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GUNSLINGER (Chapter Four)
"What else… did I do?"
Dean stretched, trying to reach the window. Stars glittered in the night sky and colds' breath whispered through the bars. Night had fallen well over four hours earlier, and Dean figured it was around midnight. His watch had stopped, smashed by one particularly enthusiastic tug on the chain. He didn't miss it.
"What do you mean?" Dean said as he finger-traced the length and breadth of the rectangular gap in the wall. The chain barely reached this far, and the manacles once again lanced the flesh of his wrists and forearms. If he survived this, he'd look like he'd attempted to slice open his wrists. He figured the memory would haunt him just as if he had.
"Who else…?" The question trailed off into a moan.
Dean looked at his brother and unease cleaved his spine. "Sam?"
The younger man rested against the wall, slumped in the corner. The position seemed to lessen the strain on his lungs and helped him to breathe. It didn't help with the pain though, nor the slow deterioration. Dean was no fool, Sam was dying.
Without medical assistance, surgery and drugs, Sam wouldn't last another twenty-four hours, maybe not even twelve. But Dean wasn't worried about that, he cared only about the next six. If he could get Sam through the night, he figured he could get him through the rest.
"Sammy?" Dean crossed the cell and dropped into a crouch. The chains around his wrists sang loudly in the quiet. He touched his brother's shoulder and thumbed at the swollen flesh around his neck. It was getting worse, as was Sam's breathing.
"You're doing good, kiddo. Stay with me. Just a bit longer." He glanced at the cell window, at the twinkling stars. Six hours was a damned long time.
Sam's eyes opened and listlessly wandered. "How… who?"
"Shh, it's okay." Dean cupped his brother's neck. His hand shook and his tongue felt swollen and thick. "Try to relax."
"I'm sorry." Sam's gaze tracked to his and held. Tears glistened in the weak moonlight. "I tried to… be strong."
"You are strong. You're the strongest man I know. Two dead gunslingers aren't going to take you out."
"Dad was right."
Dean's flesh tingled, the unpleasant sensation of comprehension drilling closer. He shifted, his free hand going to Sam's abdomen. It felt warm and swollen, but no worse than before.
"I failed," Sam said. He brushed Dean's hand away and turned his face toward the wall. "Leave me."
"No can do."
Sam made a low guttural sound and tried to shift away. Dean easily stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "You are not giving up on me now. You see any fat lady here, shrieking her ass off?" He waited a moment, then added, "cos until you do, you are staying here, with me, and you will keep breathing. You will keep fighting."
Sam squeezed his eyes closed, his forehead rippling. "No. No, I need…."
"You need to rest."
"I killed them." His voice was flat now, monotonic, and his breathing grew immeasurably worse. "I raped… his wife. Killed his--"
"No. Sam, no." Dean abruptly grabbed his brother's shoulders and shifted until he was in Sam's line of sight. He shook Sam and rattled his eyes open. "You are innocent. Sam, look at me. No, don't…" He forced Sam's head up when it dipped, made him make eye contact. "You're confused and hurt and you're getting things mixed up. You didn't do those things. You didn't."
"I'm evil."
"No you're not. You have never hurt anyone. Not you, Sam. Not you."
"Sorry… let you down." Sam smiled, puffy faced and bruised. The expression twisted into a grimace. "It's over now… all… over."
Sam slumped then, unconscious.
"For the love of…." Dean shook his brother, made his head rock on his shoulders. Panting, he forced himself to still when Sam didn't rouse.
He hadn't predicted this. That Sam would muddle things around and believe the dead men's accusations. In hindsight, he should have.
Dean hurriedly slouched into a half-seated position, slid backwards against the wall and gently maneuvered his unconscious brother until Sam's back rested against his own chest. He had enough play in the chains to hold Sam securely, close enough so he could brace the younger man's neck and head… and he could whisper in Sam's ear.
"You didn't do those things. You never have. You never will." He licked his dry lips, his heart pounding. In his arms, Sam trembled and his breathing grew worse.
"Sammy, don't do this. Don't give up on me. Not now. You're not dying at the hands of a pair of sadistic 19th century gunslingers. Dammit, that is so fucked up. Even for us. You hearing this?"
