Sunrise, for backroadsspirit
Jul. 8th, 2017 02:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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spn_summergenTitle: Sunrise
Recipient: Backroadsspirit
Word count: 2364
Warnings: none
Summary: For a one-horse town, Sunrise had suddenly started attracting an awful lot of attention. AU for "Frontierland."
For a one-horse town, Sunrise had suddenly started attracting an awful lot of attention.
Elkins wiped off the last clean glass and put it on the shelf, casting a glance as he did so at the tall, dark-haired man nursing a sarsaparilla at the table at the back of the saloon. Yessir, way too much of the wrong kind of attention, for almost a year now now. And it was all that man's fault.
Well, not his fault alone. His and his brother's, really. Not to mention that drunkard of a gunmaker. Elkins wouldn't be surprised if he was what had drawn all of the strange happenings to this town in the first place. Weird had a way of attracting weird. Oh, the gunmaker kept to himself all right. But every once in a while, someone would come to town looking for him. The kind of someone who made your hair stand on end. Elkins never saw them again, but sooner or later, he'd catch wind of Colt still alive and kicking.
The Winchesters would be the first ones who had managed to persuade him to let go of that gun of his, though. Elkins' fingers were fairly itching to get a hold of it. He hadn't seen it since the day the older Winchester used it to not just get the drop on Elias Finch, but turn him into a pile of dust. Maybe they'd handed it back over to Colt.
Elkins shook his head. The boys would be fools to give up a weapon like that. And however strange they were, with their odd manner of speaking and strange mix of deadly expertise and utter lack of common sense, they were certainly not fools.
The saloon door swung open, and a hush fell over the room. Elkins instinctively put one hand under the bar, feeling for the revolver he kept stashed there.
A second later, even as his fingers brushed the cold metal, his heart sank. The man who had entered was wearing a long, dark coat over black clothing, but that wasn't what had Elkins' hair standing on end. He couldn’t describe it, but he'd been in this town long enough, had seen enough, to know that the bullets in the gun he was touching would be useless.
He glanced at Sam Winchester, who had raised his head as the man entered and was now regarding him as calmly as if he was just a rancher who had stopped in to wet his whistle while he was in town.
Meanwhile, the other patrons were remembering they had somewhere else to be and were slipping out the door behind the man in black, one by one. Elkins had plenty of places he would rather have been, but boxed in as he was behind the bar, there wasn't an easy way for him to get there.
"Winchester."
There was a growl underlying the man's voice that had Elkins almost falling into the long-ago habit of crossing himself, if it wouldn't have drawn attention. The man walked forward a few steps, spurs jingling. "Sam Winchester," he said again.
For his part, Sam tilted back his hat and stayed in his seat, hands out of sight under the table. "Can I help you?"
The man spread his hands wide. "It's an honor to meet you, man. I'm actually kind of a fan."
Sam's eyebrows shot up. "Really?"
Elkins wasn't surprised. The brothers hadn't been in town long, but they'd already gained quite a reputation. More than once, he'd seen one or the other of them get called out. Every time, the other one followed. Every time, people peered from the windows, two shots were fired, and both Winchesters walked back into the saloon.
Then there were the other kinds of visitors that came calling. Like this one. Who was saying, "Yeah, really," even as he moved forward another step and his eyes turned coal black.
Elkins swallowed hard and stayed very, very still.
Winchester glanced at him ever so slightly before looking back at the man with the black eyes. "You want me to sign an autograph?"
The man chuckled. "Naw. I got something I want to offer you, though."
Sam shook his head. "I don't make deals with—" He cut himself off as he glanced at Elkins again. "With people like you," he finished.
"Aw, come on. You haven't even heard what I have to offer." He moved forward again, now halfway between the door and Winchester.
"Doesn't matter." There was the distinctive sound of a gun cocking from beneath the table. "Leave here, now. And leave him."
The man cocked his head to the side. "You can't shoot me."
