WAY OUT WEST
Chapter 5
The wild west turns bleaker and bleaker for the boys. They meet one of Possum Creek's more unsavoury characters.
Possum Creek Sheriff's Office
xxxxx
Sam stood forlornly in the middle of his dismal cell, his tongue worrying his swollen, bleeding lip. He sighed, leaning on the rusty bars across the door and craned his neck, watching Sheriff Obadiah Walton moving around his office.
Walton had made no attempt to disguise his intense dislike of the Winchesters. It soon became worryingly obvious that he had them tried and convicted without the need to resort to the inconvenience of consulting twelve good men and true.
According to Walton, the whole town of Sunrise had seen Dean burn that man up, and his blacksmith friend had seen them ride away on his horse; a giant, wall-eyed black and white thing, not exactly easy to argue the man may have been mistaken.
So that was it, apparently; justice 1861-style.
xxxxx
Casting his racing mind back to his pre-law days, Sam had employed his best debating skills, firstly to try to convince the hard-headed man of their best intentions in killing Finch back in Sunrise, secondly to try to secure something resembling a fair trial, and thirdly to try to talk Walton into putting them together in the same cell.
He had failed parlously on all counts, Walton's response to his sincere entreaties being along the lines of, 'shut ya goddamned trap before I shut it for ya;' followed swiftly by a backhander across the mouth just to reinforce the point.
This was getting serious; deadly serious. This lunatic had it within his power to string them both up; although, Sam reflected fearfully, if Dean's condition continued to deteriorate at it's current rate he might well save the hangman a job.
Peering through the bars between them, his sense of unease grew at how still his brother had become as he lay curled up on his side on the bench which also doubled as his bed. He spoke up quietly; "how you doin' dude?"
Dean grunted into his arm without even lifting his head to look at Sam.
Sam could see Dean's back heaving with each pained breath, his right arm tucked firmly into his side, trembling fist pressing and kneading into the hollow above his hipbone, trying to create some relief from the growing pain. The sheen of sweat across Dean's neck told Sam all he needed to know.
Dean had not endeared himself to Walton by vomiting twice over the floor of his office as the brothers had been manhandled into their separate cells. Since then, his condition had declined rapidly, and Sam's frantic concern had peaked accordingly.
Pacing up and down his cell, Sam grew increasingly frantic as he heard Dean panting, letting loose the occasional groan as he tried to move or shift his arm. His agitation was climbing to the degree that he was going to do something stupid if he wasn't allowed to join Dean, to be a comforting presence for his sick brother to lean into, something warm and protective.
He had a fair idea what was wrong with Dean. He hoped against hope that he was wrong, but everything pointed to the fact. If Sam was right this would have been the cruellest joke Winchester luck had ever played on the brothers.
There was no cure for appendicitis in the old west.
Xxxxx
Castiel glanced up over the top of his latest reading material at Bobby.
His strength was returning; he could feel it. The wound was closing, gradually healing. Although he was a long way from be able to retrieve the Winchesters, he had begun feel them. Nothing specific or definite, but for a while now, he had been picking up their feelings, their reactions; Dean would have called it their vibes.
And it wasn't good.
He felt he should share this news with Bobby, but he wasn't convinced the older man was in any fit state to know such a thing. He was consumed with worry already.
Castiel took in the slumped shoulders, ragged, ungroomed beard and red-rimmed eyes of the older hunter. He squinted over the top of his book, surreptitiously watching Bobby sigh as he turned another unhelpful page, pinching the bridge of his nose, and chugging back another burning measure of hunter's helper.
Castiel decided to go with the tactful approach; he would assess whether Bobby was ready to hear his news.
He cleared his throat; "how are you coping with our lack of success Bobby?" He just managed to duck as the glass tumbler smashed against the wall behind his head.
Perhaps he would keep this development to himself for a while.
xxxxx
Sam's head whirled as he considered his options. If he could find a suitable tool, he could pick the lock easily. One lock was easily picked, but two? He wasn't going anywhere without Dean, so that meant there were two locks that needed dealing with.
Dean was in no condition to be on the run; would Sam be able to carry Dean out of the jail without being seen? Without being stopped?
Assuming everything went exactly to plan; he successfully picked the locks, and got them out of the building and the town unseen, where would they go?
Was there anything to be gained from trying to escape?
His head slumped onto his chest. Yep, screwed to hell didn't even begin to describe it. Well and truly up Shit Creek, or possibly even Possum Creek without a paddle.
Jolted out of his musings, he heard a hoarse moan next to him.
"Dean?" He leapt to his feet and leaned into the bars separating his cell from Dean's.
Dean had rolled onto his back, his arm clamped across his waist, his moan rising into a pained cry. Sam looked down on the bloodless face, and reached through the bars, stretching as he tried to touch his brother's sweat dampened head, desperate to afford even a small amount of comfort.
"S-Sam … oh God, hurts …"
Sam's trembling fingertips fell just inches short of his brother's spiky hair. "I'm here Dean, right here; just can't reach you," he gasped, pressing himself as hard against the metal bars as he could, trying to eke a couple of extra inches out of his straining shoulder.
Dean's rapid breaths began to steady as the pain subsided.
"B-better ..."
Both brothers flinched on hearing a sharp clang across the bars, as Walton smashed a rifle butt against them
"I told ya to shut your goddamn noise."
Sam rounded on Walton, his former meek submission melting into fury."He's sick, you moron," Sam gestured angrily towards Dean, "and in pain."
