Dean was driving his Baby along a deserted stretch of road. He had salted and burned a swamp ghost in the Bayou, met up briefly with Benny and was now headed wherever the road would take him. His brother hadn't been thrilled that he stayed loyal to the vampire that had his back all the way through purgatory, and after Sam had hooked up with Martin Creaser to take Benny out, they had parted ways on terms that were just about as good as a train smash.
The ringing of his phone made Dean glance on the screen. Speak of the devil... For a second, Dean's finger hovered over the red button to decline the call, but then decided to find out what Sam wanted. He took the call, put it on speaker and dropped the phone on the seat next to him.
"What do you want?" Dean said in a tone that let Sam know this would better be important.
"Dean, I... nevermind. It's like talking to a brick wall. Where are you?"
"Some desolate road about two hours from the Bayou. Why?"
"Been visiting Benny?"
"I saw him. But I've been doing a salt and burn, not that it's any of your business," Dean grumbled.
"Right. I... kinda need your help," Sam came to the reason for his call.
"What? No other hunters available?"
"I stumbled onto something new, I mean, ancient. But new for us. Sounds like a two man job and I'd prefer someone I can trust on a hunt at my side," Sam explained.
Dean was quiet. When it came to hunting, Sam and him knew each other inside out. No discord or other issues would ever change that. Being at odds with Sam was not something Dean enjoyed. It stressed him out. Sam spoke of trust and it was clear he was referring to hunting, because obviously when it came to picking friends, Sam didn't trust his judgement at all.
"I'm listening," he replied.
"A basilisk," came the straightforward information.
"Did you read too much Harry Potter?" Dean frowned, slightly annoyed.
"Not funny, Dean. According to my research it's either that or a Gorgon. But J.K. Rowling got one thing right. It kills with its eyes and a mirror is the best weapon. Unless you have some griffin tears handy."
Dean sighed. A basilisk. Maybe sunglasses would do for protection. He doubted it.
"Where am I headed?"
"Star City," Sam replied. "Thanks, Dean."
Dean nodded and ended the call. In front of him the road stretched in an ever thinning straight line right to the horizon. Dean pressed his foot on the accelerator, letting Baby's engine roar to life.
A rustling of wings right next to him alerted him to some angelic company. Would he ever learn to not just pop up out of nothing while he was driving?
"Cas, I swear...," Dean started but stopped short when he glanced over and did not see the expected figure. He slammed his feet on the brakes, letting them squeal and leave black marks on the asphalt. "What the hell!"
"Hey Deano," Balthazar greeted. He looked disheveled, like there were hellhounds on his heels, and the smile and chipper voice he put up seemed fake at best. "Surprise."
"You...," Dean swallowed, throat having gone dry. "You're dead. Cas killed you."
Balthazar shook his head.
"I know a thing or two, got a trickster brother, you know."
"And what do you want?" Dean asked, still trying to wrap his mind around it. His feet started itching. There was just one reason he could fathom for an angel who they thought dead to materialize in his car.
"Funny you should ask. But since you did... a favor," the angel replied.
"A favor? You remember you called us hairless apes, don't you?"
Balthazar raised an eyebrow and shrugged.
"Semantics."
"Pff," Dean huffed, shaking his head. Then he opened his door and exited the car and walked around the front to lean against the hood. Slow steps told him Balthazar followed. "So what did you steal this time?"
"Ah, Dean, quick to jump to assumptions, aren't you? By the way, where is Sam?"
"Don't change the subject, halo. What do you want?"
"Fine," Balthazar relented. He snapped his fingers and a glowing, translucent item of about three inches materialized between them. Dean squinted.
"A key?"
Balthazar nodded.
"What key?" Dean wanted to know.
"That's not important," the angel dismissed. Dean stretched out his fingers but they moved right through the hologram-like item.
"It's not even corporeal," Dean remarked.
"Oh, it is," Balthazar denied and took the key in his hand.
"Great," Dean muttered. "You gotta be an angel to touch it?"
"No. It has to be..." Balthazar trailed off, senses obviously tuned onto something Dean could neither see nor hear, and gasped. "They found me."
"What? Who found you?"
Dean looked around while his hand automatically pulled his pearl handled .45 from the back of his pants and cocked it. He knew it would probably not do him any good, but he felt better holding it. A scintillation on the horizon rapidly approached and spread widely. Dean's eyes grew wide as he stared.
"What the hell...," he growled.
"As I said, they found me," Balthazar repeated. "There's no time."
Dean turned his head from the flickering mass to look at the angel. The second he'd locked eyes with him, Balthazar's hand, still holding the key, was placed on Dean's forehead and his world exploded into myriad colors.
SPN RDR2 SPN RDR2
Dean hated it when angels zapped him around. Right now his head was ringing like it was a giant bell and it was hot. His equilibrium was off and he stumbled and landed on his ass. Somehow, his hands managed to break his fall and he felt tiny hot stones digging into his palms. Dean realized his eyes were still squeezed shut, so he carefully opened them.
He was assaulted by bright sunlight and groaned in frustration. After a moment his eyes had adjusted to the circumstances and he took in his surroundings.
"What the hell?"
Reddish tinted sand and rocks were flecked with tufts of grass that were more yellow than green, the only kind of vegetation besides some dry bushes and some kind of copse on the horizon. The ground was fairly flat with gently rolling hills, allowing Dean to see most of the desert-like landscape. The air smelled somewhat like dried thyme and Dean felt the first droplets of sweat forming on his forehead. Automatically, he rolled up the sleeves of his flannel.
"What the hell did you do, freaking angel," the hunter growled. He had no idea where he was and where to go. He felt like he was slowly going to be roasted if he stayed in the spot any longer. The only kind of shelter in eyesight was that copse. Dean sighed and started heading towards it.
He was just about reaching the edge, when he heard voices. Laughter. Threats. Insults. More laughter. Some unidentifiable sounds followed by soft grunts. Dean pulled his .45 from the back of his pants and slowly made his way towards the noise. Taking cover behind a tree, Dean observed a scene in front of him that seemed straight out of a western.
He was looking at a small clearing that obviously was some sacred ground. Totems and other undoubtedly native items surrounded a tomb assembled from rocks. Drawings that clearly were meant to protect the grave sight were on some stones, the center displaying a medicine pouch that Dean guessed belonged to the warrior that was buried there.