"Wanna bet?" Winchester asked, eyebrows raised.
The man hesitated, and for a moment Elkins thought he was going to take the advice. But then he took another step. "I can get you home."
For a second, Winchester faltered. "What?"
The man smirked. "But you're not interested, I guess. Too bad." With that, he swept a hand to the side.
Sam's gun went clattering to the ground at the foot of the bar. The man with the black eyes held his other hand out, and Sam's chair slid back until he was pinned against the wall, hand clutching at his throat.
Elkins reached for the gun under the bar. Even if it wasn't going to do any good, at least it might distract the man long enough for Winchester to—
Sam's other hand was free, and suddenly he was bringing up a long-barreled gun that Elkins recognized.
The man with the black eyes clearly recognized it, too, for he froze. Winchester took in a couple of deep, harsh breaths, and then stood up, leveling the Colt in front of him. "Who are you?" he asked.
The man put his hands up. "Agares."
"Agares." Winchester nodded. "I'm impressed. You're a Duke, right?"
"That's why I have the power to bring you back," he said. "You and your brother both."
"We don't want your power."
Elkins' head whipped around. Dean Winchester was pushing open the doors of the saloon, duster coat nearly dragging on the floor. "Whatcha got there, Sammy?" he asked.
"Agares here thinks he can take us home," Sam replied.
Dean snorted. "Something like you can't do that."
The man in black turned slightly so that he could see both Winchesters. "You don't know what you left behind," he said, head turning from one to the other. Elkins was being completely ignored, which was absolutely fine by him.
"We sent ahead what they're gonna need," Dean replied. "That's what's important."
The man scoffed. "You know why they didn't come get you?" When neither man replied, he went on, "Your buddy Cas ran out of juice. Got stabbed by one of his own lieutenants, made his grace leak out. Then he tried to use your old man to power up again and…well, things didn't work out so well for him."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean demanded, coming forward with clenched fists.
Elkins realized it was the first time he'd seen real fear on this man's face.
"Means whoever you think you're sending something to, they aren't gonna be there to receive it," the man replied. He cocked an eyebrow at Dean. "Unless I get you there first."
"No deal," Sam barked.
"Sam…" Dean started.
"No. No deals. We figure this out ourselves. If Bobby is—if he needs our help, we'll get to him. Somehow." Sam straightened his shoulders.
He'd been holding his aim steady the whole time, and Elkins was sure this was when he was going to pull the trigger. Instead, he opened his mouth and started reciting words in a language Elkins hadn't heard since going to Mass as a child.
The man's black eyes flashed, and he snarled. A moment later, he threw his head back, and a cloud of black smoke shot out. Elkins watched in astonishment as the smoke flew out over the saloon doors and up into the clear blue sky.
When he turned back to the Winchesters, they were kneeling over the man in black, who had collapsed to the ground, brown eyes staring upward. Sam had his fingers on the side of the man's throat. Dean pulled back the man's coat to reveal a gash in his shirt and dark red bloodstain covering most of his side.
Sam sat back on his heels with a sigh. "Damn it," he said quietly.
"Can't win 'em all, Sammy." Dean closed the man's eyelids and shifted the black hat so it was covering his face.
When they both stood up, they looked at Elkins with no small amount of trepidation.
He took a deep breath and put his hands on the bar. "Turns out there is a second shelf of whisky," he said in a mostly-steady voice. "You boys want one?"
"That's a damn fine idea," Dean said.
Sam nodded as he holstered his weapon before bending down to pick up the other gun that had gone flying from his hand.
They came and sat at the bar, shoulders brushing. Sam started, "Listen, Mr. Elkins—"
He held up a hand as he splashed a couple of fingers' worth of whiskey into three smudged glasses. "Was he the same kind of thing as Finch?"
The brothers exchanged a look. Finally, Sam cleared his throat. "No, sir, he wasn't."
