Down the Valley of the Shadow Chapter 4
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Chapter 4
Over the Mountains of the Moon
Rufus returned nearly an hour later with not only a load of supplies but also Ellen, who’d brought a basket of food and some soap, and Ash, who’d brought clean clothes for everyone and crutches for Bobby. Dean had, by that point, insisted that Sam come out in the office and try to lie down on the cot there, but Sam hadn’t managed to fall asleep yet. So while Ellen stayed in the back with the other elder hunters, presumably to check on Bobby and to join him and Rufus in fussing at Pa about keeping secrets, Ash came out front to check on Sam.
“Undertaker said that one fella looked like he’d been hit with a hand grenade,” Ash noted quietly.
Sam shuddered and explained what had happened. At Dean’s prompting, he also showed Ash the demon-killing knife and revealed a bit more about his nightmares than he’d told Pa. Ash hummed thoughtfully and started rooting around in the wardrobe until he found Rufus’ store of rare herbs.
“What’s that for?” Dean asked as Ash set several vials on the table under the gun rack.
“Medicine,” Ash answered. “Gonna find out what’s wrong with ’im. ’Fraid I can’t let you watch this part, though.”
“Ash—”
“I’m not doin’ anything to ’im yet, amigo. Relax, go check an’ see if there’s still anyone over ’crosst the street.”
So Dean sighed and went to the window to check on Roman’s saloon, which looked dark, while Ash hummed and muttered and tossed stuff around in the copper bowl.
“Okay,” Ash finally said, and as Dean came back from the window, Ash brought the bowl over to the cot. “Lie down, Sam.”
Sam lay down, and Ash held the bowl over Sam’s chest, lit a match, and dropped it into the bowl. Then he moved the bowl back and forth over the length of Sam’s body, watching the smoke intently and slowly starting to frown. Dean wasn’t sure if he was imagining the faint scent of sulfur and blood or whether it had something to do with the burning herbs.
“That don’t make sense,” Ash finally murmured. “That... don’t make sense.”
“What?” Sam and Dean both asked at the same time.
Ash chanted something under his breath and blew out the flames, studied what remained in the bowl for a moment, then headed to the stove to dispose of the waste. “Y’all were partly right. Real complicated spell, but the upshot is, it stops Sam from usin’ weapons other than that one knife.”
“Why?”
“T’force ’im to defend himself in other ways. Use his powers.”
Sam frowned and sat up. “I thought the power came from the spell.”
Ash shook his head. “Not the one the sham medium laid on you. Y’already had it. But how... that’s the part what don’t make no damn sense. I ain’t never got that answer from that spell before.”
“What answer?”
“Devil’s blood.”
Dean felt the blood drain from his face.
“The medium’s spell, that’s on your hand, your chest, an’ your eyes. But the other... it’s all over you, Sam, like....”
“Like it’s in my veins,” Sam whispered.
Ash nodded.
Sam let out a ragged sigh and started rubbing at his forehead.
“He’s not possessed,” Dean noted.
“I know that,” said Ash. “He’s human, all right. But like I said....”
Sam suddenly cried out and doubled over, clutching his head, his eyes screwed shut in pain. Dean immediately sat down beside him and rubbed his back until the pain passed, at which point Sam, breathing hard, collapsed against Dean’s shoulder.
“What is it?” Ash asked. “What happened?”
“Ni-... ni-... nightmare,” Sam wheezed. “Came back, longer. Ye-... Yellow-Eyes... McLeod, he... tied Pa up... took the Colt... said he had... almost... almost everything.”
Dean frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”
Sam shook his head, but Ash looked worried. “The Colt. You mean the Colt, the one Sam Colt hisself made, kills anything but God?”
“That’s the one. Got it right here.”
Ash ran a hand over his face.
“What? C’mon, man, spill.”
“You got it from Elkins?”
Dean nodded.
“He tell you where he got it?”
“No.”
“Tell you about his place in Wyoming?”
“Yeah, little town called Sunrise. Got burned out during the war.”
