WAY OUT WEST
Chapter 4
A bad evening doesn't improve and as for the morning? Well …
xxxxx
The Winchesters crept along the landing and cautiously opened the door to their room.
As the rough wooden door swung open with a pained squeak, both brothers leaned forward and squinted into the dilatory space behind it.
Their hearts sank.
Aside from the fact it was dirty, completely devoid of any decoration and utterly depressing, the words 'broom cupboard' spontaneously sprung to both brothers' minds.
"Crap, the Impala's trunk is bigger than this!" Dean groaned, looking up at Sam with despairing eyes.
Walking into the room, they bumped shoulders as they attempted to manouevre around each other. Overbalancing, Dean found himself pushed down on the bed courtesy of a flying elbow as Sam shuffled around Dean's splayed feet to light the oil lamp which sat on a small table at the end of the room.
"Well, it's all we've got," Sam sighed, "so we might as well make the best of it."
Stumbling over Dean's feet, he turned to sit on the ancient bed next to Dean and began to remove his boots; the bed's wooden frame squeaked and bowed menacingly under their combined weight.
Following his brother's lead, Dean bent forward to remove his boots, but quickly uprighted himself with a sharp gasp, grimacing in pain. "Jeez…" he panted, clutching his side.
Glancing at Dean in concern, Sam laid a hand on Dean's slumped shoulder. "What's wrong dude?" He noticed a faint sheen of sweat glowing across Dean's brow in the dim, flickering lamplight.
"Dunno," Dean moaned quietly, sucking in a breath; "it's that friggin' stew; I think my belly's still trying to figure out what to do with it."
Sam squeezed the shoulder beneath his hand.
"jus' cramps." Dean sighed, arching his back to try to stretch the cramp out of his belly and shrugging his shoulder out from beneath Sam's hand; "s'alright now."
He glanced around the room; "that's a point; what's a man supposed to do if he … you know?"
Sam shrugged, "don' know, dude, there might be some kind of bathroom along the landing;" he kicked his boots under the bed and heard a hollow 'ding' as they clattered against something ceramic.
The brothers looked at each other, noses wrinkling in disgust.
"Ewwww…." they moaned in unison.
xxxxx
Castiel scanned the book he was holding; squinting at it's musty pages as all the words began to spin and blend into one jumbled mass. Was it possible for an angel to lose the will to live? He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, and guessed that maybe it was.
He glanced across the dim room to see Bobby slumped unconsciously across his desk. His left hand cradled an empty whisky bottle as he snored into the well-thumbed vellum of another ancient tome.
So far their combined efforts over four days had gleaned exactly nothing. Castiel grew more and more frustrated by his wound and the resultant weakness; what use was an angel who couldn't do anything - well - angelic? Sure, he was slowly recovering, but he was still a long way off being able to do anything more ambitious than brew Bobby yet another cup of coffee. He felt utterly helpless as he sat watching the older man descending deeper into forlorn desperation with each passing day.
He knew helplessness was a very human feeling, and he really couldn't understand how the poor creatures could bear it.
Because he couldn't.
xxxxx
Getting undressed for bed was proving to be a trial as the brothers hopped and gyrated around each other in the claustrophobic cubbyhole. Finding himself once again on the receiving end of a haymaker as Sam pulled off his overshirt, Dean overbalanced, jeans pooled round his ankles, and faceplanted into Sam's chest. Eventually, however, exhaustion did it's job and saw the brothers settled; Dean in the room's tiny bed, flat on his back, feet hanging off the end of the thin, mysteriously stained mattress, and Sam lying on the grubby floor next to him using their duffel as a pillow and Dean's long coat as a blanket.
Sam's eyes scanned the ceiling, listening to Dean's sighs as he drifted into sleep; the bedsprings creaking each time he shifted on the lumpy mattress. Knowing he was in for an uncomfortable night, Sam hoped against hope that Dean's unsettled belly would settle soon. In a room this small with no bathroom; the consequences of a unpleasant stew aftermath didn't bear thinking about.
Squeezing his eyes closed he tried to force sleep out of them, doing his best to think of nice, soothing things … playing soccer, kissing Jess, driving the Impala, sunshine, puppies, spiders …
Spiders?
His eyes flicked open to see another long legged beastie, looking disturbingly like the one that had accompanied them in the saloon during their meal, sprawled across the ceiling looking down on him
He sighed; "God, I hate this place."
xxxxx
When Sam next opened his eyes, the dawn sunlight was filtering weakly through the tiny, grime coated window in their room. He tried to move, groaning as every stiff, cold muscle protested. Eventually, defying his aching back and numb ass he managed to ease himself up into a sitting position and glanced, blinking, across to the bed.