"But he was a…thing."
Sam's voice was almost gentle. "He wasn't human, no."
The combination of calm and authority in Sam's voice was what had Elkins downing his drink in one gulp. He refilled his glass and pushed the other two towards the Winchesters. "Colt know about this?" he asked.
"About him?" Dean jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Don't know. About ones like him? Definitely."
Elkins tapped his glass on the bar. "He arrived here some years ago. Kept to himself, way out of town. Sometimes people come by looking for him. Usually, I don't tell 'em a word."
"You told us where he was." Sam's brow was furrowed.
"You looked like good boys," Elkins replied. "Didn't think you meant him any harm."
"No, sir," Sam said. "We just needed his help."
"With Finch." Elkins swallowed, hard. "With a man who'd already been hung but wasn't dead."
"That's right." Dean's gaze was level and steady.
Elkins blew out a breath. "Well then." He downed his second shot and then capped the bottle. No use using up the good stuff too quickly. "This one, though." He waved a hand at the body behind the Winchesters. "He was looking for you boys."
"That's right," Dean repeated.
"Why can't you go back home?" Elkins asked.
The expressions of regret and hurt that crossed their faces were almost identical. "We lost the way," Sam said, and Dean sighed in agreement.
"But that thing was gonna help you?" Elkins asked.
"Not without a price," Dean replied. "And we're not interested in what it was going to charge."
"Hmm." He looked back and forth between them. "Rumor is, you boys left a package at the Western Union office."
"That we did," Sam replied.
"With instructions not to send it anywhere for a hundred years."
"A hundred and fifty years," Sam corrected with a ghost of a smile.
Elkins rocked back on his heels. "That don't make any sense."
Sam only shrugged and sipped at his whiskey. He raised his eyebrows and downed the rest of it in one go. "That's not bad," he said.
Dean had been suspiciously sniffing at his glass, and now he took the shot. He banged the glass down on the bar and said, "Now that's what I'm talking about!"
"You mean it might not be so bad here after all?" Sam asked, knocking his shoulder against Dean's.
"We can't stay, Sam. Not if Bobby…" Dean trailed off and sighed. "They need us. And we don't have a way to send them a message."
"You sent them a package," Elkins said. "Right?"
They both turned to look at him, brows clearing and faces lighting up at exactly the same moment. "We can send a warning," Sam said. "Let Cas know what's going to happen."
"It would have to be delivered the day we left." Dean shook his head. "While we're away. That's awful tight."
"It's the best shot we've got." Sam turned to Elkins and graced him with a dimpled smile that made him look like a young man and not a gunslinger. "Thanks, Elkins."
He frowned. "What did I do?"
But they were both walking out of the saloon and across the street to the telegraph office.
Patrons were starting to trickle back into the bar, but Elkins went to the door and watched. The Winchesters were inside, discussing something with the young man behind the counter. Sam started writing something on the counter while Dean fished a few coins from his pocket.
A moment later, they were walking outside. In the middle of the street, they looked up at the saloon and met Elkins' eyes. Dean gave him a two-fingered salute from the brim of his hat.
As they came closer, Dean removed his long coat and hung it over the railing outside the bar, sheriff's badge twinkling in the sunlight. Sam slid the Colt out of its holster and laid it on top of the coat. He patted it twice and then stepped back.
Suddenly, the Winchesters were gone.
Elkins blinked. "Well, I'll be damned." He looked up and down the street, but folks were just going about their business, no one seeming to have noticed that the brothers were there one second and gone the next.
He slipped outside and picked up the gun, turning it over. It was a beautiful piece of work, no doubt about it. And he was the only person in town besides the gunmaker himself who knew how special it was. He tucked it away in his waistband, planning on fitting it under the bar as soon as he got the chance, for the next time one of those black-eyed devils came calling.
Then Elkin's eyes lit on Dean's coat, and he sighed. "Now who in the hell is gonna be sheriff?"