“For a reason.” Ash sighed and finally sat down on the floor, cross-legged. “’Bout twenty miles from Sunrise, there’s a cemetery. Middle o’ the cemetery, there’s a hellmouth. Sam Colt built a devil’s gate over it, plus a set o’ private rail lines an’ churches, makes a giant devil’s trap. But they say that gun’s the key to the gate.”
Dean swore.
Sam gulped down a breath. “If... if it’s iron....”
“Demons cain’t get in,” Ash continued. “But a human can.”
“Explains why he’s here, or at least part of it,” said Dean. “Capture Pa and me as hostages and make you take the gun up to Wyoming and open the gate.”
“No,” Sam breathed, shaking his head weakly. “No, not... not gonna... do his bidding. Not after... Ma ’n’ Jess.”
“Damn straight.” Dean would never admit how much this whole situation scared him, but at least Sam was responding the way Dean and Pa had raised him.
Ellen called for Ash just then, so after promising with a gesture and a nod that he’d keep mum, he left.
Sam finally had his breath back enough to sit up and let worried look meet worried look. “Dean....”
“Hey.” Dean moved his hand to Sam’s shoulder. “We’ll figure it out.”
Sam sighed and slumped and nodded.
“C’mon, lie down, try to sleep. Been a hell of a day.”
Sam didn’t even protest as Dean pushed him over to lie down again, and he was asleep before Dean could get his boots off.
Garth woke early the next morning as the effects of the tiny dose of morphine he’d gotten the night before finally wore off. It took him a moment to remember what had happened and why he felt so sluggish, not to mention why he wasn’t at home with Bess, but moving just wrong reminded him in a hurry that there was a hole in his right shoulder. It didn’t hurt as much as it could have, though, so he decided to consider that a win.
There was a knock at the door a few moments later, and Mrs. Harvelle came in. “You all right, Garth? Heard you yelp.”
He nodded. “I’m okay, Miz Harvelle. Thank you.”
“Good. Need anything? I’ll be starting breakfast soon, be ready in about half an hour.”
“I’ll be all right ’til then, thanks.”
“All right. The sheriff got the men that shot you, and Dick Roman’s in jail.”
He heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness that’s over.”
“Oh, it’s not over yet, son. That’s why the family went home without you. I’ll wager someone will be back this morning to take you home, though.”
“Why ain’t it over?”
“Roman’s hired another gunman. Nelse McLeod. Already tried a diversion to get the sheriff once. It’s a cinch he’ll try again until either he gets Roman out or the marshal gets Roman to Austin.”
He stifled a curse. “Can the sheriff hold out? Lately, he’s been....”
She smiled. “Not anymore. And Singer’s got help.”
“From who?”
Her smile widened. “John Winchester.” And chuckling at his astonished stare, she left.
His mind was still whirling when Mrs. Harvelle returned with breakfast and when Dr. Visyak came to check him over and give him another dose of goldenseal to ward off infection. She offered him more morphine, but he refused. His gun arm might be out of commission, but he felt sure Ma needed him to have his head clear, at least.
Not even a minute after Dr. Visyak left, however, there was another knock at the door and Jimmy came in, his dark curls sticking up every which way and dark circles under his worried blue eyes. “Garth?”
Garth smiled broadly at him. “Hey, brother.”
Jimmy’s face brightened considerably as he came over to the bed. “Doc Visyak says you’re doing better.”
“She would know,” Garth joked.
“You sleep all right?”
“Like the dead. Didn’t even hear the commotion Miz Harvelle says happened later.”
“It was bad,” Jimmy reported gravely. “Sheriff Singer got nicked in the leg, I hear.”
“Who’s this McLeod fella?”
“Fastest gun south of the Nueces, they say. Supposed to be even worse than Winchester.” Jimmy paused. “’Course... Winchester and his sons are kind of on our side now, so....”
Garth frowned. “His sons?”
Jimmy nodded. “They’re about our age, maybe between you and Charlie. And you know what’s wild? Mark thinks they’re kin to him somehow, on their ma’s side.”
“Huh.”
“Anyway, they’re all over at the jail, guarding Roman. And Ma sent Charlie and me to come get you, if you’re well enough to ride in the wagon.”
Garth sat up with a hiss. “Yeah, I’ll make it. Might could ride Fizzles, but the wagon’s got better suspension.”