He talked in a low whisper, kept his voice calm and soothing and wafted breath over Sam's right ear. He talked until his voice went hoarse: repeating over and over what had brought them here, what had happened. He didn't mention the word evil, he didn't say anything negative at all, because if Sam somehow could hear, he feared that the words would be picked out and misconstrued.
Hours passed in a pained, laborious movement of time. Sam regained consciousness several times, restless and miserable. Each time Dean quizzed his pain-dazed sibling for proof that Sam understood he was innocent, but he didn't get the answers he needed.
Morning found Dean holding his brother tight against the inevitable. Dawn sunlight chased shadows, toyed with dancing dust motes and pierced Dean's eyes with a bright, callous intensity. He grunted and shifted, clenched his jaw against tight muscular pain across his shoulders and all the way down his back.
He blinked in the sunlight, flinched as a thud came from somewhere outside. Jerked upright, the movement unwillingly caused Sam to list to the side. The younger man slumped toward the floor, limp and quiet. Dean made a soft sound of distress and tugged him back. Fumbled actions got Sam back into the corner, propped upright, his head tilted back against the juncture between the two walls.
In the daylight, Sam's condition was made fully known, and Dean wondered how his brother had made it this far. Sam's face more closely resembled one of the dead things they hunted. Swollen on one side, dark with bruising and dried blood, patterned with sand and dirt. Maybe once the wound was cleaned, the cheekbone set, it wouldn't look so bad. Dean just wasn't sure he could believe that.
Sam's neck was worse. Swollen and discolored, deep angry welts where the chain had cut into the flesh. Dean could hardly bear to look at it, to see his brother so badly hurt. And those injuries were only part of it. He hadn't checked the arm, there hardly seemed any point in causing Sam more pain. Internal injuries were a given, but Sam had remained stable overnight, and that offered a thin thread of hope that he would last into the day.
Sound came from outside again, a hollow thump. It came from the west side, furthest away from them. Dean flinched and hugged his arms around his chest. The manacles around his wrists pressed cold against his shirt.
He knew that sound. Knew what it meant.
"It's not ending with that," he said with determination. "No way in hell will you die like that."
No way in hell would Sam die at all.
Resolved, he lifted Sam's shirt, flattened his hands across the bruised and swollen abdomen. It felt no worse than it had last night, and Dean began to hope that Sam's well developed abdominal muscles had shielded him from serious injury. He still had no doubt that Sam was bleeding internally, but minor tears that leaked over hours gave them time. It gave Dean time.
Another thump reverberated through the building. Dean clenched his fists and rocked backwards. For a moment he considered the state of his forearms, cut up by the steel manacles, crusted in dried blood and dirt.
"We make a fine pair, Sammy," he said. "If it's any consolation, chicks dig this shit. The whole wounded hero scenario. When we get you to a hospital you'll have nurses fawning all over you."
Sam offered no response, and Dean scrubbed at his face, wincing as he hit a wound on the side of his head. Memories lanced, filled with regret. No use for that now. There was only one way out of this, and he needed Sam conscious.
"Sam, rise and shine." He lightly jostled his brother. "C'mon, it's strategy time."
It took too long to rouse Sam, and as the thumps from outside the building increased in frequency, Dean bit his lip, whispered an apology, and forcefully nudged Sam's broken arm.
The reaction was instantaneous, and wretched. Sam woke, startled, whipping his good arm out in a defensive strike. Dean blocked it.
"Easy, take shallow breaths. Slow and regular."
"Dean?" The name, exhaled on a choked wheeze, held question and pain.
"I'm here. Take a minute to get your bearings."
Sam's gaze flittered, his features pale. He breathed with the raw unsteadiness of a badly oiled chaff-cutter. Dean caught Sam's hand and grasped it firmly. "Breathe, slow and easy. You're doing great."
Panic etched Sam's face, cut lines into his forehead and made his chest dip. "No." He ripped his hand away. "You have to… go."
"I'm not going anywhere without you."
"Dean…."
The misery in Sam's voice ripped at Dean's heart, and proved to him that his night-time vigil and whispered words to convince Sam of his innocence, had achieved nothing. He had only one chance left.