Recipient: Backroadsspirit
Word count: 2364
Warnings: none
Summary: For a one-horse town, Sunrise had suddenly started attracting an awful lot of attention. AU for "Frontierland."
For a one-horse town, Sunrise had suddenly started attracting an awful lot of attention.
Elkins wiped off the last clean glass and put it on the shelf, casting a glance as he did so at the tall, dark-haired man nursing a sarsaparilla at the table at the back of the saloon. Yessir, way too much of the wrong kind of attention, for almost a year now now. And it was all that man's fault.
Well, not his fault alone. His and his brother's, really. Not to mention that drunkard of a gunmaker. Elkins wouldn't be surprised if he was what had drawn all of the strange happenings to this town in the first place. Weird had a way of attracting weird. Oh, the gunmaker kept to himself all right. But every once in a while, someone would come to town looking for him. The kind of someone who made your hair stand on end. Elkins never saw them again, but sooner or later, he'd catch wind of Colt still alive and kicking.
The Winchesters would be the first ones who had managed to persuade him to let go of that gun of his, though. Elkins' fingers were fairly itching to get a hold of it. He hadn't seen it since the day the older Winchester used it to not just get the drop on Elias Finch, but turn him into a pile of dust. Maybe they'd handed it back over to Colt.
Elkins shook his head. The boys would be fools to give up a weapon like that. And however strange they were, with their odd manner of speaking and strange mix of deadly expertise and utter lack of common sense, they were certainly not fools.
The saloon door swung open, and a hush fell over the room. Elkins instinctively put one hand under the bar, feeling for the revolver he kept stashed there.
A second later, even as his fingers brushed the cold metal, his heart sank. The man who had entered was wearing a long, dark coat over black clothing, but that wasn't what had Elkins' hair standing on end. He couldn’t describe it, but he'd been in this town long enough, had seen enough, to know that the bullets in the gun he was touching would be useless.
He glanced at Sam Winchester, who had raised his head as the man entered and was now regarding him as calmly as if he was just a rancher who had stopped in to wet his whistle while he was in town.
Meanwhile, the other patrons were remembering they had somewhere else to be and were slipping out the door behind the man in black, one by one. Elkins had plenty of places he would rather have been, but boxed in as he was behind the bar, there wasn't an easy way for him to get there.
"Winchester."
There was a growl underlying the man's voice that had Elkins almost falling into the long-ago habit of crossing himself, if it wouldn't have drawn attention. The man walked forward a few steps, spurs jingling. "Sam Winchester," he said again.
For his part, Sam tilted back his hat and stayed in his seat, hands out of sight under the table. "Can I help you?"
The man spread his hands wide. "It's an honor to meet you, man. I'm actually kind of a fan."
Sam's eyebrows shot up. "Really?"
Elkins wasn't surprised. The brothers hadn't been in town long, but they'd already gained quite a reputation. More than once, he'd seen one or the other of them get called out. Every time, the other one followed. Every time, people peered from the windows, two shots were fired, and both Winchesters walked back into the saloon.
Then there were the other kinds of visitors that came calling. Like this one. Who was saying, "Yeah, really," even as he moved forward another step and his eyes turned coal black.
Elkins swallowed hard and stayed very, very still.
Winchester glanced at him ever so slightly before looking back at the man with the black eyes. "You want me to sign an autograph?"
The man chuckled. "Naw. I got something I want to offer you, though."
Sam shook his head. "I don't make deals with—" He cut himself off as he glanced at Elkins again. "With people like you," he finished.
"Aw, come on. You haven't even heard what I have to offer." He moved forward again, now halfway between the door and Winchester.
"Doesn't matter." There was the distinctive sound of a gun cocking from beneath the table. "Leave here, now. And leave him."
The man cocked his head to the side. "You can't shoot me."
"Wanna bet?" Winchester asked, eyebrows raised.