At the foot of the tomb a man was half laying, half sitting, arms tied behind his back, feet tied up, too. He had long black hair that suggested native origin, the skin was slightly darker, though, with a unique hue to it, hinting he was of mixed heritage. He was wearing a blue shirt and buckskin pants. What Dean assumed to be his weapons were laying a couple of feet away. A hunting knife, a bow with arrows, an old looking revolver and a hunting rifle.
Dean frowned. Where on earth was he? Or maybe the question had to be, when was he. The four men surrounding their prisoner wore what Dean thought to be typical for thugs in the wild west: torn and worn pants, gun belts, dirty shirts, a vest and some weather worn jacket on top. Oddly shaped hats, some with bullet marks and one was sporting a bandoliere.
They were sitting around a small fire, frying meat over it while laughing. Going by the murderous gleam in the prisoner's dark eyes, they had probably stolen his kill. Dean noticed a thin trickle of blood running down the side of the man's face. Suddenly, as he looked up, he found those eyes on his. The prisoner blinked, a gesture, that Dean returned, gripping his gun tighter and flicking the safety off.
The tied up man began grunting and working on his bonds, effectively drawing his captors' attention on him. Their laughter stopped and one got up and sauntered over to the man.
"Try all ya want, ya filthy bastard. Ain't no van der Linde alive that can get outta them ropes when an O'Driscoll tied'em," he jeered, causing his companions to laugh.
"There's no O'Driscoll alive that could ever keep a van der Linde in one spot for long," the prisoner taunted without aborting his attempts. The O'Driscoll drew his pistol, cocking it. His companions decided to forego their barbecue and stood to back their man up.
"Ya better watch yer mouth, ya red bastard," the gunman growled.
"Not sure he's all red, Bill. I'd bet there's some black in there, too. Jus' look at his face," another snarled.
Their prisoner remained stoically silent, merely glaring at them. The man they called Bill stepped closer to his prisoner when he remained quiet.
"Cat got his tongue, or maybe he don't even know," he hackled and kicked against the man's bound legs.
That sprung the van der Linde into action and he spat at the O'Driscoll. Rage crossed Bill's face and he slammed the hand with the gun hard against the man's face before aiming it right at his forehead.
"Ya just signed up for a bullet through yer ugly mug," he seethed, finger closing around the trigger.
"Least I know how to write," the native retorted, keeping eye contact with Bill.
Dean's .45 was aimed at Bill's gun hand and the second he saw the finger twitch, his shot rang out. Bill shouted in pain, dropping his weapon as he clutched his injured limb.
The other O'Driscolls spun around to return fire, sending a few bullets in Dean's direction, but Dean had already taken cover again. One bullet got stuck in the tree he was standing behind, the others flew wide.
"Where's that bastard?", one of them shouted, obviously unwilling to waste bullets by shooting blindly. Realizing the men could just as easily return their focus on the tied up man, Dean sprung a decoy. He picked up a small rock and threw it against the stump of a tree that was some twelve yards away from him. The bandits turned at the noise, weapons ready and Dean stepped out.
"Alright, folks, drop your guns and hands up," he commanded, weapon ready to fire.
The wounded man, Bill, was eyeing him angrily from where he was crouched on the ground. Dean decided to keep half an eye on him because trustworthy was not a word that came to mind when he looked at Bill's face. He didn't have too long to think about it, though, because the other three bandits apparently thought he was a joke with a gun.
Lifting his gun arm, the bandit on the right angrily began to shoot at Dean, and Dean reacted on instinct. Usually, a hunter didn't shoot at anything human, but this was self defense. Mind taking over, Dean fired a bullet at the man and quickly scrambled behind the tomb, pulling the tied up man along with him.
A bullet zinged off the rock close to them. Dean had no idea how many shots had been fired, but the moment the fire ceased, he glanced out from his cover, seeing the bandits hastily reloading while looking for cover. Dean glanced back at the man he'd pulled to safety, wondering if he should cut him free, risking losing sight of the bandits.
"Get yer ass out here, ya punk. We got three guns on one," a gravelly voice called. Dean chuckled and shook his head, incredulous.
"If you want a piece of my ass, y'all have to come out and get it," he called back.
Another bullet zinged past their cover and Dean sighed.
"So much for common sense," he muttered. He took a deep breath, mentally counted to three and rolled out from his cover, gun ready. Before the bandit had the chance to adjust his aim, Dean's bullet hit him in the shoulder. With a scream, the man fell to the ground. Not taking any chances, Dean fired another two rounds at the bandits, satisfied when he heard another pained grunt.
Two O'Driscolls were more or less unconscious in the dust, their leader still clutching his wrist. The remaining one dropped his gun and raised his hands as he stepped out from behind a tree. Dean got back to his feet, eyes on the standing man and approached him without removing his aim.
Suddenly the man's eyes widened slightly, alerting Dean to a threat from his left. Quickly he turned just in time to see their leader having picked up his gun with the uninjured hand, aiming at him. Dean didn't take any chances and pulled the trigger. The O'Driscoll dropped dead. Relocating his focus on the man who had been about to surrender, Dean saw he was scrambling for his own weapon, lifting it to shoot. Before he could complete the move, Dean's bullet pierced his skull.
"Damn," Dean muttered, looking around. None of the bandits were moving, so he quickly went to collect their guns and tossed them aside. Then he stuffed his .45 into the back of his jeans before going back to finally free the prisoner of his bonds.
"You okay?", Dean asked the man as he sawed through the ropes around his feet.
"Nothing that will kill me," the van der Linde replied. "Thanks for the help. Name's Charles."
"Dean," Dean replied, helping the man to his feet. His arms were tied on his back, so he turned Charles around to make short work of the bonds, when a soft noise behind him alerted him that they weren't alone. He began spinning to see what was going on, but he only managed a quarter turn before he was struck over the head with the butt of a rifle. His ears were ringing as he dropped to his knees, dark dots dancing in front of his eyes as muffled voices made their way through the fog in his head.
"Stop, Arthur, he's good. Helped me." It was Charles' baritone cutting through the haze.
"If ya say so, Charles," a deep voice rumbled back. He heard the sound of ropes being cut and then a strong hand grabbed his arm, leaning him against what Dean figured was the tomb. The hand grabbed his chin, lifting his head. Dean opened his eyes a crack and groaned.