"Sam, listen to me carefully. You're hurt, badly. But you are innocent. You don't deserve this, and whatever you are thinking, whatever you think you remember, it's wrong. We came here together, I thought it was a false lead, I…" The words scoured his throat and he inhaled sharply before continuing. "I screwed up, Sammy. I let my guard down, I didn't back you up and… and now there are two dead guys who think you murdered their family."
"I… did."
"No, and when they show their scrawny asses in here, which they will, you'll see for yourself. They're ghosts, spirits, grief stricken dead men who have evolved over decades into vengeance driven madmen. Don't try to fight them, because you can't win. Just… just stay awake."
"I… I killed…."
"You've never killed anything that wasn't already dead."
"But—"
"Do you trust me?"
Sam clutched at his throat, his breathing unsteady. His gaze shifted, shimmering and panicked. He stared toward the window, as though searching for some demonic intervention. "I'm… evil."
Dean forcibly caught Sam's chin, grasped it between thumb and forefingers and turned his brother's face toward him. Blood and dirt flaked off on his fingers. "You are not evil. You are innocent, you didn't do this, any of it. I'll never lie to you, Sam. I'll die to protect you, but I will never lie. If you'd done it, I would tell you. You know I would."
He flinched as the sound came from outside again, a jarred heavy thump, and the building vibrated.
Sam turned toward it, trembling, his broken arm clutched protectively at his stomach. He seemed to shrink in on himself.
Dean let his hand drop to his lap, the chain clunking loudly. "We can't fight them, Sam. There's no point in trying. But I can work on Brad. Figure out what has gotten him connected to them and break it. Then, I can take them down. I can do it, but… but I need some time."
Sam fidgeted and shifted nervously. He looked pale and sick and Dean doubted if he even really understood what was being said to him – what was about to be asked of him. Dean swallowed hard, queasy sourness tightening the glands in his mouth.
This wasn't fair. Wasn't right. But he had no choice.
"You have to hold onto consciousness, no matter how much it hurts, no matter what they do to you. Sam, look at me." He waited until Sam turned wounded eyes onto him before he continued. "They're going to.…"
He couldn't say it. Couldn't tell his little brother what the men had planned for him – because maybe it wouldn't happen. Maybe he could stop it and Sam need never know. He smiled thinly and said, "If something bad happens, you have to stay conscious. Don't give them reason to hit you or hurt you. If they take you, then go willingly, and… no matter how bad things get, or what they do, or how much it hurts—"
The front door opened and light splashed down the hallway, cut off as a figure blocked the doorway. Dean couldn't see who it was. He abruptly leaned close to his brother, his eyes burning with tears, his forehead against Sam's. "I will come for you. I will. I promise. But you have to stay conscious. Don't pass out, Sammy. Whatever they do to you, don't pass out. Tell me, what do you have to do?"
"Dean?"
"Tell me."
"Don't… pass out."
"No matter what?"
Sam sobbed and his good hand clutched at Dean's arm. "Dean…."
"Sam, say it."
"No... matter what."
"Good boy." Dean drew back, ruffled his brother's hair and abruptly stood. He shakily wiped at his nose with the back of his hand and wavered toward the front of the cell. He reached the bars and gripped them, white knuckled. The shadow lengthened as it approached.
Brad. Dean prayed it would be Brad. That somehow the rancher had dealt with the two spirits, had defeated them, tricked them, he didn't care, as long as they were gone.
Keys jangled and Dean held his breath. The sunlight blocked the man's face, made it hard to make out features, then a second figure appeared, behind the first and Dean could see the first man. He carried a rope, with a noose. It swing in a slow, loose arc by his side.
Dean tasted bile. He moved back, his legs like jelly and his gut knotted so hard that he felt sure he would be sick. He looked at his brother who stared back, his eyes clearer now, aware. Dean's breath hitched. How the hell could he expect Sam to do this?
This wasn't real. Wasn't happening. Dean pushed to the front of the cell as Conrad stopped before them. The corded noose swung back and forth. Behind him, Sam made a strangled, shocked sound, clearly he had figured it all out.
"I won't let you do this."
Brad moved forward, a cocky smirk on his face. He shoved the key in the lock and turned it. Dean reached through the bars and grabbed at him. His fingers caught in the man's shirt pocket. Fabric ripped and a flash of gold sparkled and fell. The object hit the floor with a sharp metallic thunk, then rolled.
