Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: So here it is, the promised tag to Frontierland. This is a (late) birthday present for Cheryl, with my thanks for all the help, proofreading of stories and listening to ranting.

Thanks to Scribble2Much, Katy M VT, TinTin11, Kathryn Marie Black, SandyDee84, godsdaughter77, angeleyenc, The Lilac Elf of Lothlorien and Sparkiebunny for reviewing the last chapter.

Summary: Dean's thoughts as he and Sam stand at Elias Finch's grave. Tag to 6.18, Frontierland.

Ride 'Em, Cowboy

OK, so Clint Eastwood… Well, he didn't lie, I'm not saying he lied. I'm just saying that he… maybe… Stretched the truth a little. And I totally understand that. Man's got to eat. If he'd gone for authenticity he'd still be waiting tables or mowing lawns or doing whatever it was he did to pay the rent before he figured out he looked good on a horse.

But the Wild West? In some ways, not all it's made out to be. Sure I understand why my man Clint had to do what he did. Still, fact remains: I came here expecting Scarlett Johansson in a low-necked dress, and instead I got…

Yup. Sam's still snickering about it. Moron.

Anyway, some things are just the same as in our world. Cemeteries don't change much from year to year – or from century to century – and this grave's no different from a thousand others we've dug up. (Of course we've got lanterns instead of flashlights, but they're pretty easy to hold when you get the hang of it.)

Right now Sam and I are staring into the empty coffin. I can sense him coming to the same realization I'm reaching myself: the phoenix isn't some awesome glowing magic bird and I'm not Harry Potter.

I take a moment to think. Got no idea how to kill a phoenix, cell phones don't work here and even if they did there's nobody to call. Hell, I don't even know if they had normal telephones in the Wild West. We'd probably have to telegraph for help or something, and get an answer sometime next week.

Well, when all else fails, there's one weapon we can count on…

We can't both go to Samuel Colt, though. It'll take a while to get there. I doubt Finch is going to do us the favour of sitting pretty until we have the gun. Dude's out for revenge, and I don't think they were big on patience in 1861.

Not good. Definitely not good. I'm not thrilled by the idea of Sam and me splitting up on a job even normally. The kid's always been a magnet for trouble. And when you add the Great Wall of Sam and the fact that we're in bloody 1861 and if you believe Clint Eastwood (and, despite everything, I still do) the countryside is just crawling with escaped felons who'll shoot first, steal your money, and not even bother to ask questions…

I clamp down on the protective instincts rising in my chest. Sam can take care of himself, and I know it. He's bigger and stronger than anything he's likely to meet out here.

But when he looks at me the way he is now, the way he's been doing all day, it's hard not to think of him as the kid who needed me to watch out for him. I mean, hunter or not, Bigfoot or not, Sam's… Well, he's Sam. He's wearing the shirt because I wanted him to and I know when we get back to our time he'll keep it because I got it for him (although he'll pretend it's because he can't find clothes in his size) and… It's not that he can't draw his gun fast enough to kill anything nasty before it's had time to do more than register his presence. It's that he won't.

Six months with Robo-Sam taught me two things. First, Sam's a better hunter than I ever gave him credit for. He's fast, he's strong, he's got reflexes like a freaking Jedi. And then there's the brain. Of course, it took Robo-Sam to show me that, because the second thing I realized was that Sam – my Sam – is a bigger softie than I ever imagined. Now that I know how fast he can shoot, it makes it so much more obvious every time he hesitates or holds back because he doesn't like to kill anything, not even a murdering monster that deserves it. (He only seems to be able to let his scruples go when monsters are threatening me, which is sweet of the kid but it also scares the hell out of me, because I need Sammy to look out for himself.)

Anyway, whether I like it or not, we need to split up.

For a moment I consider which would be safer for Sam – staying here and dealing with Finch's ghost, which is at least a known threat, or going twenty miles out of town to meet Samuel Colt.

And then I realize it doesn't matter. (Or, well, it does matter, but I can't do anything about it.) Sam needs to go find Colt.

It isn't that I don't trust Sammy to deal with Finch and keep his prospective victims safe. He can do as much as I can, and neither of us can make any guarantees. It's more that… From what we've heard, I'm guessing Samuel Colt isn't too active anymore. He's either focused on building that railroad or he's retired altogether. One way or another, I don't think he's going to jump at the chance to come into town and shoot himself a phoenix. Someone needs to sweet-talk him, and Sam's the prime candidate for that.

Besides… I'm guessing Colt's going to need some explanations, and I don't totally trust myself to tell him just enough without giving away something I shouldn't and changing the future.

I register that Sam's asking what we can do about Finch, and I turn back to him.

"Well, we do know one thing that'll kill freaking anything, right?"

"Yeah." Sam shrugs. "The Colt."

"So? You go get the gun."

Sam looks doubtful. "But isn't the gun coming here? I mean, according to Samuel Colt's journal?"

"Yeah, but people here barely even know who Colt is," I point out. "Maybe you gotta go find him and make history." Sam's only response is an almost-bitchface. He probably thinks I plan to go back to the saloon and see if I can find some action. "I'll stay here, hook up with the posse." Sam doesn't look impressed. "'Cause you know me… I'm a posse magnet." Now Sam looks like he thinks there was more than just alcohol in the drink Elkins gave me. Stupid bitch. "I mean, I love posse."

At this point I'm just talking for the sake of it, because if I keep my mouth occupied with discussing posses I won't accidentally say something like, "Screw the job, Sammy. I'm not letting you out of my sight."

And… Well… I do love posse. Who doesn't want to be a cowboy? (Well, Sam clearly doesn't, but then Sam is clearly a girl.)

"Make that into a t-shirt," I go on, and happy thoughts of riding with the cowboys on the trail of a ghost are enough to make me almost forget that I'm sending Sam out on his own.

Sam looks like he's not fooled. "You done?"

I duck my head a bit. I can't let Sam see my fear. If he thinks I'm scared…

What if Colt doesn't like him?

No way. Sam's just got to make the eyes and Colt'll do anything. I should know. Works on me all the time. It'd work on anyone except a demon –

What if Colt's a demon?

Colt's not a bloody demon. Colt's building his giant Devil's Trap to keep demons out.

What if there are other demons there?

What, Colt's running a monster zoo now? There won't be other demons there.

They might be trying to stop him.

Damn it.

That thought is almost too much. If the demons know what Colt is up to, they sure as hell will be trying to stop him. If Sam gets caught in the crossfire…

God, no. I can't lose him again.

"Look," Sam says with a sigh. "The problem is, Colt's twenty miles outside of town." I look up, and he's looking at me the way he used to, all big eyes and little brother. I can't help smiling at him: the Wild West might not be exactly The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, but having Sammy here more than makes up for the lack of saloon girls. Having my Sammy here with me… That makes up for just about everything that's wrong in my life. "How am I supposed to get there and back before noon?"

Kid's got a point. We can't exactly hotwire a car.

A horse neighs somewhere behind me.

I turn to look. Sam's never ridden a horse before – at least, not that I know – and he might be sore for a couple of days, but it's not like we have a lot of options. Besides, animals usually like him.

I look back at Sam, who seems to have read my mind, because I can see he's getting ready to say no.

"Ride 'em, cowboy."

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