"Ya doing okay?" The voice came from a stubbled face, eyes hidden under the brim of a worn leather hat.
"Peachy," Dean mumbled, hand reaching up to feel the side of his head.
" 's just a lump," the man, Arthur, said. "My apologies."
"Yeah, Arthur just thought ya wanted to harm Charles," a new voice said. From behind Arthur a man with long, black hair and nasty scars down the right side of his face came into Dean's view. Just how many more were there? The sudden double report of a gun let everyone look up.
"What the hell, Micah?" Arthur growled, clearly annoyed. Micah, a man with light hair, a weird ass moustache and an expression on his face that gave Dean the creeps, sauntered over, grinning.
"Two of 'em were still breathing. Can't let 'em go to tell ol' Colm where to find us, can we?", he sallied.
Dean grit his teeth. That man was rubbing him all wrong. Charles, Arthur and the man with the scars, they seemed to be reasonable, but this one? Bad news.
"Who do we have here?" Micah asked, nodding at Dean. "Some weird ass city bloke?"
"Watch your mouth, walrus," Dean growled and pushed himself up to his full height. He was a good few inches taller than Micah, a fact that Micah seemed to dislike. Arthur and Charles were just about Dean's height and the man with the scars was about an inch shorter. Micah's eyes were roaming all over Dean.
"Careful, city boy. We're all friends here. No need to get grumpy."
Dean scoffed at Micah's words.
"Say, how'd ya shoot them O'Driscolls anyways, don't even have a gun." Micah asked, stepping closer. "Nor a gun belt to begin with." He began stalking around Dean, scrutinizing him.
"Back off, Bell," Charles growled.
"I'm just wondering," Micah said sickly sweet. "Pretty boy like that shouldn't go unarmed."
Dean shook his head and grinned, but the grin didn't reach his eyes. He glanced at the three other men, hoping they'd understand he meant no threat and then, fast as lightning, produced his firearm and pointed it at Micah's face.
"Believe me, pal, pretty boy ain't unarmed. And if you call me that, or anything boy one more time, I'll happily demonstrate that this pretty thing here can shoot as well."
From the corner of his eye, because he didn't take them off the man they called Micah Bell, he saw Charles' mouth pulling into an almost indiscernible smirk, while Arthur raised an eyebrow, obviously amused, and Scarface turned sideways to hide his laugh. Only Micah scowled into the wrong end of Dean's gun, obviously displeased to be facing it.
"Don't get twitchy, now, I mean no harm."
"Sure you don't," Dean replied. He lowered the gun and then looked at Charles. "So, what did I just drop into here?"
"Just a little gang rivalry," Charles explained. "Say, can I see that gun of yours again? Never seen one like that, I think."
Dean froze. How was he going to explain this? He definitely wasn't anywhere near his time, but he had no idea how far off he was in terms of the invention of his firearm.
"Charles," Arthur spoke up. "I share yer curiosity, but we shouldn't linger too long. Might be more O'Driscolls around. We should move this party to another location."
"True. And that's not the only reason. This here is sacred ground. If the Lakota find out it was desecrated... let us just get those bodies over into the trees," Charles nodded. "John, a little help?"
The man with the scars nodded and walked over to the nearest body. Dean swallowed and licked his lips, before tucking his .45 away safely and following Arthur to another body. After they dropped it off in the thicket, Arthur headed straight to the next, but Dean had noticed the revolver in the dead man's side holster. He grabbed ot to check it out. It looked like a Cattleman and in good condition. Since he had no idea how long he would be wherever he was and how long he'd be there, he claimed it. Dean doubted that once his .45 was out of bullets, he would find more ammunition for it.
"Ya gonna help?" Arthur called over his shoulder.
"Yeah," Dean rasped back, undid the gun belt of the dead man with quick fingers and fitted it on himself. Then he shoved the Cattleman back in and walked over to help Arthur.
"Name's Dean, by the way," he offered, realizing that only Charles knew what to call him.
"Right," Arthur nodded. They picked up the body and started walking. "Ya ain't from around here, are ya?"
Dean chuckled.
"No, I ain't. Got that right."
"Y' seem a bit of a riddle, tho. Weird looking gun, no belt, no hat and... ya got a horse?"
Dean shook his head no.
"And yet ya don't seem to be a city dweller."
"How'd you figure that?"
"Your shooting is too good," Arthur smirked.
They dropped the body and saw, that Charles and John had disposed of the other ones. Micah was eyeing the tomb curiously, walking all around.
"What's his deal?" Dean asked, nodding in Micah's direction.
The mirth from Arthur's face disappeared and Dean briefly wondered if he had hit a nerve.
"Ignore him. He thinks he's special, but he's only a slimy rat," Arthur growled. Dean looked at him, about to dig deeper, but Charles' firm voice drew his attention.
"Don't touch!"
All eyes followed where Charles' focus lay, which was Micah's outstretched hand hovering over the dead Lakota's medicine pouch.
"What?" Micah barked. "He doesn't need it anymore. And who knows, maybe there's something valuable in there."
"If ya destroy the pouch, he can't go to the eternal hunting grounds and his soul will be lost, haunting ya until ya perish," Charles replied warningly.
Micah began laughing, obviously expecting the others to join in. When they didn't, he sobered and retrieved his hand.
"Y'all so damned superstitious," he muttered.
"Ain't got nothing to do with superstition," Charles replied.
"It's a matter of respect," John added.
"Look at that, even Marston gets it," Arthur teased, earning himself a death glare from John.
"Y'all mad," Micah muttered and walked around.
"Don't even think about getting his weapons," Charles warned again, noticing where Micah's focus had shifted to.
"Oh for heaven's sake," Micah growled. "He's dead. He don't need 'em."
"Respect," Arthur repeated John's earlier words.
"We already disturbed his resting ground enough," Charles said. "There's no need to anger his spirit even more."
"Spirit," Micah howled. "Don't tell me y'all believe in that shit."
"I do," Dean said matter-of-factly and used his sleeve to wipe his forehead.
"Jesus Christ," Micah groaned.
"Don't believe in him," Dean continued. Micah opened his mouth to sputter a reply but Dean ignored him to look at the other men. "So, what was that about blowing this popsicle stand?"
