WAY OUT WEST
Chapter 3
Dean's illusions of the Wild West continue to shatter ...
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The late afternoon sun was well into it's descent when then brothers trudged over the crest of what Dean had called 'the seven millionth hill in this whole frickin' shithole,' and caught their first sight of Possum Creek about three miles ahead.
Under normal circumstances the small, dismal huddle of dust-stained wooden buildings would have been depressingly underwhelming but to the two exhausted, sweat-soaked, filthy, ravenously starving and footsore Winchesters it looked like the most beautiful sight on earth.
It had been two and a half days since either of them had eaten. Subsisting on only water from the creek, the boys were practically delirious with hunger, clutching their painfully empty bellies as thoughts of food tormented their every waking moment.
In fact the only member of the small party who seemed to have done well out the journey was Lars who had admirably disposed of almost everything vaguely green he had found on the way and as a consequence was positively glowing with radiant satisfaction.
The approach to Possum Creek saw Dean taking his turn in riding the horse, Sam trudging closely alongside them, leaning into the reassuring pressure of his brother's knee against his arm as he walked, almost as an incentive to stay upright.
Dean reached down and removed his sherriff's badge to avoid drawing attention to himself and dropped it into a pocket; "I swear to God, Sammy; If we can't find any food in this dive, I'm gonna eat you," he muttered.
Sam looked indignant; "what about the horse?"
Dean shook his head, "nah, he earns his keep, he stays."
He was rewarded by a sharp elbow in the shin.
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Dean dismounted under the sign that welcomed them to Possum Creek, swaying precariously as his feet touched ground, and together they began to traipse through the desolate town; the few townsfolk that were milling around among the dust and tumbleweed eyed them with a sullen curiosity but made no move to approach them which suited the boys just fine.
"Saloon!"
Sam didn't have to say another word as he pointed to the tallest building in the street. Within a minute Lars found himself tethered to the town trough watching his two riders heading towards the ramshackle building with more energy than they had been able to muster for most of the last two days.
Stumbling through the swing doors, the brothers approached the bar behind which stood a cadaverous, sour-faced figure; his thin, heavily oiled hair slicked down and sporting a vicious centre parting that looked like it had been cut with a knife and fork.
Leaning on the bar, Dean tried to look as casual as his sunburned, unshaven, bleary eyed appearance would allow.
"Wan' a room and somethin' to eat," he drawled confidently.
"Got a room," the figure responded flatly; "it's only got one bed." He glanced between the brothers with a smirk.
Dean glared. "Has it got a floor?"
"Yup."
"He can sleep on that then," Dean replied, pointing his thumb at Sam and returning the smirk.
Sam fired an indignant elbow into his brother's ribs.
The bartender spoke again; "ain't got no food, only liquor." Customer service was clearly not high on his list of priorities.
Concerned that Dean's fragile veneer of control was about to crack, and foreseeing the very real possibility of being hustled out of another town with the law on their ass, Sam pushed past his scowling brother and stepped forward to rescue the situation.
"Look mister; me and my brother were robbed on the way here; outlaws from over Sunrise way. They took all our money, but they missed this." He placed his pocket watch on the counter; "this is a good watch; it's yours for a couple of nights in your room, some food and shelter for our horse and some decent chow for us.
The bartender looked down at the watch and up at the two men standing in front of him. It was clear he didn't believe a word of Sam's story; it was also clear that he thought the Winchesters in their starved, dishevelled state, were clearly too big and too desperate to be messed with.
And besides, it WAS a good watch.
"Two nights in the room, ma boy will stable ya horse an' ma wife will warm y'up some stew for tonight. I c'n give you some bread an' coffee in the morning."
"Thanks;" Sam smiled, almost wilting with relief. Dean's fractious belly growled it's own gurgling thanks.
The brothers turned and ambled across the dimly-lit room, their footsteps echoing across the sticky wooden floor, and settled themselves at a table as far into the corner of the saloon as they could find. The place was almost deserted, the only signs of life apart from the Winchesters and Mister Happy the Bartender, being a massive spider clinging to a web which actually enhanced the scant décor of the wall behind their table and two guys so engrossed in a poker game that the entire US cavalry could have galloped through the bar and they wouldn't have noticed. It was a state of affairs which pleased the Winchesters greatly.
Sam glanced across the room to see two girls standing on the staircase; one of them was fairy-tale pretty, the other bore a startling resemblance to Lars. The pretty one was slowly gyrating her hips against the bannisters and advertising her wares in a way which would normally have Dean shoving dollar bills down her cleavage with glee. Instead, Sam observed with concern, he probably hadn't even noticed the girls and was just slumped in the chair staring blankly into his lap, slowly blinking as his glassy, shadowed eyes betrayed his crushing exhaustion. Sam guessed that Dean, being the one with the bigger appetite, would also be the one who would be worst affected by enforced fasting.
"Feel like shit Sammy." Dean scrubbed a trembling hand across his drawn, stubbled face, and groaned. The hand migrated south, and kneaded his stomach through the gnawing hunger pains as he looked up at Sam. "Y'ok?"
