The Gunslinger's Code

Chapter 10

The Hanging of Dean Winchester

Something made Castiel leave the comfort of his room in the Coalfell saloon and make the short walk back to the sheriff's office. Something made him loiter, instead of knock. Something made him approach the basement window, and listen to every single word.

"Say the word, Dean," the sheriff said. "Say the word and I will free you. I'll kill the bounty hunter, Henriksen. I'll kill the whole town if you want. Just ask me."

He had returned to his room quickly, and that night he had slept with a gun on his bedside, and a knife beneath his pillow.

This had been just a job, another bounty, but nothing about Dean Winchester, as he had come to realise, was simple. This town wasn't simple; neither was its sheriff. He slept badly, but dreamless. He tossed and turned, the sheets enclosing him like a coffin. He missed the moon; he missed camping on hard ground, and the sound of trees. He missed the shack where they had slept the past week. He half expected to hear Dean's snores from across the way, but he heard nothing. Instead it was a deafening, cruel silence, and Castiel lay awake the rest of the night, his hand on the knife beneath his head.

He heard a knock at the door a little after eight. Was it the sheriff, come to murder him? He picked up his pistol from the bedside and cocked it, his finger rested on the trigger as he opened the door.

It was the barman from downstairs, looking grumpy and dishevelled, as if he were just forced from his bed.

"Mr. Novak," he said, his voice cracked with sleep. "Mr. Novak. Sorry to bother you, sir, but the sheriff asked to speak with you."

"Is he downstairs?" Castiel asked, the door still ajar.

"No, he went back to the office."

Castiel nodded, allowing his finger to edge away slowly from the trigger.

There was no one but a child and his mother out on the street as he made his way to the jail. The woman looked at him distrustfully as he passed by, and she took a hold of the boy's hand as if to shield him. When he approached the door to the sheriff's office, he knocked twice, and waited.

"Come in," he heard from behind it.

He kept his revolver holstered in his belt and loaded for good measure. He did not quite know the sheriff's intentions, but whatever might happen, Castiel was surely a better and faster shot.

"Ah, Castiel," Alastair said, standing, a hand raised in greeting. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

They shook hands; the sheriff's was cold, like a corpse.

"Sheriff."

"Please," he said, not letting go. "Call me Alastair."

Castiel smiled quickly without warmth.

"If you insist."

"I do," said Alastair, and finally he pulled his hand away. His eyes were a pallid blue, his skin dull and sallow. When he smiled, the skin stretched like leather to accommodate it.

"My deputy has informed me I have you to thank for the capture of Dean Winchester," he continued jovially. "Those brothers have been a cancer on this land for many years now, and I'll admit, I left Coalfell with the notion their Wanted poster would remain untouched upon my return. To have Dean in my jail is most surprising, and I do so like to be surprised, Castiel; it does not happen often. This is a mining town, after all. Not much happens here."

"I did wonder why they would assign a sheriff," Castiel said carefully. "Wouldn't your services prove more useful elsewhere?

"Whatever do you mean?" Alastair laughed. "Crime does not discriminate, Castiel; it is everywhere, even in towns as unremarkable as this. Surely you know that?"

Just ask me. The sheriff's words to Dean echoed in his mind. Castiel nodded.

"I do."

"Besides," went on Alastair, "this is good for the town; might even help to put it on the map. Mr. Winchester's death date has been put in the paper. People will come from all over to watch him hang. I have workers building the gallows as we speak."

"Good."

Alastair watched him, studying, patient—like an animal waiting to feed.

"You're a man of few words, I see," he said softly after a moment. "I like that. I like you, in fact, very much so. I have great respect for your work, Castiel. I would very much appreciate your services again in the months to come. This town, these people, need to be protected."

"They do."

From you, Castiel thought.

They looked at each other for a moment. He knew Alastair was not a stupid man. His eyes were calculated, his smile controlled. How much did he know, about Castiel, about the brothers Winchester? There was something about him; it swallowed all warmth and light from the room. Castiel needed to get away from it.

"With your permission, Sheriff," he said, "I'd like to speak with the prisoner."

Alastair raised his brows in interest.

"About?"

"The whereabouts of his brother are still in question. I'd like to try my luck a final time."

Alastair chuckled darkly, but shrugged.

"He'll hang before telling you."

"Will he?" Castiel asked daringly.

Will he really hang? That was what he meant to say. He was sure Alastair knew it, too.

The sheriff nodded his approval finally, a glimmer of something in his eye—a halfway state between amusement and loathing. Castiel walked past him and opened the door to the stairs. If the sheriff wished to eavesdrop, he would allow it. He would say nothing that would betray what he had heard from the basement window. But despite his need for carefulness, he wanted to learn of him, of the strange sheriff that seemed to know Dean so well.