"What?" John asked and Arthur as well as Charles looked equally confused.
"Leaving," Dean elaborated. Instead of an answer, Charles now whistled sharply, calling his horse. Arthur and John followed suit. Micah's steed was already close by.
"Where's yours?", John asked as he patted the brown horse's neck gently.
"I'm kinda on foot here," Dean explained.
"On foot?" Charles frowned. Dean just shrugged. What could he say? That an angel dropped him in the middle of bumfuck nothing?
"It's the middle of nowhere here, kinda," Arthur mused.
"Look, I can't tell you how I got here. Must've had too much to drink or so, and woke up a few miles south. Walked here looking for shade and came across some racist assholes trying to add a new hole to Charles' skin," Dean shrugged.
"Can't hold your liquor, city boy?" Micah laughed as he was about to mount his horse. A strong hand on his shoulder pulled him back down and before he knew it, Dean had him by the scruff of his neck, shoving him into his horse.
"What did I tell you about calling me that?" Dean growled.
"Folks, time's a-ticking," Arthur said in an effort to break up the scramble. "Dean, you're with Charles. And Micah, beat it. We're splitting up here. John, Charles, see you back at camp."
With that Arthur mounted an expensive looking ebony black horse and cantered off. Dean looked at Charles on his Appaloosa, who held out his hand to pull him up behind.
"Great," Dean mumbled. He could count the times he'd been on a horse on two fingers. He grabbed Charles' hand and was surprised how easily he came to sit behind the man.
"Hold on tight," Charles instructed and immediately kicked the sides of his horse. It took Dean only a moment to adapt and it reminded him of all the times his brother and him had been in a random bar growing up, riding a mechanical bull. Sam never had a chance against him.
After what felt like ages to Dean, but was barely more than half an hour, Charles slowed the horse to a walk.
"We're here," he announced.
Dean hardly had any time to wonder where 'here' was, when a feisty female voice demanded to know who was there.
"It's Charles," his companion replied. "Sadie, is Arthur back yet?"
"Arrived five minutes ago," Sadie replied. "That the stray you picked up?"
The sandy haired woman eyed Dean warily, rifle firmly in her hands.
"Yeah," Charles acknowledged.
"Least he's handsome enough," she remarked as they rode by.
Dean chose not to react and was somewhat relieved when Charles reined his horse in so they could dismount. He relished in the feeling of solid ground under his feet and wondered if his ass would feel sore for long. When he looked up, he noticed Arthur and John walking towards them in the company of another man. He had black hair, a trimmed moustache and fancy looking clothes, completed by a black homburg hat.
"That's the guy that saved Charles from them O'Driscolls, Dutch," Arthur said, pointing at Dean when they were close enough. "Name's Dean."
Dutch - Dean briefly wondered if that was really his name - looked Dean up and down and then held out his hand with a smile.
"Dutch van der Linde," he introduced himself as Dean shook his hand. "I guess I owe you some thanks, Dean..."
Dean noticed the other man trailing, like he was waiting for him to complete his name. Usually Dean was wary of providing his real name, but wherever he was, he was pretty sure there was no FBI on his heels.
"Winchester. Dean Winchester, but just Dean's fine," he replied. Dutch raised an eyebrow.
"Winchester?"
Dean lifted his head, alarmed.
"Like the rifle?"
He smirked as he realized what had caught Dutch's attention.
"Like the rifle," he nodded. "But no relation, as far as I know."
"That's a shame," Arthur said. "Almost thought that gun of yours was one of 'em then."
Dean bit his lips as Dutch's eyes fell on his newly acquired gun belt.
"Has the heat gone to your head, Arthur? That's a Cattleman in there," Dutch said, sounding surprised and worried at the same time.
"Not that gun," Charles quickly cleared up. Dean sighed silently. He never really liked his pearl handled .45 by strangers - or others in general - and especially now when he wasn't even certain these guns existed yet. At least judging by the gang members' reaction they hadn't seen one, yet. On the other hand, Charles, Arthur and John didn't strike him as not trustworthy.
Thinking about it, Dean suddenly realized he hadn't even reloaded it, so if his count was correct, there was only the one bullet left. Plus the back-up magazine in his pocket. At the moment Dean had to rely on the gang. His .45 bullets were probably hard to come by and the Cattleman he'd picked up also needed more ammunition. And he had no idea when or if Balthazar would pull him back into his time.
Reaching behind him, Dean pulled his 1911 from his pants and offered it to Charles. Charles looked at it, then at Dean, then back at it.
"Never seen one like that before," he said, sounding respectfully amazed. "What is it?"
"It's... a prototype," Dean explained, glad he came up with that. This gun had been developed from 1905 onwards and he just hoped he wasn't too far off in time.
"A what?" John asked.
"An experiment," Dutch began. "When they try out new ideas."
"Something like that," Dean mumbled.
"Is it any good?" Dutch asked, curious.
"Shoots fast," Charles replied. "Semi automatic?"
"Yes," Dean nodded.
"Can I try it?" Arthur asked.
"Be my guest," Dean said, holding the gun out with a smirk. He liked Arthur and Charles. And he was curious what they'd think of the gun.
Arthur took the weapon and scrutinized it, from the handle to the ornate decoration, the mechanics and all. If there was something that baffled him, he didn't say. After a few moments, he walked to the edge of the camp and aimed at a tree. He pulled the trigger but nothing happened. Arthur frowned.
"Gotta cock the hammer," Dean said helpfully.
Arthur glanced at him, then at the hammer. Swiftly, he did as he was told, pulled the trigger and the shot rang out. Arthur looked slightly surprised and then took aim again. The gun just clicked.
"Gotta reload, but I'd rather not waste any more bullets. Unless you can provide me with more .45 ammo," Dean said, holding his hand out for the gun. Arthur handed it over and Dean went through his motions. In barely half a minute he had discharged the empty magazine, stowed it, clipped the reserve one in and racked the slide. Then he returned it to its usual spot in the back of his pants.
"Aren't ya scared it'll go off?" John asked as he watched him.
"Too many safeties on, man," Dean said, shrugging.
"Safeties?" Dutch raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah, so you don't go and end up shooting yourself or something," Dean elaborated. He was met with several raised eyebrows. He sighed, pulling the gun out again.