Jimmy chuckled and went to get Garth’s shirt and jacket. “Charlie’s still talking with Doc Visyak, I guess. You think you’ll need help getting your shirt on?”
Garth considered. “Probably.”
So Jimmy gently eased the shirt over Garth’s wounded shoulder and helped him pull on his boots, and together they went down to say goodbye to Mrs. Harvelle and collect Charlie. But Charlie was frowning and chewing on her lip, and seeing Garth made her smile for only a moment.
“What’s wrong?” Garth asked her.
She shook her head. “Not here.”
So Garth let Jimmy get him settled on the pile of blankets and pillows in the back of the buckboard and tie Fizzles’ reins to his own saddle horn, and Charlie drove out of town at a speed that might have been somewhat faster than strictly necessary.
“What is eatin’ you, sister?” Garth asked once they were past the edge of town.
She sighed. “Something Doc Visyak said. It’s—I’m... I’m puzzling over it.”
“How so?”
She hesitated before asking, “So say I want to take a mineral, like maybe salt or something, and make a solid shotgun slug out of it. How would I do that?”
Garth and Jimmy, who was riding alongside the wagon, looked at each other. And suddenly Garth realized just why he needed his head clear right now.
At the jail, the day passed slowly and quietly. Sam rested, badly due to the nightmares both of Dean and Pa’s capture and of Jess’ death that plagued him repeatedly. Bobby, despite the shakes, got himself bathed and dressed and let either Rufus or Pa (they were both helping him) trim his beard. One or all of them had evidently threatened Roman with grievous bodily harm if he acted up, because he didn’t talk or try anything all day. And everyone else took turns resting and standing guard.
Sometime after dark, though—Sam wasn’t sure how long—someone knocked on the door and shoved a note underneath, through the salt line. Dean covered Pa with the Colt while Pa picked it up, fixed the salt, and read the note.
“What’s it say?” Bobby asked at the same time Rufus asked, “Who’s it from?”
“Our old friend Anonymous,” Pa replied. “Says there’s a bunch of men hanging around the Roadhouse, some Roman’s, some McLeod’s. Sender wants us to watch out because they may be planning something.” He flipped the paper over, looked at the back, then flipped it over again. “Ellen’s hand, Ellen’s paper, but it doesn’t have the security code we set last night.”
Bobby sighed. “Guess you and Dean had better go down there, John.”
“No!” Sam cried. “No, Pa, you can’t!”
Pa frowned. “Sam, Ellen’s in danger.”
“So are you!”
“What are you talking about?”
“His nightmare,” Dean chimed in. “He said it happens at the Roadhouse. McLeod wants the Colt and a hostage or two. And if you go down with that bullet in your back....”
Pa sighed. “We can’t leave Ellen alone.”
Sam stood up. “We won’t. I’ll go.”
“Sam—”
“Pa, I’ve got the knife, and I know what he’s after. He won’t find it so easy to use me.”
Pa ran a hand over his mouth.
“I’ll go with ’im, John,” Rufus offered. “You an’ Dean stay put here.”
Pa sighed again, more heavily. “All right. But be careful, both of you.”
Sam and Rufus both nodded, and Rufus got a badge for Sam and a rifle for himself. Then they walked out the front door and hadn’t gone very far at all before someone took a shot at them and ran into the Roadhouse as Rufus fired back. The two hunters gave chase, and at Rufus’ direction, Sam threw a chair through the barroom window as an attention-getter before the pair of them ran inside.
“A man came in here,” Rufus said to demand information, and a knot formed in Sam’s stomach.
It tightened as a wide-eyed Ash replied, “Out the back way!”
Rufus met Ash’s eyes, nodded once, and started toward the back door. Sam followed, trying not to swear. And there they were, Roy and Walt, just like in his dream, urging Rufus to go out the back door.
Sam had just opened his mouth to warn Rufus when Rufus spun and aimed his rifle at Roy. “You first.”
Roy’s eyes went wide, and he started backing toward the stairs. “No, no, please—”
“Not that way.” Rufus shot Roy through the wrist, throwing him off balance.
Roy ran into the wall, clutching his wrist. “There’s somebody out there!” he yelped.