He walked down the stairs to Dean's cell. Despite the sun outside, his form was bathed in shadow.

"Castiel…" he said, sounding surprised. Perhaps he thought they would not see each other again before the noose; that the darkness was to be his only company.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fantastic," he said, straight-faced. "What are you doing here?"

"I've come to interrogate you on your brother's whereabouts."

The look on Dean's face almost made him smile. Castiel closed his eyes and sighed.

"Or… perhaps I've come to say goodbye."

Dean blinked, turning his face away.

"Didn't think you cared."

Castiel dallied on his feet a moment, careful, a little awkward. He had to be cautious of what he might say next.

"I spoke with Sheriff White," he settled finally, noting the way Dean scowled at the sound of his name.

"I'm sure that was illuminating," he said dryly.

"You and him have history."

Dean frowned.

"He told you that?"

"Just got the impression," Castiel said.

Dean looked at him, then to the stairs. After a moment, he nodded.

"Yeah, he rode with the gang, a long time ago."

"And now he's sheriff."

"And now he's sheriff," Dean repeated.

This… complicated things, but it made sense all the same.

"Dean…" he started. "Mr. Winchester—"

"Look, would you promise me something?" Dean interrupted.

"What?"

"My horse, Baby. Don't sell her. Keep her as your own. She's a fine creature; she'll serve you well."

Castiel blinked, his thoughts vanished.

"I… have my own horse," he said lamely.

"I know," Dean said. "Just… at the very least make sure he doesn't get her, Alastair. Please."

Despite himself, Castiel nodded.

"Okay," he said.

He tried to find the words, of a right way to ask that would not betray them, but Dean was looking at him strangely, even fighting back a smile.

"What?" Castiel demanded, a little aggressively.

"I look a damn mess, don't I?" Dean said laughing, running a hand through the scraggly beard that had grown over the last week. "Look, I know I got no right, but if you could visit me again some time, I would ask another favour."

"What is it?"

He paused.

"Could you bring me a razor?"

"A razor?"

"I don't mean to hurt myself," Dean said, smirking. "I just… wanna leave a handsome corpse, that's all."

Castiel stared at him again. He was not a simple man; that much was true.

"I'll try," he said finally. "Look," he continued, his eyes to the stairs and of the invisible eyes on them. "I should go."

"Wait."

Castiel stopped, his foot on the first step.

"Henriksen, the sheriff," he heard Dean say from behind the bars. "I have history with both of them. I could have been hanged anywhere, made an example of, but they chose here, in this town no one's ever heard of. Is that not odd to you?"

It was odd, of course it was. But he could not reveal that to Dean. Maybe he was selfish for it, but it wasn't safe, not with the sheriff upstairs. He simply shrugged, and sighed.

"It's not my business to make assumptions."

"Right," Dean said, his eyes back on the sliver of light that came through the window. It bathed his face in it, like a glittering jewel. "You're just looking to get paid."

Castiel had slept badly that night, despite the quiet outside and the soft sheets on him. He was unsettled, troubled by the feel of the town, its sheriff, and of Dean. In truth, Dean's words had bothered him most of all. He had wanted to ask him for the truth, to know everything about his past and how it intertwined with Alastair's, why it was they had ended up here. He rose early the next morning, and before he'd had the chance to change his mind Castiel found himself walking back to the outlaw's cell.

A lawman he had not seen before was stationed inside, his head hung back and snoring loudly from his seat at the desk. Castiel saw no need in waking him, so he walked slowly by, his steps silent against the wooden floor.

Dean turned his head at the sound of him. He looked exhausted—undoubtedly he had not slept at all, but found the will to smile regardless.

"You came," he said, "and you brought the razor."

Castiel nodded. Now that he was here, he felt a fool.

"Give it here," said Dean, shuffling towards the bars and holding out his two bound hands.

Castiel obeyed, and Dean set to work. He held the blade awkwardly in his hands, tried to twist and position it. Without a mirror to guide him, his first two strokes were uneven, and the limited movement saw his grip struggle.

Castiel sighed at the view, and stared down at him pointedly.

"Stop," he said.

"No," Dean rebutted stubbornly, "I can do it."

"You'll cut yourself."

"I can do it."

He continued his attempt; a spot of blood forming at the jaw.

"Give it here," Castiel demanded.

He took a hold of the razor through the bars despite Dean's grunt of protest, and got to work on the bristles of golden brown hair. He guided the blade against Dean's skin. His grip was firm, the movement repetitive but never dull, instead comforting in its monotony. He had grown so used to this, touching him, that the act felt easy, natural, like the nights he'd spent with Martha Cuthbert's son. Just… together, nothing expected of them, nothing to hide. Touching him was not wrong, not in this way. Changing his dressings, mopping his brow, and now, this act of grooming, these were not sinful touches, these were the acts of a doctor, a professional, of something detached and practised. He was not a sinner for touching this man, for feeling his breath on him, steady and warm. He could touch him and still be welcomed into the kingdom of Heaven.