The man hesitated, and for a moment Elkins thought he was going to take the advice. But then he took another step. "I can get you home."
For a second, Winchester faltered. "What?"
The man smirked. "But you're not interested, I guess. Too bad." With that, he swept a hand to the side.
Sam's gun went clattering to the ground at the foot of the bar. The man with the black eyes held his other hand out, and Sam's chair slid back until he was pinned against the wall, hand clutching at his throat.
Elkins reached for the gun under the bar. Even if it wasn't going to do any good, at least it might distract the man long enough for Winchester to—
Sam's other hand was free, and suddenly he was bringing up a long-barreled gun that Elkins recognized.
The man with the black eyes clearly recognized it, too, for he froze. Winchester took in a couple of deep, harsh breaths, and then stood up, leveling the Colt in front of him. "Who are you?" he asked.
The man put his hands up. "Agares."
"Agares." Winchester nodded. "I'm impressed. You're a Duke, right?"
"That's why I have the power to bring you back," he said. "You and your brother both."
"We don't want your power."
Elkins' head whipped around. Dean Winchester was pushing open the doors of the saloon, duster coat nearly dragging on the floor. "Whatcha got there, Sammy?" he asked.
"Agares here thinks he can take us home," Sam replied.
Dean snorted. "Something like you can't do that."
The man in black turned slightly so that he could see both Winchesters. "You don't know what you left behind," he said, head turning from one to the other. Elkins was being completely ignored, which was absolutely fine by him.
"We sent ahead what they're gonna need," Dean replied. "That's what's important."
The man scoffed. "You know why they didn't come get you?" When neither man replied, he went on, "Your buddy Cas ran out of juice. Got stabbed by one of his own lieutenants, made his grace leak out. Then he tried to use your old man to power up again and…well, things didn't work out so well for him."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean demanded, coming forward with clenched fists.
Elkins realized it was the first time he'd seen real fear on this man's face.
"Means whoever you think you're sending something to, they aren't gonna be there to receive it," the man replied. He cocked an eyebrow at Dean. "Unless I get you there first."
"No deal," Sam barked.
"Sam…" Dean started.
"No. No deals. We figure this out ourselves. If Bobby is—if he needs our help, we'll get to him. Somehow." Sam straightened his shoulders.
He'd been holding his aim steady the whole time, and Elkins was sure this was when he was going to pull the trigger. Instead, he opened his mouth and started reciting words in a language Elkins hadn't heard since going to Mass as a child.
The man's black eyes flashed, and he snarled. A moment later, he threw his head back, and a cloud of black smoke shot out. Elkins watched in astonishment as the smoke flew out over the saloon doors and up into the clear blue sky.
When he turned back to the Winchesters, they were kneeling over the man in black, who had collapsed to the ground, brown eyes staring upward. Sam had his fingers on the side of the man's throat. Dean pulled back the man's coat to reveal a gash in his shirt and dark red bloodstain covering most of his side.
Sam sat back on his heels with a sigh. "Damn it," he said quietly.
"Can't win 'em all, Sammy." Dean closed the man's eyelids and shifted the black hat so it was covering his face.
When they both stood up, they looked at Elkins with no small amount of trepidation.
He took a deep breath and put his hands on the bar. "Turns out there is a second shelf of whisky," he said in a mostly-steady voice. "You boys want one?"
"That's a damn fine idea," Dean said.
Sam nodded as he holstered his weapon before bending down to pick up the other gun that had gone flying from his hand.
They came and sat at the bar, shoulders brushing. Sam started, "Listen, Mr. Elkins—"
He held up a hand as he splashed a couple of fingers' worth of whiskey into three smudged glasses. "Was he the same kind of thing as Finch?"
The brothers exchanged a look. Finally, Sam cleared his throat. "No, sir, he wasn't."
"But he was a…thing."
Sam's voice was almost gentle. "He wasn't human, no."