"Alright. The trigger for example is locked if the hammer isn't cocked. Which is why Arthur couldn't shoot it." Dean demonstrated while he explained. "Next, you gotta switch this here by the thumb, else the trigger still won't move. Finally, you gotta grip it the correct way because if you don't, the other two steps won't do much."
Charles had watched Dean point out all the things intently.
"So, doesn't it take too much time if you're attacked?"
Dean laughed.
"Matter of practise."
"Arthur here's our quickest draw," Dutch spoke up. "Y'up to a little competition, Dean?"
Dean swallowed. What had he gotten himself into. He shrugged. Certainly he didn't have to fear a shooting competition.
"Sure."
"Great," Dutch gleefully rubbed his hands. "John, two bottles on that rock over there."
John grabbed the bottles and walked over to the edge of the camp that bordered onto a lake. Placing the bottles on a rock about two hands apart, he then walked back towards the group until he stopped some forty paces away.
"Right," Dutch explained as they walked to meet John. "Weapons in the holster, on three, whoever hits his bottle first. Arthur, you take the one on the right, Dean, the left one."
"Okay, but I don't have a holster for this baby," Dean agreed. "If it's just the same to you, I'll tuck it in where I always have it."
Arthur watched as Dean shoved the gun back into his pants and shook his head.
"Just take out the Cattleman and use that holster," he suggested. Dean looked at the holster.
"Not gonna risk getting it stuck in there. That's not made for this kind of gun. Also, I'm used to this."
"Suit yourself," Arthur shrugged with a smile.
"Charles, you gonna do the honors?" Dutch took a step back to get a better view at the two contestants, and quite a few of the camp inhabitants gathered around. Charles nodded.
Arthur and Dean stood next to each other, both concentrating on the task at hand. Dean tuned out the surrounding noises, just poised for the count Charles was about to give.
"Alright you two. On three. One. Two. Three."
As soon as Charles had said the last number, two shots rang out and two bottles shattered simultaneously. The camp grew quiet for a few moments and Dean glanced over at Arthur who looked at him with a tiny smile tugging on his stubbled lips.
"I'd say that's a draw," Dutch finally broke the silence.
"Can't leave it at that, Dutch," John grinned. He liked watching a good shooting competition. "How about we put up nine bottles. Whoever hits more, wins."
"Go and waste my bullets, why don't you?", Dean mumbled.
"Can you handle that Cattleman you picked up?" Arthur asked. Dean glared at him, indignantly. Could he handle a Cattleman? For real?
"Look, Arthur, I may have a fancy, shmancy semi here, but there is no gun I can't handle. Oldest gun I shot so far was a Colt Paterson."
"A Paterson?" Dutch raised an eyebrow. "They stopped making them years before I was born."
Dean shrugged.
"Just give me some bullets. Can't hit five bottles with only...," he pulled out the Cattleman and checked the cylinder, "three bullets."
Arthur walked towards the back of one of the wagons and when he returned, he handed Dean a box of revolver rounds. Dean smiles his thanks and loaded the gun. When he was done, John had finished arranging the bottles and rejoined the crowd.
"You wanna test that gun first?" Arthur offered. Dean considered it but shook his head. The gun looked okay. And if he messed it up he could still ask for a rematch. He knew Arthur probably had tons more practice at shooting a gun of this type than he had, but his father had trained Sam and him at everything. Literally.
"Ready when you are," he announced and adjusted his stance.
"Alright then," Arthur agreed and followed suit.
On Charles' count they both started firing and Dean found that Arthur was really fast. Dean's first two rounds seemed to take him forever as he transitioned to the muscle memory of operating this kind of revolver, but then he matched Arthur's speed.
Arthur was a bottle up on him, so as Dean shattered his fourth, Arthur was shooting at the remaining one. For some reason, his aim was off. One could hear the slight clink the bottle gave as Arthur's bullet caressed the glass, but it didn't break. The gunslinger seemed stunned at that and startled a second before fixing his aim. The two men fired at the last bottle simultaneously and it was impossible to say which one hit the glass first, so once more, they settled on a draw.
"That calls for a beer," Arthur decided and motioned for Dean to follow him. Beer was something Dean was always up for, but the thought of it drew his stomach in on the plan as well.
"You got something to eat as well? Haven't had anything in a day or two," he asked.
"Sure," Arthur hummed and made a beeline to a massive pot brewing over a fire. "If you don't mind Pearson's stew of the day."
"At the moment I'd even chew on leather," Dean admitted.
Arthur chuckled.
"It's not that bad."
After Dean had finished his stew, John handed him a bottle of beer when a murmur rose up in camp. Looking around, Dean noticed that Micah apparently had returned and was showing something around.
Arthur just shook his head before tipping back the bottle but Charles seemed on edge. He got up from the log he'd been sitting on and went to join the small crowd. Dean frowned. Charles' trepidation was tangible and Arthur seemed to tense as well in response to it.
Shortly after Charles joined the crowd, the voices picked up. Obviously there was a heated discussion going on, no doubt between Micah and Charles. Arthur and John stood to see what was going on while Dean finished his beer. This was no concern of his, so he stayed put.
"More beer?"
Dean turned and looked up at a young, dark skinned woman holding out another bottle to him. He grinned as he accepted her offer.
"Thanks. But only if you join me," he replied, gesturing to the log next to him. The woman smiled, seeming shy for a fleeting moment, and then followed his invitation.
"I'm Tilly," she introduced herself.
"Dean," the hunter returned introductions.
"I know. I heard," Tilly said. "So... where ya from?"
"Err, Kansas," Dean replied.
"Oh, I've been to Kansas once," Tilly said cheerfully.
A while later, Arthur and Charles returned to where Dean and Tilly were talking. When Tilly saw the expressions on their faces, she raised her eyebrows.
"Uh, oh," she said, getting up. "Nice talking to you, Dean."
"Huh, what did I do?" Dean asked,
"I don't think it's about you," Tilly replied. "See ya later."
She turned around and left, leaving Dean wondering. He glanced at Arthur as he sat down, jaw set, grim looking. Charles' expression seemed even more angry.
"What happened?" Dean asked.
"Micah is a prize idiot and a jackass," Arthur snarled through clenched teeth.
