across the lodge.
"Me and my brother," he said quietly, as if speaking to himself, "we're not bad people. This is the hand we were dealt; we're just living it."
Castiel frowned. It was strange to hear him try and justify his actions. He had been Castiel's prisoner for over four days, after all. It seemed odd to repeal his fate now.
"You chose this life," was all Castiel said, but Dean shook his head fiercely in reply.
"I was born into this life. I had no choice."
"We all have choices," responded Castiel irritably. "You chose to follow your father's."
He seemed to have struck a nerve. Dean sat up so quickly it was as if his injury had miraculously healed, perhaps out of spite.
"You don't know anything about my father," he said darkly, his chest heaving.
Castiel merely blinked.
"He was a killer. A thief. A menace to society. That's all I need to know."
"You're wrong."
Castiel looked at him, almost smiling out of incredulity.
"You deny your father's crimes?"
"He never killed anyone who didn't deserve it," Dean said, and his anger seemed forgotten. "Like you." Castiel could see him now, looking at him in that strange, familiar way. "I lied before. I know who you are. I recognise you from the papers: you're Castiel. Castiel Novak. You assassinated senator Dick Roman during his inauguration speech. Put a bullet in him," he pointed at a spot between his eyes, "right here. They didn't put you in chains for it, though, did they? They didn't put your neck to the gallows. They made you famous, called you legend.
Dick Roman deserved to be killed," he said after a pause. "I know it; you know it. But you didn't kill him for money, for revenge, for the whims of those more powerful—you did it for you, for your code. Yeah," he said, noting the fresh anger emerging on Castiel's face, "I know about your code; read it on the back of a cigarette card."
Castiel's fingers twitched. They ached, pleaded to wrap themselves around the pistol he wore on his side, and aim it at the place Dean had pointed to a moment before. The money be damned. Castiel's promise be damned. How dare he. How dare he speak as if any semblance of him could possibly comprehend it.
"My code is my own," Castiel said finally, and he was surprised at just how calm he sounded.
Dean laughed unkindly.
"Your 'code' is available in most general stores for just $2.50."
Castiel stood up quickly, his trigger itch returning.
"Mr. Winchester," he said, his voice commanding, "say another word and I will gag you."
"Gag me, then," Dean shrugged, "but when they hang me, you'll know. If it weren't me, it'd just be somebody else. There'll always be somebody else, or they couldn't justify paying you. You understand?"
Castiel was seething. His code… his code was his lifeline, the one constant in his life that had not yet disappointed him. He had never uttered a word to anyone of the five laws that ruled him, except to one man… the man that made him. Had he sold Castiel's words, his secret, to the highest bidder? Indeed, it was his killing of Dick Roman that had made him famous, had turned his once insignificant name to myth—but it was his code that had seen him to it, a sliver of clarity in a world of carnage. Dean Winchester thought Castiel had put a bullet in senator Roman's head for justice. He did not know the truth. No one did.
The storm was raging. Rain spattered the cabin's windows in a loud, harsh downpour. He could hear the horses, though safe and dry in the stable, whinnying anxiously. He understood their fear, their confusion. He knew the power of a storm.
"Rest," he forced himself to say then, refusing to look into the outlaw's scornful, mocking eyes. "The storm should have passed by morning. We'll set off to Coalfell then."
He seated himself at the dining table and rested his head on his arm. He had not slept for so long, his eyes were tender and itchy. Dean would be a fool to try and flee now, not with his injury, not with the storm so potent. Castiel knew it would be safe to rest, if only for a short while.
He closed his eyes and fell asleep almost immediately, but the sound of the storm was loud, and unforgiving, and he found himself dreaming of that night, eighteen years ago…
"Please, Papa," Castiel begged, his hands grasped together in prayer. "Stop it. Please, Papa, forgive me."
They were on the edge of the homestead where the river was at its widest. The rain had not stopped for seven days, and the river overflowed the banks and had turned the grass to marshland. Castiel's feet stuck in the sloppy, thick mud as he backed further towards the river, where the water flowed so rapidly, so powerfully, one wrong step would have seen him lost in it.
"'Wrongdoers will not inherit the kingdom of God,'" his pa said, speaking so torturously slowly, so painstakingly clear, the declaration could have come from the heavens themselves. Castiel looked at his pa, begged him silently. He realised with desperate, childlike fear that there was nothing in his father's eyes that seemed familiar.
He had been a fool, a heedless sinner so wrapped up in boyish curiosity that he had damned himself in a single heartbeat. They had told themselves it was innocent—of course it had been—they were but boys of sixteen, so drunk on youth and marvel that, surely, one simple act could not offend God, could not tarnish their souls completely. Castiel had read the stories of knights and adventurers by the guise of his candle late at night, for pa did not allow his sons to read anything other than the Lord's Bible. The men in these stories had killed their enemies and saved the maidens fair; their heroics always rewarded with a kiss on the final page. Castiel was curious. Castiel was lonely. His brother was a good son, reliable in the field and as devout as their pa. They feared God more than they loved him, yet from the passages Castiel had memorised he just couldn't understand.