The combination of calm and authority in Sam's voice was what had Elkins downing his drink in one gulp. He refilled his glass and pushed the other two towards the Winchesters. "Colt know about this?" he asked.
"About him?" Dean jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Don't know. About ones like him? Definitely."
Elkins tapped his glass on the bar. "He arrived here some years ago. Kept to himself, way out of town. Sometimes people come by looking for him. Usually, I don't tell 'em a word."
"You told us where he was." Sam's brow was furrowed.
"You looked like good boys," Elkins replied. "Didn't think you meant him any harm."
"No, sir," Sam said. "We just needed his help."
"With Finch." Elkins swallowed, hard. "With a man who'd already been hung but wasn't dead."
"That's right." Dean's gaze was level and steady.
Elkins blew out a breath. "Well then." He downed his second shot and then capped the bottle. No use using up the good stuff too quickly. "This one, though." He waved a hand at the body behind the Winchesters. "He was looking for you boys."
"That's right," Dean repeated.
"Why can't you go back home?" Elkins asked.
The expressions of regret and hurt that crossed their faces were almost identical. "We lost the way," Sam said, and Dean sighed in agreement.
"But that thing was gonna help you?" Elkins asked.
"Not without a price," Dean replied. "And we're not interested in what it was going to charge."
"Hmm." He looked back and forth between them. "Rumor is, you boys left a package at the Western Union office."
"That we did," Sam replied.
"With instructions not to send it anywhere for a hundred years."
"A hundred and fifty years," Sam corrected with a ghost of a smile.
Elkins rocked back on his heels. "That don't make any sense."
Sam only shrugged and sipped at his whiskey. He raised his eyebrows and downed the rest of it in one go. "That's not bad," he said.
Dean had been suspiciously sniffing at his glass, and now he took the shot. He banged the glass down on the bar and said, "Now that's what I'm talking about!"
"You mean it might not be so bad here after all?" Sam asked, knocking his shoulder against Dean's.
"We can't stay, Sam. Not if Bobby…" Dean trailed off and sighed. "They need us. And we don't have a way to send them a message."
"You sent them a package," Elkins said. "Right?"
They both turned to look at him, brows clearing and faces lighting up at exactly the same moment. "We can send a warning," Sam said. "Let Cas know what's going to happen."
"It would have to be delivered the day we left." Dean shook his head. "While we're away. That's awful tight."
"It's the best shot we've got." Sam turned to Elkins and graced him with a dimpled smile that made him look like a young man and not a gunslinger. "Thanks, Elkins."
He frowned. "What did I do?"
But they were both walking out of the saloon and across the street to the telegraph office.
Patrons were starting to trickle back into the bar, but Elkins went to the door and watched. The Winchesters were inside, discussing something with the young man behind the counter. Sam started writing something on the counter while Dean fished a few coins from his pocket.
A moment later, they were walking outside. In the middle of the street, they looked up at the saloon and met Elkins' eyes. Dean gave him a two-fingered salute from the brim of his hat.
As they came closer, Dean removed his long coat and hung it over the railing outside the bar, sheriff's badge twinkling in the sunlight. Sam slid the Colt out of its holster and laid it on top of the coat. He patted it twice and then stepped back.
Suddenly, the Winchesters were gone.
Elkins blinked. "Well, I'll be damned." He looked up and down the street, but folks were just going about their business, no one seeming to have noticed that the brothers were there one second and gone the next.
He slipped outside and picked up the gun, turning it over. It was a beautiful piece of work, no doubt about it. And he was the only person in town besides the gunmaker himself who knew how special it was. He tucked it away in his waistband, planning on fitting it under the bar as soon as he got the chance, for the next time one of those black-eyed devils came calling.
Then Elkin's eyes lit on Dean's coat, and he sighed. "Now who in the hell is gonna be sheriff?"
(no subject)
Date: 2017-07-09 12:51 am (UTC)