“I know!” And Rufus fired another shot just past Roy’s ear.
In a panic, Roy lunged for the door, wrenched it open, and ran out, calling, “Don’t shoot, it’s Roy!”
But the ambush party shot him anyway, several times over. They did the same to Walt a moment later when Rufus herded him out the door.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a Dutch oven came flying through the air and slammed into the side of Rufus’ head, knocking him out. Sam ran to help him but found himself flying into a wall, where some invisible force immobilized him.
And McLeod came out of one of the back rooms, eyes a sickly yellow from corner to corner and an evil smile on his face. “Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite boy. Little Sammy Winchester.”
Sam’s gut twisted all the more.
Not five minutes after Sam and Rufus left, the validity of Sam’s dream-vision became apparent. Guns were still firing down the street when John, pacing in his anxiety, suddenly got hit by the worst bullet spell he’d had yet, and the blinding pain and muscle spasms didn’t let up for what felt like an eternity but was probably a couple of minutes. By the time he was able to hear and see normally again—or as normally as he could with one eye stuck shut and one ear not registering anything—it felt like Dean had gotten him onto the cot and taken his gun belt and boots, and the world outside was quiet. Too quiet.
“Can you feel that, Pa?” Dean asked, and it took John a moment to find the boy because he was standing at the foot of the cot, bent over a little.
“Feel what?” John ground out.
Dean’s shoulders moved. “That.”
“Don’ feel anythin’.”
“I’m touching the sole of your right foot.” Dean’s shoulders moved again.
John sighed. “Nothin’.”
Dean swore.
“Don’... don’ worry... ’bout me, son.” John realized belatedly that only the left side of his face was moving when he talked. “Where’s Sam?”
“They’re not back yet.”
John let his other eye close and decided to focus on catching his breath. By the time he’d succeeded, his face and ears were back to normal, and he could move his head again. But a full hour passed without the return of sensation in the rest of his right side—or of Sam or Rufus.
Bobby was trying to decide whether to send Dean after them when there was a knock on the back door. Dean ran to open it and came back with Rufus, Ellen, and Ash.
“McLeod’s got Sam,” Ellen announced as they entered the office. “Disappeared with him somewhere, so God alone knows what they’re doing to him.”
“How the hell did he get in?” Bobby asked.
Ash shook his head. “Did somethin’ to the building, broke all the devil’s traps.”
“Why the hell didn’t Sam throw the knife?” Dean demanded.
“Couldn’t. Demon never gave ’im the chance. And I hate to say it, but I don’t think he just wanted a hostage. Didn’t do more to Rufus than knock ’im out, didn’t come after ’im when we got ’im into Mama Ellen’s room. And he knew Sam’s name—and said Sam was his favorite.”
John swore. There’d always been one tiny corner of his mind that held onto a shred of hope that the rumors about Sam were wrong. Now it was gone.
Bobby sighed. “Well, it’s not too good, is it?”
“Sure ain’t,” Rufus replied, rubbing his head.
Roman chuckled loudly enough that even John could hear him.
“You shut your trap, Roman,” Dean snarled. “If anything happens to my brother—”
He was interrupted by someone shooting at the jail’s front door.
“BACK!” Bobby ordered, drawing his gun.
But only Ash scurried out of sight of the door. Dean dove behind the leather-top desk and aimed his handgun at the door, while Ellen and Rufus grabbed rifles and headed back to keep Roman covered. Then the lock and latch finally gave way, and the door swung open—and Sam, gagged and bound hand and foot, fell into the room.
“Sheriff?” McLeod called. “Can you hear me? It’s Nelse McLeod.”
“I hear you,” Bobby called back.
“We haven’t hurt Sam—yet. But we have five guns on him from across the street, so don’t try to move him.”
“We’ve got enough guns on your boss to get the job done.”
“I expected that.”
“All right, McLeod, what’s your deal?”
“You send out Roman alive, and you get your boy.”
“MM!” burst from Sam. “Mm mm mm!”
“Bob,” Rufus warned, “we let Roman go, McLeod can do whatever he wants. What chance you got then?”