"'If a man has relations with a man as one does with a woman," his pa recited, walking towards him slowly, "both of them have done what is detestable. They are to be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads.'"
Castiel began to cry.
"Pa," he pleaded. "We never. I swear it. It was a kiss. Just a kiss…"
"'Your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit," his pa continued, getting closer, "who is in you, whom you have received from God. You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore you must honour God with your body.'"
"I do, pa. I honour him every day. Please forgive me. Please help me be a better son."
But he couldn't see his father, couldn't familiarise the strange new look in his eyes, of the way they seared through him as cold as steel.
Castiel could not walk anymore. If he kept walking, he would fall, be swept away by the river unto the edge of the world. He couldn't leave his pa, not the man he loved and feared both at once—even as his pa's hands rose and wrapped themselves around his throat. Not even as his face was submerged in water, and the rain of the storm became his anchor, his final parting. He could not see, or breathe, or move. He was helpless as a baby in his mother's womb. Not that he had ever known his mother—he had never even learned her name.
His world was getting darker the harder his pa squeezed. Castiel tried to be a good son, tried to die obediently—and yet in his hand he felt a rise, a diminutive climb in the earth that had not yet been submerged by the storm. He enveloped his hand in it, and with one final ounce of strength, picked it up from the ground and smashed into his pa's head.
Immediately, the grip on his neck released, and Castiel took in a huge, uncontrolled breath—a breath of the river that had already seeked to drown him. He pulled himself out of it; coughing and regurgitating the cold liquid until his throat was finally clear enough to breathe the air. Castiel rested on the side of the bank, so exhausted he had not the time or the inclination to wonder why his pa was no longer trying to kill him.
It was not until he heard a voice, a sound so like his own, speak simply above him from his place on the muddied grass:
"He's dead."
Castiel looked up. His brother, his twin, was staring down at something beside him, a form splayed out on the bank as pitifully as a forgotten animal. Blood pooled from their pa's head where the rock had hit him, the wound deep and dark as wine. His blood seeped into the river as effortlessly as if the storm itself had wrought it.
Castiel tried to get up, but he was so dizzy he could barely see.
"He was… going to kill me," he said, though his voice seemed so quiet and far away he could not be sure if his brother could hear him. "Jimmy," he tried again, trying to look his kin in the eye. "You must believe me. You do, don't you? I was… defending myself."
His brother did not reply, and in his silence Castiel became more aware, his sight clearer. He could truly comprehend now the corpse of their pa beside him.
"Please, Jimmy," he said, and his voice sounded high-pitched like a child. "Tell me what to do. I'm so scared."
His brother did not look at him, his gaze searing instead into the corpse of their father.
"Run," he said.
"What?"
Jimmy closed his eyes, and spoke once more in an expressionless voice.
"Run away and don't come back."
"No," Castiel begged, trying to pull himself up but only managing to get to his knees. "Have mercy on me, please. You're my brother. You're all I have."
Jimmy still did not look at him.
"In five minutes," he began collectedly, "I will ride into town, and I will tell the sheriff pa was murdered by a man who wore a mask. When I get back, I want you gone. From this moment on we are no longer brothers. We are no longer family."
"Don't say that, Jimmy," implored Castiel, refusing to measure the finality in his brother's words. "Please. I don't know where to go. Please don't send me away."
"You're not well, Castiel," Jimmy said, and his voice cracked for the first time, his shame inexorable. "I saw you with him, with Martha Cuthbert's son."
Castiel stared at his brother.
"It was you?" he asked him desperately. "You told pa?"
Castiel tried to understand, to fathom it. He had done a bad thing and his brother had seeked to reform him, and in telling their father he hoped it would have been enough. Jimmy was an obedient, god-fearing son, and he wanted Castiel to be the same. They looked so alike, why could that not be enough?
Castiel stared into the river, and he could swear the Devil Himself was beckoning him from the stream.
"I can't forgive you for this, Cas," he heard his brother say, his voice almost drowned by the rumbling of the storm, "but by God's mercy I can still save you. I won't let them know it was you... It was the man in the mask."
"Jimmy—" Castiel tried a final time, but his brother grabbed him by his collar and forced him to his feet.
"I said GO!" he yelled, throwing Castiel so hard he almost tripped over the corpse on the bank.
Castiel forced himself from the muddy ground, dragged his feet through the thick, sloppy mire. He had not a mind to call his horse, collect his belongings, anything. He simply hauled himself down the river, his kin's cold words echoing in his head like thunder in the storm, the Devil laughing beside him all the way.