Dean was laying on his side, curled into a ball, his arm firmly clamped across his midriff. He looked nauseously grey, the sheen of sweat still very much in evidence, glistening across his face.
Sensing Sam's presence, his eyes fluttered open, and he attempted a faint smile.
"You ok there dude?" Sam asked, "you don't look too good."
Dean swallowed harshly and shook his head. "stomach hurts … friggin' stew;" he mumbled into his pillow.
Gripping the mattress for support Sam climbed to his knees and heaved himself onto the bed to sit beside his brother.
"where does it hurt?"
Dean tried to straighten a little as he pressed his hand over his navel, then down to his right hip. "all 'cross there" he groaned.
Sam felt a shiver of dread through his body; he sucked in a deep breath.
"sharp pain?"
Dean nodded; the nod turned into a shake of the head. "Sometimes … mostly aches."
He drew his knees back up into his chest, sucking in another shaky breath as he did so.
"You feel sick bro'?"
The nod was barely perceptible.
"Is it worth me trying to find a doctor?"
"What here? You jokin'?" Dean snorted.
Scraping a hand over his face, Sam glanced up to the ceiling. Their roommate had been wandering in the night, and had made it to the corner of the ceiling above Dean's bed; it sat there, eight legs spreadeagled around it, blissfully oblivious to the drama going on below it.
Sam sighed. Damned spiders were all over the place in this craphole; wouldn't be surprised if there were a few in that stew last night; he'd even dreamed about the disgusting, creepy things.
He turned his attentions back to Dean who had hauled himself up into a sitting position next to his brother, and sat hunched, clutching his belly and groaning miserably.
"Couldn't sleep prop'ly," Dean sighed, rubbing heavy lidded, glassy eyes.
"stomach ache?" Sam ventured.
Dean nodded, "yeah, plus I kep' havin' friggin' nightmares," Dean groaned; "kep' dreamin' about spiders."
Sam froze; "spiders?"
"yeah," Dean shuddered, "like that creepy, fugly sonofabitch up there". He pointed up above his head.
"Dean, that's weird, I dreamed about spiders last night."
Dean gave a cold smile; "well, who knows what shit was in that stew; any wonder we're havin' bad dreams … it must have been like eatin' ten pounds of cheese right before bed."
Sam took in Dean's grey, clammy face, his almost four days of beard growth. Sam rubbed his hand across his own chin and felt the same greasy stubble. Both brothers hadn't been able to freshen up in four days and the stench of grime and sweat in the room was overpowering.
"Let see if I can find some water and soap so we can have scrub up," Sam suggested, "and then maybe we can find a barber so we can have a shave." He looked across at Dean, knowing that his brother would be hating being this filthy and unwashed as much as he was; "that might make us feel better."
Dean nodded unenthusiastically, his hand still clamped firmly around his middle.
Sam stood up reaching for his jeans when the door was suddenly flung open.
xxxxx
Sam stumbled forward, almost head butting the wall as Dean leapt off the bed in shock, crumpling back down in pain immediately afterwards.
"That's them," grunted a man who Sam immediately recognised as the blacksmith from Sunrise. He looked across at the man's oppo who wore a sheriff's badge and, more worryingly, held a rifle pointed directly at Dean.
Behind them, Sam could see the wizened figure of the bartender, peering between the shoulders of the two much taller men.
The brothers glanced at each other; their mutual expressions a mixture of dread and defeat.
"Those was my damn horses you two sonsofbitches stole," the blacksmith scowled then turned to Dean alone; "an' I saw that that devil magic what you done when you burned that man all up."
He glared pure hatred at the Winchesters; "Sunrise ain't got a sheriff right now since you murdered the last one with your dark magic, new one's on his way;" he continued, "so the good sheriff here in Possum is goin' to deal with you thievin' bastards, an' he don't like outsiders, 'specially not ones that do wicked witchery an' steal good men's horses."
Dean opened his mouth, wanting to explain that it wasn't him that killed the last sheriff, but somehow, he didn't think either of these men would believe him.
Sam raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture, "We don't want any trouble buddy…" he began.
"Well, that's too bad, 'cos you gotta whole heap of trouble; buddy." The sheriff spat the last word as if it were an insult; "now git yer asses down the stairs, and don't try none of that devil magic."
xxxxx
tbc