But John didn’t know what the right choice was. On the one hand, Rufus had a point, and the Millses had no chance at all against McLeod if he went after them again. Plus, there was that little news item Ash had brought about Sam. But still... John couldn’t take his eyes off his baby boy, muscles straining against whatever force was keeping him pinned to the floor, valiantly trying to resist. And John had understood Sam’s cry even if Bobby hadn’t: No! Don’t do it!
Sam was willing to die to save a family he’d barely met. John didn’t know if he was willing to let Sam do that.
But the choice wasn’t his to make. It was Bobby’s. And Bobby sighed and said, “Let him out, Rufus.”
“Bob—” Rufus objected.
“I said let him out.”
Sam let out a muffled sob.
Rufus sighed, and a moment later John heard the rattle of keys and the creak of the cell door. Smirking triumphantly, Roman walked out, ignoring the guns the hunters kept trained on him and kicking Sam’s feet out of the way as he passed and closed the door behind him. Then Dean hauled Sam over to the desk chair while Rufus used a rifle box to brace the door shut. Ash and Ellen helped Dean get Sam untied.
But Sam was crying bitterly, and his first words after the gag came off were, “You shoulda let him kill me.”
Bobby looked at him sadly. “I couldn’t do that, Sam. I’m sorry.”
“Why would you sell out your friends for a freak like me?”
“Because you’re family, idjit.”
Sam sobbed loudly again.
Dean handed him a handkerchief. “You all right, Sammy?”
“No,” Sam said. “I haven’t been all right since I was six months old.”
John frowned in alarm and tried to sit up but couldn’t, although his right leg did twitch.
“Hey,” Dean pressed, brushing Sam’s hair back from his forehead. “What’d he do to you?”
Sam shook his head. “I—I can’t. There aren’t words.”
“In the jail,” McLeod’s mocking voice called. “John, I’m sorry it had to end like this. I’ll always wonder which of us was best.”
Hot rage swept over John, but his body refused to respond with action.
“All right, we need to get out of here, fall back to my ranch,” said Bobby. “Ash, go get Doc Visyak, meet us out at my place. Ellen, you and Rufus get your wagon for John. And Dean, take Sam in the back, check him over.”
Dean nodded and pulled Sam to his feet, and everyone else got to work while Bobby holstered his gun and pulled a chair up beside John’s cot.
“Some bargain,” John said quietly as Bobby sat down.
“Go ahead, John,” Bobby shot back at the same volume. “Tell me how you’d have done it different.”
John sighed. “You’re the one who’ll have to face Mrs. Mills.”
“I’d rather face her than you.”
“Even laid up like this?”
“You still got one good hand.”
John snorted.
“Doin’ any better?”
John tried to move his right foot and succeeded. “Little.”
“You know... if you hadn’t listened to Sam... good chance that woulda been you up against that door.”
John sighed again. “I know.”
“Would have put me in the same spot.”
“And you’d have done the same?”
“Family don’t end with blood, idjit. But even the days I could kill you with my bare hands, I wouldn’t, if only for the boys’ sake. They need you.”
John shook his head. “Some father I am. This thing with Sam and Yellow-Eyes....”
“Sam was willin’ to die for Jody Mills. Whatever the hell else we find out about Yellow-Eyes, hold onto that. Sam’s a grown man in a heap o’ trouble—but he’s still your boy, and he’s still good.”
John ran his left hand over his face. “Thanks, Singer.”
Bobby patted his shoulder, and together they settled in to wait for the others to be ready to leave.
Then something occurred to John suddenly. “Bob? Did you get a look at Roman’s face when he left?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Did he still have a mark from where you slammed your rifle into his face last night?”
Bobby thought for a moment. “He should have, but... I don’t remember.”
John felt his stomach churn as they looked at each other. The last thing they needed was for Roman to turn out to be non-human, too... especially if they couldn’t work out quickly what he was.
Next
Over the Mountains of the Moon
Rufus returned nearly an hour later with not only a load of supplies but also Ellen, who’d brought a basket of food and some soap, and Ash, who’d brought clean clothes for everyone and crutches for Bobby. Dean had, by that point, insisted that Sam come out in the office and try to lie down on the cot there, but Sam hadn’t managed to fall asleep yet. So while Ellen stayed in the back with the other elder hunters, presumably to check on Bobby and to join him and Rufus in fussing at Pa about keeping secrets, Ash came out front to check on Sam.