Sam rolled his shoulders and let out mirthless laugh. "I'm filthy, unshaven, trapped 150 years from home in downtown redneck central, I don't think I've ever been so tired and hungry;" he shrugged, "I'm awesome."
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Moments passed in silence before Sam looked up over Dean's bowed head and his weary features lifted into a smile as he patted Dean's wrist; "hey, chow time dude, stew's on it's way."
The smile dropped almost as soon as it had appeared when the Bartender deposited two bowls of steaming brown sludge on the table in front of them. Extracting his thumb from Sam's stew he walked wordlessly away, sucking the gravy off of it.
The brothers stared silently into their bowls until Dean looked up at Sam.
"Looks like …"
"I know what it looks like, man."
Dean leaned cautiously over his bowl.
"Smells like it too."
"Just eat it, already!"
"Sam, I've puked up stuff that looks more appetising than that."
Sam swallowed back a rising nausea and took a deep breath, deciding to lead by example. Picking up his spoon, he dug into the brown goo.
Nose wrinkling in disgust, his eyes watered as he fought to suppress the gag reflex, it took a moment but eventually he composed himself enough to swallow.
Blinking through a haze of tears he could see Dean staring at him.
"S'good;" he croaked unconvincingly, swallowing back the overwhelming urge to hurl, "dig in."
Dean grimaced, and shovelled a spoonful of the muddy slop into his mouth.
He froze, hamster-cheeked for a moment as the gluey muck stubbornly refused to move however hard he tried to swallow, until eventually with a snort and a gasp, gravity did it's work, and he choked it down.
He doubled over coughing and spluttering, then looked up at Sam through watering, slightly crossed eyes; what the hell kind of meat was that?"
Sam shrugged, "I dunno, but I know one thing ... I haven't seen any rats around since we got here, have you?"
Dean grimaced. "Man, that's freakin' disgustin'."
"It's the only food we're gonna get, so you'd better get it down you one way or the other," Sam sighed and steeled himself for another mouthful.
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Keeping themselves going by their shared belief that they would eventually develop a taste for it (they didn't), and it would, therefore, start to taste better as they went on (it didn't); between them, the Winchesters managed to choke down their meal.
Dean was on his fifth whisky in an attempt to bleach his mouth of it's taste.
"My belly feels like it's about to explode," he groaned.
Sam lifted his head out of his hands, "I think mine dissolved."
Hearing footsteps behind them, they both looked round; it was the pretty girl. Her peach-soft face was ringed with blonde curls which pooled around her slim shoulders. She stood next to the boys and smiled a demure, tight-lipped smile at them as she swayed her hips provocatively in their direction.
Dean smiled for the first time in what seemed like an age as he looked up into the girl's sparkling blue eyes; she eyed his dust-stained, unshaven face hungrily, the tip of a tiny pink tongue moistening her rosebud lips. Dean's own lips curled into a smirk, "hey baby," he growled, his voice harsh with dust, whisky and evil stew; "are you included with the meal?"
Sam smiled, shaking his head, reassured that Dean must be feeling better.
She sauntered around to the other side of the table, tracing Dean's jaw line with a feather-light fingertip as she moved.
"Depends how hungry you are, handsome;" she replied with a broad grin.
It wasn't just the fact that she only had one tooth that shocked Dean into falling backwards off the chair, it wasn't even the fact that the one tooth she did possess was in pretty ropey condition, but the fact that when she lunged at him with a kiss like a sink plunger his life really did flash before his eyes as his body began to shut down through lack of oxygen.
He scrambled to his feet, "Sam," he panted, "time to go."
Sam nodded courteously to the bewildered girl as he watched his brother charge frantically up the stairs. "It's been a long day," he smiled awkwardly, tipping his hat at the girl before following Dean up the stairs two at a time.
Xxxxx
The haphazard pile of empty coffee mugs and whisky tumblers was building up on Bobby's desk as between them he and Castiel ploughed through page after page of obscure lore, charms and histories. They skimmed through endless tedious volumes of latin enchantments and occult sorcery until their minds were scrambled, their bodies exhausted, and their eyes about to fall out of their heads.
"Our task is proving difficult because time travel is a theoretical impossibility; there is no evidence, empirical or anecdotal that any human has ever travelled or will ever travel in time;" Castiel sighed, closing the largest book on his pile. "Our chances of finding anything helpful are almost zero."
Bobby yawned, rubbing red-rimmed eyes, and fired a withering glare at the angel; "I tell ya what; just keep that sort of crap, to yourself, huh?"
Castiel canted his head curiously; "it is advisable to understand your criteria for success and failure before undertaking any challenge, is it not?"
Bobby's death glare darkened; "it's advisable to understand that if you don't shut ya trap right now, I'll shove a friggin' book in it."
Looking down sheepishly, the angel sighed; "I will continue to read."
Bobby snorted; "you do that!"
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tbc