"Can't say I know the man but it doesn't surprise me," Dean replied. "What did he do?"
"He stole an obsidian tomahawk from the Lakota warrior's grave," Charles elaborated. "Ohanzee's spirit will punish him."
"Ohanzee's spirit?" Dean frowned.
"The warrior's spirit," Charles said.
"You knew him?"
"No. His name is on the shaft of the tomahawk. He was a famous warrior."
"I see," Dean nodded. "You sure he would get mad over a stolen tomahawk?"
"It is a special one. These weapons are sacred to them and he'd want to have it in the eternalhunting grounds," Charles explained.
"Well, let's just hope his spirit already moved on, shall we?" Dean smirked. He wasn't sure he'd want to have a disgruntled warrior spirit on his hands and no access to rock salt bullets and lighter fluid. Charles watched Dean steadily, like he was contemplating his words.
"Ohanzee was a famous warrior. He was named after the shadow, which you can see but not hold. He was killed a decade ago. I believe his spirit moved on. But I fear he will return to avenge this sacrilege."
"In that case, keep the salt ready," Dean said nonchalantly.
"Excuse me?" Arthur sounded amused.
"Salt repels spirits," Dean shrugged.
"Ya really do believe in spirits," Arthur said, realizing Dean hadn't been joking earlier that day.
"If only you knew what all I've seen already," Dean muttered.
"I've heard that before," Charles mused. "Problem is, salt is hard to come by."
Dean sighed.
"Iron is also a repellent," he offered, hoping Charles was wrong and the spirit would not take offence at the sacrilege.
"Iron?" Arthur repeated. "We got two axes with iron blades."
"Good. Keep them close. Any chance you got horseshoes that aren't attached to a horse as well?" Dean inquired.
"Ya really are serious," Arthur said, looking at Dean. "I thought ya were just pulling Micah's leg about that."
"Believe me, I have no idea whether or not your warrior here will be paying us a visit or not, but I know for a fact that spirits exist. And pissed spirits are the worst."
Loud laughter resounded behind them and when Dean turned around, he saw Micah holding his potbelly as he folded over.
"Y'all are so gullible," he smirked when he recovered a bit.
"Yeah, least we aren't stupid enough to evoke the ire of a dead warrior," Dean snarled back. Micah rubbed him in all the wrong ways.
Immediately the mirth disappeared from Micah's face and he planted himself inches in front of where Dean was sitting.
"Calling me stupid, city boy?" he spat.
Dean spared him a disgusted glance.
"Back off, Micah," Arthur suggested, an underlying threat swinging in his voice.
"Why should I?" Micah barked at Arthur but unconsciously took a step back. "Boy may be pretty, but..."
Micah abandoned his sentence because fast as lightning, Dean had risen to his full height, glaring down at Micah.
"What did I tell you about calling me a boy, walrus? I don't give a damn that you're older than me or a member of this camp, if you act like a disrespectful ass I'll treat you like one. "
Dean's patience was wearing short. He knew he was a guest at the camp and he balled his fists at his side to alleviate some of his anger at the man, but he was not going to take any abuse from him, verbal or other. Micah was quiet for a moment, mouth open, expression a mixture of anger and fear.
"Ya..."
Dean could see Micah was seething and he instinctively knew he had the upper hand. He smirked.
"Ya... ya unlicked cub, I'm gonna teach ya some manners," Micah yelled. His fists were itching and when Dean's insolent smirk only grew wider, he saw red. Swinging his fist at Dean's jaw, he stepped forward.
Dean was ready for the attack, had smelled it coming a mile off. A quick twist to his right, and Micah's fist swooshed by him, throwing the man off balance. He tumbled into Dean, who grabbed him by the lapels and shoved him backwards.
Once Micah had regained his footing, his hand immediately dropped to his side to draw his gun. Immediately, Arthur and Charles went for their weapons and Dutch, who had witnessed the last moments of the altercation called Micah's name, warning him to stop, but Micah didn't care. Dean had to be quick to get to him before the older man could find his aim. With practiced precision, Dean's fist caught Micah's jaw moments before the van der Linde locked his aim.
Micah's head snapped back, the finger tightening around the trigger and his gun discharged harmlessly into the ground. Seconds later, Micah hit the dirt, out cold.
"Whoa," Dutch shouted, holding his hands up. "That's enough, now!"
Dean stepped back, lifting his hands in a calming way.
"He tried to shoot me," he said, defensively.
"I saw," Dutch replied. "But he didn't. Now, we don't need any more bad blood here for one night. John, let Lenny help you get Micah to his tent. Arthur, maybe you can find a spot for Dean to spend the night. Then in the morning we will need to figure out how to solve this... impasse."
John sighed but did as Dutch instructed, while Dean followed Arthur to his tent to figure out his lodging.
"Hate to say it, but ya gotta watch yer back. Micah's a sneaky bastard," Arthur grumbled softly as they walked.
"Yeah, well, don't take this the wrong way, Arthur, but I don't plan on sticking around anyways," Dean replied. "Just need to figure out how to get back to my... folks."
"In Kansas?" Arthur asked.
"Err, no, we... I kinda live on the road. Travel around, you know?"
"I do," Arthur nodded. "We move camp every time it gets too hot for us."
"You don't mean the weather, do you?" Dean grinned and Arthur just chuckled.
"You can take this bedroll and find space under the linen," Arthur pointed out a spot adjacent to the cot he was using. "I'm gonna find out who's gonna be on guard tonight."
Dean had no idea how long he'd been asleep. After Arthur had returned with Charles, they had chatted a bit for a while, passing around a bottle of what they called brandy. Dean decided it was more like gasoline but after all this angel business that had him stranded out of time, he really needed a drink. Charles had only had a few sips before leaving to relieve Mr. Williamson from guard duty and Dean had helped Arthur vanquishing the contents of that bottle.
Dean also had no idea what woke him but as he sat up on the bedroll, almost simultaneously with Arthur on the cot, he could hear a frantic voice shouting before Javier, who had taken over guard duty from Charles, came running from the trees, eyes wide.
"¡Maldición! ¡Es el jodido fantasma indio! Vamos a morir todos! Madre de Dios!"