A gold pocket watch. It languidly spun, turned on itself and stopped. Dean stared at it, a sliver of comprehension – of hope – rushing through him. The inattention cost him dearly.
Conrad lashed out, caught Dean's wrists and wrenched them down, hard into the horizontal bar with enough force to break the bones. Dean let out a strangled cry and withdrew, his left wrist throbbing with a tight, white pain.
Brad inserted the key, twisted it and the cell door opened. Dean blocked the entrance, his hands before him, his feet braced. He sought to make eye contact with Brad, but the older man backed away, his head bowed, now strangely subdued.
Conrad and Tom moved in.
The fight was unfair and dirty, and Dean didn't stand a chance, but he fought because failure was unthinkable. But the unthinkable happened and Dean was pushed, dazed and bleeding to the back of the cell as Conrad moved in on Sam.
"Sam, don't fight them. Don't give them reason to hurt you."
Dean's pleas were cut off by a violent back-hand that spun his head into the wall. He dropped, stunned, aware enough only to turn his head so he could see his brother.
Sam had backed against the wall, bewildered. His head swiveled toward Dean and their gaze locked.
"Sammy," Dean said brokenly.
Sam's shoulders stooped then, the defiance leaching right out of him. He offered no defense as Conrad forced him to his knees and placed the corded noose around his already damaged neck.
"Stay awake. Stay strong," Dean murmured. "I'll save you." The words suffocated in his throat – a desperate, truth starved lie.
He looked at Brad who stood by the door. The man wore a slack expression, his gaze distant. It was the only thing that kept Dean down, that allowed him to breathe through the pain. The watch. It had to be the watch. And Conrad and Tom must have one as well.
Dean tried to see. Tried to catch a glimpse of gold, but the men wore multiple layers and even if a watch was there, it would be impossible to see.
If this didn't work – if he was wrong – Sam would die without having put up a fight. His fiercely proud brother would face death with the knowledge he had made no effort to save himself or Dean. The ultimate failure – the greatest shame.
Dean looked away when Sam bowed his head, the broken submissiveness killing something inside of him. The deflection inadvertently brought his gaze across to meet Tom's. The dead man had hunkered down, matching him at head height, a lurid, self-congratulatory grin slicing his face.
"Ever seen a chicken with it's head cut off," Tom said.
"Go to Hell."
"Your buddy will be there first." Tom straightened in a fragmented blur of motion, and delivered a stunning blow to Dean's face.
Dean's head whipped sideways and he hit the ground, sucked in dust and choked on it. His ears rang with a solid, jarring bell sound and he was helpless against the lot of it. Thoughts screamed through his mind, frantic commands to move, to just get the hell up and move! But somehow mind had disconnected from body and all he could do was lay there, bleeding and gasping as they took his brother away.
Dean came to alone. He pushed to his feet, and staggered to the bars, fell against them as blood dripped from his mouth and nose. He couldn't breathe properly, but it didn't matter. They had Sam. They were going to hang Sam.
Maybe they already had.
"Brad. Brad, look at me." He clicked his fingers, his injured wrist hugged against his chest, and tried to get the rancher's attention. But the man had transformed into a living zombie: deaf and mute, staring at the floor.
The fallen pocket watch lay three feet outside of the cell. Out of reach. Dean stared at it, forming blood bubbles on his lips as the seconds literally ticked past.
Brad should have broken out of his stupor by now. He had dropped the watch, broken the connection… then why wasn't he moving. Why wasn't he waking up?
"Brad! Wake up you freakin' asshole!" He stretched against the chains, ripping pain through his injured wrist. "C'mon. C'mon."
No response. Nothing, just a blank, unblinking stare.
"Son of a bitch," Dean snarled. He spun, searching the cell of something to throw. A tight creaking noise – like a heavy weight suspended from a gallows – made him freeze in place.
It came again. Low and shuddering. The agonizing wail of newly stressed timber, of corded rope over hewn wood… of imminent death.
Dean went cold. He thought he might piss himself. Thought he might throw up.
More creaking, the fractured resonance of a body in suspension: twisting, flailing, dying.
Sam.
They had just hung Sam.
Time had officially run out.