Walton raised his rifle, turning it round; "well maybe I should just put the sorry bastard out of his misery then."
Stepping back rapidly, Sam raised his hands in submission; "okay, okay; look I'm sorry. Please, he's sick; he's in a lot of pain." Sam hesitated to see if he was making inroads into Walton's sense of humanity; the signs weren't encouraging.
"Please let me go into his cell and sit with him, I think that'll calm him down."
Walton glared at Sam, a horrible sneer curling his tobacco stained lips;
"What, you two no-goods think I'm stupid?"
Sam resisted with all his might the urge to say, 'yes, I think you're a complete cretin, and if you weren't pointing a gun at my sick brother's head I would gladly tear your face off;' but instead took a deep breath and nauseously swallowed his anger again.
"No sir," he mumbled, choking on the words.
"I let you into his cell, and the next thing, I'm getting my throat cut when you two scheming bastards make a break for it."
Sam pointed to Dean, still curled up on his bed, watching the exchange from under heavy-lidded eyes. "Look at him; he's not going anywhere."
Walton folded his arms, "Yeah, yeah … seen it all before."
Sam's jaw dropped. "You think he's faking it?"
That horrible sneer crossed Walton's face again.
Trembling with anger, sam continued; "what about the sweating, the grey face, the shivering, the nausea; he faking that too?" He looked across at Dean again, curling tighter in on himself, his groans had subsided into rapid panting breaths.
"I ain't wastin' my time talkin' to you, smart-ass." Walton turned to walk away.
Sam scraped a hand across his face and took a deep shuddering breath to compose himself.
"Please," he began; "please let me go into my brother's cell." He briefly switched on the puppy-dog eyes before realising he was wasting his time; pearls before swine.
"I won't give you any trouble. You can cuff me to the bars if that will make you feel safer; please just let me sit with my brother."
Walton snorted and walked away, waving his hand dismissively. "Damn chickenshit suckers," he grumbled as he went; "sick eh? See 'bout that."
Sam watched him go, and his head dropped limply against the bars separating him from his brother; "I'm sorry dude, I don't know what to do."
"We're screwed Sammy," Dean whispered, trying his damndest to calm his shuddering breaths; "'m sorry … my stupid idea to come here."
His breath hitched and he shivered, drawing his knees up to his chest through another wave of pain.
Frustration and rage boiled over and Sam roared, landing a smashing punch against the metal bars, startling Dean as the entire structure of the cell shook. He barely felt the pain of his knuckles cracking under the assault.
xxxxx
A few minutes passed before Walton returned to the cells with another man. A comically small, ferrety man, with stray grey hairs sprouting out of the sides of his largely bald head; he sported thick pince-nez glasses and an expression that was living proof of a life lived without love.
"Yeah, claims he's sick … groaning and clutchin' his guts;" Walton snorted contemptuously, "but I'm not havin' the bastard kickin' it before I can get the arrangements made; better check him over."
Sam bristled, guessing what those 'arrangements' were.
He looked up; "hey, are you a doct…"
"Can it;" barked Walton, as he unlocked the door to Dean's cell, walking in behind the small man. Sam reflected that with his black suit and solemn expression he had the air of an undertaker; the thought was a little too close to home.
Flinging himself at the bars, Sam shouted across the cell; "He's real sick, I think it's his append…" he recoiled as the trusty rifle butt was smashed against the bars once again.
"It'll be your goddamned head next time."
With a stark lack of bedside manner, the doctor rolled his patient over onto his back, and without ceremony or sympathy, pulled Dean's T shirt up, pushing probing fingers into his rigid abdomen.
Clinging to the bars, Sam shook with silent rage as Dean cried out, grimacing and trying to curl up under the assault. Numb to the swelling and darkening bruises of his broken knuckles, Sam's overwhelming fury proved a powerful anaesthetic. He could feel nothing except the pain of his concern for Dean.
The doctor looked up at Walton and shrugged; "well, he's sick alright, but nothin' more than a bad of attack of gas I'd say." He rummaged in his black case, "a good dose of caster oil will do the job."
"No," Sam roared, shaking the bars wildly, "it's not that, it's his appendix; you can't give him that you stupid sonofabitch, you'll hurt him."
Another slam of the rifle across the bars, this time catching Sam across the bridge of the nose, he staggered backwards, clutching his face and cursing as Walton roughly hoisted Dean into a sitting position allowing the doctor to force a dose of the disgusting liquid down his throat, irritably repeating the process as his distressed patient choked the cloying slick back up.
Leaving Dean to sink bonelessly back down on the bed, Walton held the cell door open gesturing the doctor out of the cell; "he'll be fine in a few hours," the doctor confirmed without casting a second glance back at his patient.
xxxxx
Sam shook the bars to his cell, "Dean, you ok?"
Dean shuffled weakly across the bed, clutching at his stomach, shaking, and coughing before lying down again.
"S'mmy, … , he leaned weakly into the corner of the wall and the bars, fighting to keep his eyes open.
Resting his head against the bars which stood between him and his brother, Sam closed his eyes. He was comforted by the throbbing of his broken hand; in suffering too, he felt closer to Dean.
He reached through the bars and took Dean's hand in his own, uninjured hand squeezing it gently, making no effort to wipe away the tear which slid down his cheek.
Sam didn't see the spider which scuttled across the floor between the brothers, and settled itself quietly in the corner.
Xxxxx
tbc
Although this is a fairly dark chapter I am smiling broadly because yesterday I celebrated my first fanfic birthday! Yes, one whole year of torturing Dean ... life is good :D