Dean's Spanish was usually reduced to food related vocabulary, but he knew immediately what Javier was shouting. Grabbing the axe that Arthur had brought to the tent just in case, Dean dashed into the open. Most of the camp was waking up at Javier's shouting. Dutch was just sticking his head out of his tent, telling Molly to stay put. John was hastily fastening his gun belt and Charles stood mid camp, observing everything, holding the other axe firmly in his hands.
Looking in the direction that Javier came running from, Dean immediately noticed the manifesting figure of one impressive looking native warrior. He was tall, dressed in traditional leather, two eagle feathers braided into his long hair. His face was stoically set and the eyes held an angry fire that Dean had seen in quite a few pissed off spirits. Suddenly Dean wished for his rock salt shotgun.
Ohanzee's eyes settled on Charles and he spoke in a language Dean had never heard. Charles translated without taking his eyes off the spirit.
"Ohanzee wants the man who desecrated his resting place."
"That'd be Micah," Arthur mumbled, staring at the apparition with wide eyes.
"Micah, get your ass out here," Dean hollered loud enough to be heard in all of the camp.
"Yeah, I'm not stupid," Micah's trembling voice could be heard coming from behind a tent.
"I'm not asking, walrus. Get your sorry ass out here and return what you took and hopefully that is it," Dean insisted.
"Hopefully?" Arthur asked.
"There's no knowing if this Casper is happy with that," Dean shrugged.
"Casper?" Now Arthur sounded thoroughly confused.
"Ghost," Dean exhaled. Micah was still a no show and Ohanzee's figure became more and more corporeal. That just couldn't be good. Before Dean could threaten Micah again, the spirit stretched out his hand and Pearson's stew pot became airborne. Several camp inhabitants shrieked and scrambled for cover and Dean just about managed to dive out of the way, pulling Arthur with him, before the pot sailed above their heads and crashed into the wagon behind them
"Freaking Casper," Dean muttered and got back to his feet, axe never leaving his grip. Quickly, he took a few steps towards the spirit that was winding up to hurl the coffee pot at Dean, but Dean was faster. He threw the axe at Ohanzee and the spirit vanished, pot tumbling back to the ground with a crash. Turning to Arthur, Dean raised an eyebrow.
"You okay?"
"Never better," Arthur grunted as he got up. "Is it gone?"
"Just temporarily," Dean explained. "Where's that coward?"
"Over by Dutch's tent, I think," Arthur said, looking around.
"Okay, go and pick up the axe I just threw. If the ghost returns, do as I did. I'll get that low life."
Arthur nodded and went in search of the axe. Charles kept his vigil at the camp fire. Javier and Lenny were cowering behind a wagon while John was guarding the tent that now held Abilgail with their boy, Jack, as well as Tilly, Karen and Mrs. Grimshaw. Uncle and Bill Williamson were nowhere to be seen and Dutch stood frozen in front of his tent, looking like he'd seen a ghost.
"Where's that rat?" Dean growled at Dutch when he approached. He needn't have asked as Micah's terrified looking mug just peeked out from between the flaps. "C'mere you!"
Pushing the flaps aside, Dean grabbed Micah by his coat and pulled him into the open. The tomahawk he'd boasted about earlier, still tucked into the belt around his waist.
"It's a hallucination," Micah babbled. "It has to be."
"Tough luck, it's a real life ghost and you're the reason he's here. Now if you value your lousy life, you get out there and return all you took and then you pray he will be satisfied. Come on."
Micah shook his head but Dean was adamant. He pulled out his .45 and pointed it to the trembling man. Dutch seemed to come out of his trance and also urged Micah to return whatever he took. Suddenly, commotion from where Charles and Arthur were keeping watch distracted everyone.
"Charles!" Arthur shouted.
Right behind the mixed man, Ohanzee had rematerialized. With no time to react or retreat, Charles found himself being lifted off the ground by his throat, feet dangling in the air. The warrior's ghostly hands were wrapped around his throat as the specter spoke to him in his own tongue.
Gasping for air, Charles began struggling while Arthur, finally having spotted the axe Dean had thrown, dove to pick it up and swing it at the ghost. He missed, though, because he was scared he'd get the blade lodged into Charles' body in the process. Nevertheless, the spirit dissipated and Charles fell down. He had managed to lift his own axe and shoved it into the apparition.
Having watched the scene unfold, Dean knew there was no time to spare. Uncaring, he dragged Micah along and removed the warrior's weapon from the belt. They had just reached Arthur's side when Ohanzee was back.
"Hold on," Dean shouted, drawing the ghost's attention. "This is the man responsible for the desecration. And this, I think, belongs to you."
He underhanded the tomahawk into Ohanzee's direction and the specter caught it easily. He looked down at it and spoke once more.
"He wants his knife as well," Charles rasped, still struggling somewhat for air.
"Cough it up, walrus," Dean threatened and Micah bent to pull said knife from his boot. He offered the blade to Dean, but Dean shook his head. "Ah, no. You give it back."
Micah's eyes went wide and he opened his mouth to protest, but Dean just nudged him forward. The ghost took the knife from Micah's hands and returned it to its rightful place. Then, before anyone could react, Ohanzee lifted Micah up in the air, demanding something else. Charles blanched.
"He wants his medicine pouch."
"Oh, you damned fool," Arthur growled. A moment later, Micah was sailing through the air, across the camp side, before he landed in a heap in the crates next to the horses, agitating the animals. Arthur, being a fast learner, swung his axe at the ghost, dissipating it again.
"Is there any way to get rid of him for good?" Arthur called in Dean's direction.
"Salt and burn his bones," Dean shouted back as he ran towards Micah to search for the pouch. Micah was out cold, which was just as well. Dean frisked his pockets. "But there has to be something else, his bones are too far away for him to be this powerful here."
"One of the items Micah stole?" Arthur shouted.
"The pouch," Charles determined. "We need to return it."
"Got it," Dean called triumphantly. He turned to show Charles and Arthur when the spirit materialized between the two. Arthur was being tossed one way, Charles the other.
Wasting no time, Dean sprinted to Pearson's wagon and scrambled to find the small bag containing the salt. When he found it, he confirmed his findings by tasting it and then dumped the meager contents onto the pouch he placed on the ground. He grabbed a bottle of moonshine from a crate nearby and poured it over the pouch before plucking his lighter from his pocket.