"What will you do once this is over?"

The sound of Dean's voice shook him to the core, and his grip faltered.

"I'll… start the hunt for your brother, of course," he answered, recovering. "I don't suppose you'll tell me where he is?"

Dean smiled.

"Not a chance."

"Can't say I'm surprised," Castiel said. "I had… a brother once. You do what you can to protect them."

He did not like to speak of Jimmy, to even think of him, but he could not help himself.

Dean looked at him pointedly, as if to pry. After a moment, his eyes fell away and he nodded in silent consideration.

"Sam's a good kid," he said after a moment. "Man, I should say... Real smart. Always knew he had it in him to do something worthwhile, something important—a doctor, a lawyer, maybe. Really make something of himself. I never told him that, 'course. Guess I was afraid, afraid of being left behind. Or maybe I was jealous."

He paused to laugh, the act short and bitter.

"I was never going to amount to much; I know that. Too stupid, too foolhardy. It's my fault I'm here. He begged me when Father died, begged that we start a new life, somewhere far away where no one knew us. But I… I was so desperate to, I don't know, live up to the Winchester name, avenge it, punish the law, the rich, anyone who tried to stop me. I thought I had everything I wanted. I thought it was enough. I should have told him different, back there in the clearing. Even then I was so, so fucking stupid. I told him to go back so he could find that goddamn gun… I should have… I should have told him to start again. I should have told him to go back to his woman, to forget me." He sighed; a long, mournful sound. "Goddammit," he said finally, "I was so stupid."

Castiel finished with the blade as Dean's voice faded.

"But I thought you loved the life," he asked evenly. "I thought being an outlaw was a part of you."

"I was wrong, all right?" Dean said immediately, refusing to meet his eye. "Can't a man admit when he's wrong?"

"Look, Castiel," he said then, his voice laced in defeat. "I don't deserve to ask this of you but I'll never forgive myself if I don't. After I'm gone, just, just please leave him be. Sammy. Don't punish him for my mistakes. He's a good man, and he'll do good, I know it. Promise me, Cas," he said. "Promise you'll leave him alone."

Castiel did not know what to say. In the silence, Dean reached out to him with his bound hands.

"Say it," he whispered, and his grip was soft and warm and so very desperate. "Humour me. For God's sake, just humour me."

For reasons beyond his knowing, Castiel nodded.

"I promise, Dean," he said. "I'm not humouring you. I promise. I won't go looking for him."

Dean sighed, and closed his eyes.

"Thank you."

He edged his back against the wooden bench, tilting his head so the half-light caught the line of his jaw. It seemed so sharp now without the golden stubble.

"I just need to rest now, I think," he said.

Castiel stood awkwardly.

"All right," he said.

He knew these were his last words to Dean, but he found no profoundness in them, no particular way to say goodbye. Did he think he owed this man something? Did Dean even deserve it?

"Dean?" he found himself saying.

"Yeah?"

But a noise from upstairs quelled him to silence. Perhaps it was the lawman waking, or worse still, the sheriff returned for the morning. He shook his head, and began to walk away. As he left his cell, the man spoke a final time.

"It was good to know you, Cas," he said. "The man behind the name. Somehow I think we became friends, didn't we?"

Castiel found the words. The truth:

"I think we did, too."

The day of the hanging saw the sun hidden behind clouds. Castiel awoke to a sound most unfamiliar since arriving at Coalfell. It was the sound of voices, of horses hooves and coach wheels. It was the sound of activity, of excitement. People had come to the small mining town, from far and wide—the outlaw's name bewitching as a siren's song. They wanted to watch him hang, watch him die; watch him buried in an unmarked grave.

Castiel would watch, too. He had not the mind to see Mr. Winchester suffer, it was not his way—but it was only right he be there, to see the job done. He had given Dean his word he would not hunt his brother. Once Dean was dead, he would be finished with the Winchesters forever. Would Sam do well with his life as Dean had promised? Would Castiel be punished for turning his back on the contract he had been given? He did not know. The past week had changed something in him, blurred the meaning in the words of his listed code. It was not his secret anymore. Dean had known of it, and surely many others did as well. There was only one person who could have told them. He would seek him out, perhaps, after it was over. He would ask him for the truth—and then he would disappear.

Castiel dressed simply, packed the little belongings he had, and left for the hanging. The roads were still busy with people, but they were travelling with purpose now, to a dry patch of earth a few yards behind the sheriff's office. Before he followed, he went over to the horses hitched outside the saloon. His own grey steed nuzzled his cheek as he fed him. Baby, Dean's Arabian, eyed him blankly as she waited her turn. He would honour the man's promise. He would take her with him, and sell her to someone reputable, someone who would… appreciate her. She was a beautiful creature, it was true, and despite his abstemiousness Castiel had a weakness for beautiful things.