Ohanzee's ghost did what ghosts did best and flickered from where he was right into Dean's face. Before Dean had realized what had happened, he was suspended in the air by his throat. Gasping, Dean flicked the cap off his Zippo and thumbed the striking wheel while he attempted to pry the ghost's icy fingers from his throat with his other hand.
Dark spots began dancing before Dean's eyes and his attempts grew more desperate and finally, when he thought there was no more air for him to breathe, the Zippo lit up and Dean let it drop on the pouch.
A mighty tremble accompanied by an angry roar tore through the ghost and Dean felt the heat of the flames devouring the specter before he dropped to the ground and stayed down, greedily sucking in oxygen. He had no idea how much time had passed when he felt a hand shaking his shoulder and a voice floating through the thumbing of his blood in his head.
"Ya alright, man?"
It was John, as Dean saw when he cracked his eyes open and nodded, still gulping in air.
"Charles'n Arthur okay?" he croaked.
"Banged up but fine. Even Micah, the rat, seems to be in one peace," John replied.
"Freaking ghosts," Dean wheezed and sat up. Then he accepted John's hand and let him pull him up to his feet. Together they walked back to the center of the camp, where Dean slumped down on a log, looking around.
"Everybody okay?"
"I guess we're all a bit shaken," Dutch admitted. "So... ghosts are real."
"As you saw," Dean replied. "Don't piss them off."
"And you just burn a piece of their possession to get rid of them?" Javier asked.
"Nah, it ain't that easy," Dean replied. And then he explained about salting and burning bones or items spirits are tied to and how to determine what those things are.
Nobody really wasted a thought about sleeping any more that night and so they sat together, chatting and sipping beers and eventually someone started off a song Dean didn't even know. Everyone joined in while Dean grinned like a Cheshire cat.
Micah was sitting away from the group, in front of Dutch's tent, watching. He didn't feel like being merry. And he couldn't stand this new guy, hated him even more than he hated Arthur. But Dean, unlike Arthur, wasn't a member of the gang. And if he crossed path with him away from camp, he'd make sure Dean got the message.
When dawn broke, Dean finally made an effort to get back to sleep and almost passed out on the bedroll before his head hit the tiny pillow. It was after noon when Arthur kicked his boot to see if there was still life in him, as he put it.
After a tin mug of coffee, luckily the pot hadn't been damaged too badly after being dropped by the warrior ghost, and a slice of dried meat which was deer as Charles had said Dean walked along the shore of the Flat Iron Lake. The landscape and view were amazing and Dean was certain he'd never come across a lake with so many fish. He had wandered a good bit from camp when suddenly, there was a fluttering behind him and when he turned, he looked at Balthazar.
"You sneaky son of a bitch," Dean groused angrily, as he balled his fists. "I hate it, when I get zapped around by any of you feathery failures without my consent. What the hell was that for?"
"And hello to you, too, Dean. It's always a pleasure to meet you," Balthazar replied with a smile. He looked a bit tense, but unharmed, so Dean decided whoever had been after him, he gave them the slip.
"I'm warning you, if anything has happened to my Baby," Dean warned.
"Your precious car is fine, Dean," Balthazar assured soothingly. "And as a thank you for keeping the key safe..."
Dean cut him off.
"What are you talking about? I don't have your stupid key."
"Oh, but you do," Balthazar contradicted. He stretched out his hand towards Dean's chest.
"Whoa," Dean growled, taking a step back. "What are you doing?"
"Showing you the key. For anything else, I'd buy you dinner first, pinky promise."
Dean just glowered at the angel, but didn't retreat when Balthazar repeated his move. A tingling flooded the hunter's chest and before he could feel panicky, it stopped and in front of him he saw the key, hovering.
"How...?" Dean gasped, clutching his chest.
"Weird angel business," Balthazar shrugged. "So, you wanna get back to your Baby or should I leave you with your new friends?"
"I swear, asshat, if you don't get me back, I'll end you right now!"
Dean was so done with being used for any angel's agenda. All he wanted to do was get back to where he belonged and hunt a basilisk with his brother.
"As you wish."
Without further ado, Balthazar pressed his finger's against Dean's head and they disappeared.
SPN RDR2 SPN RDR2
Dean still hated being angel teleported and his stomach threatened to rebel as he finally felt firm asphalt beneath his feet and found himself stumbling. Instinctively, he stretched out his hands to brace on anything that might be in his way while his eyes were still shut and immediately felt the cool metal of Baby's body.
Taking a few deep breaths, Dean eventually opened his eyes and his gaze softened fondly, as he took in the unscathed condition of his car. Then he turned around and was a bit surprised to see the angel still hanging around.
"See, told you, she's fine."
Dean just rolled his eyes at that, which made Balthazar chuckle.
"So, thanks again for the help, my hairless ape, even if you got your panties in a twist over it," the angel continued.
"What was all this about anyways?" Dean asked, ignoring the attempt to make his temper rise. "What does that key do and who did you... borrow... it from?"
"Oh, that, my dear hunter, is none of your business. Au revoir!"
With a parting rustling of wings, Balthazar was gone and Dean was left behind, just shaking his head. He was pulled back to reality by his phone beginning to beep relentlessly. Dean turned and noticed, the device was still where he had left it in the front seat.
Sliding in behind the wheel, Dean picked up the phone and saw a few missed calls from Sam. Sam was also the one trying to get hold of him now. He accepted the call.
"Hey," he greeted.
"Dean!"
Sam sounded torn between being relieved or mad.
"I've been trying you for hours. Where are you?"
"Still in the same spot as yesterday," Dean informed him.
"What? Why?"
"Something came up, I'll tell you when I get there. Now, let me hit the road, alright?"
"Sure," Sam agreed, still with an air of annoyance. "If you actually make it here, I'm at Somass Motel in..."
He couldn't finish because Dean was barking with laughter.
"Right, have your laugh. It's actually not half bad. I'll text you the coordinates."
"Sure, Sam," Dean replied, grinning. "See you in an hour."
He ended the call and turned the keys that were still in the ignition. The Impala's engine rumbled to life and Dean shut the door before taking the gun belt with the Cattleman off. It would just bother him while driving. Sliding it over into Sam's seat, Dean turned on the radio and accelerated. Soon he was singing along to the sounds of Dukes of Hazzard as he headed to Star City.