He made his way down the street, behind the last of the eager crowd. The builders had worked quickly; the gallows stood tall and new on a raised platform. Henriksen and another lawman stood beside it, guns in hand. There was talk amongst the people. Seemingly everyone in the town and strangers, too, had come to bear witness. Even the miners, whose faces were slick with grime and breaths rattling with decay, had been allowed from the caves. Castiel stood at the back, eager for it to be done.

After a minute, the back door of the sheriff's office opened and Dean came through it, his hands still bound, the bullet wound in his shoulder secreting blood. He had a sack on his head, and his steps were clumsy. He seemed in pain, of something new, freshly inflicted. Sheriff Alastair White followed behind him, a gaunt hand on his back, guiding Dean's steps. The crowd booed and hollered as Dean made his way to the platform. At the steps he tripped, the action leaving a smirk on the deputy's face, and a cruel look in the sheriff's eyes. The crowd were laughing and jeering, shouting odious words at the man they did not know, but hated anyway.

The faceless outlaw awaited his fate at the top of the platform. Castiel watched him, barely breathing. The sheriff took off his hood slowly, teasing, almost. Castiel did not like the way he touched him, of the way his fingers blackened under the clouded sun. Castiel was overcome, a kind of animal's fury, as close to the surface as a second skin. As the hood came off, the fury dissipated, and it was like staring at Dean the first time—before he'd known him, when he was just a job, just another sinner to be punished. Only it wasn't the first time. He had looked at Dean a thousand times since capturing him, heard his stories, his truth, watched him sleep, the way he reacted to Castiel's touch as he'd been treated. He had known Dean strong enough to tend to himself, but he had done it anyway, seen, in the corner of his eye, the way Dean's cock had stirred and hardened as he changed the bind. Castiel closed his eyes. It was wrong, these thoughts he had. He was wicked for them.

Castiel was brought back, his thoughts interrupted by the sound of Alastair's voice ringing through the crowd.

"Our people laboured," he addressed them grandly, "built these gallows of wood, so we could kill a man before you, before God, for the crimes he has committed. Dean Winchester is a conman, and a thief. He is a killer of women, of law officials, and of decent, God-fearing men." Alastair smiled at this. Perhaps Castiel was the only one who saw it, the abandon, the gleeful, quiet madness beneath. He had offered Dean his freedom, so surely a part of him did not want him dead. But the look in his eyes was something so strange, yet familiar, and Castiel was brought back to the night of the storm—his father's eyes a faded evil as they watched him slowly choke between his hands.

"His reign of terror is over," Alastair continued slowly, forcing Castiel from his reveries once again. "He gets what he deserves. And now, good people of Coalfell, of Shady Oak and beyond, you can finally pay witness to justice!"

He looked over at Dean, who was staring straight ahead above the crowd, as if they were not there.

"Any last words, Mr. Winchester?"

It was then; Dean steadied his glance, and looked Castiel straight in the eye.

"Non timebo mala," he said, unblinking. "I am not afraid."

Something changed then, an absolution, a closing of space, a breath so sharp there was power in it.

The lever was pulled, and the floor was released—and before the noose could tighten a shot ran through the air, an ancient sound, sharp and final.

The rope around Dean's neck severed. He fell to the ground, landed on his knees heavily.

The crowd screamed and hollered, and began to separate. It wasn't until a woman at Castiel's side saw his gun outstretched and shrieked, falling into the arms of her husband, that he even realised the shot was his.

"No!"

It was Henriksen—readying his gun at the sprawled figure beneath the gallows. Castiel shot again, his actions separate from his mind. The bullet pierced the deputy's hand; the pistol flying, bone and cartilage falling like rain. Castiel shot the other lawman through the leg and he buckled into a heap. The crowd were fleeing. These were not heroes seeking justice, merely vultures, scattering to the wind now their meal was compromised. Castiel pushed himself through them, his eyes on nothing but Dean, who was dragging himself away despite the deputy's shattered remnant of a hand grasping at him desperately. Castiel grabbed Victor's shoulder, threw him off, picked up his pistol and the other lawman's rifle. He grabbed Dean by the scruff of his collar and dragged him towards the road.

"Shoot him!" the deputy begged the sheriff as he sunk to his knees. "Alastair! What are you doing? Don't let him escape!"

But Alastair was laughing.

He was stood, alone on his mighty platform, armed and uninjured. He had all the power in the world. If only he rose his pistol hand and fired—but he did not. He only laughed.

They heard him laughing as they ran into the street, as they got on their horses, and rode through the panicking crowd.

They could still hear him laughing as they disappeared; their trail swallowed by the wide expanse.