“Undertaker said that one fella looked like he’d been hit with a hand grenade,” Ash noted quietly.
Sam shuddered and explained what had happened. At Dean’s prompting, he also showed Ash the demon-killing knife and revealed a bit more about his nightmares than he’d told Pa. Ash hummed thoughtfully and started rooting around in the wardrobe until he found Rufus’ store of rare herbs.
“What’s that for?” Dean asked as Ash set several vials on the table under the gun rack.
“Medicine,” Ash answered. “Gonna find out what’s wrong with ’im. ’Fraid I can’t let you watch this part, though.”
“Ash—”
“I’m not doin’ anything to ’im yet, amigo. Relax, go check an’ see if there’s still anyone over ’crosst the street.”
So Dean sighed and went to the window to check on Roman’s saloon, which looked dark, while Ash hummed and muttered and tossed stuff around in the copper bowl.
“Okay,” Ash finally said, and as Dean came back from the window, Ash brought the bowl over to the cot. “Lie down, Sam.”
Sam lay down, and Ash held the bowl over Sam’s chest, lit a match, and dropped it into the bowl. Then he moved the bowl back and forth over the length of Sam’s body, watching the smoke intently and slowly starting to frown. Dean wasn’t sure if he was imagining the faint scent of sulfur and blood or whether it had something to do with the burning herbs.
“That don’t make sense,” Ash finally murmured. “That... don’t make sense.”
“What?” Sam and Dean both asked at the same time.
Ash chanted something under his breath and blew out the flames, studied what remained in the bowl for a moment, then headed to the stove to dispose of the waste. “Y’all were partly right. Real complicated spell, but the upshot is, it stops Sam from usin’ weapons other than that one knife.”
“Why?”
“T’force ’im to defend himself in other ways. Use his powers.”
Sam frowned and sat up. “I thought the power came from the spell.”
Ash shook his head. “Not the one the sham medium laid on you. Y’already had it. But how... that’s the part what don’t make no damn sense. I ain’t never got that answer from that spell before.”
“What answer?”
“Devil’s blood.”
Dean felt the blood drain from his face.
“The medium’s spell, that’s on your hand, your chest, an’ your eyes. But the other... it’s all over you, Sam, like....”
“Like it’s in my veins,” Sam whispered.
Ash nodded.
Sam let out a ragged sigh and started rubbing at his forehead.
“He’s not possessed,” Dean noted.
“I know that,” said Ash. “He’s human, all right. But like I said....”
Sam suddenly cried out and doubled over, clutching his head, his eyes screwed shut in pain. Dean immediately sat down beside him and rubbed his back until the pain passed, at which point Sam, breathing hard, collapsed against Dean’s shoulder.
“What is it?” Ash asked. “What happened?”
“Ni-... ni-... nightmare,” Sam wheezed. “Came back, longer. Ye-... Yellow-Eyes... McLeod, he... tied Pa up... took the Colt... said he had... almost... almost everything.”
Dean frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”
Sam shook his head, but Ash looked worried. “The Colt. You mean the Colt, the one Sam Colt hisself made, kills anything but God?”
“That’s the one. Got it right here.”
Ash ran a hand over his face.
“What? C’mon, man, spill.”
“You got it from Elkins?”
Dean nodded.
“He tell you where he got it?”
“No.”
“Tell you about his place in Wyoming?”
“Yeah, little town called Sunrise. Got burned out during the war.”
“For a reason.” Ash sighed and finally sat down on the floor, cross-legged. “’Bout twenty miles from Sunrise, there’s a cemetery. Middle o’ the cemetery, there’s a hellmouth. Sam Colt built a devil’s gate over it, plus a set o’ private rail lines an’ churches, makes a giant devil’s trap. But they say that gun’s the key to the gate.”
Dean swore.
Sam gulped down a breath. “If... if it’s iron....”
“Demons cain’t get in,” Ash continued. “But a human can.”
“Explains why he’s here, or at least part of it,” said Dean. “Capture Pa and me as hostages and make you take the gun up to Wyoming and open the gate.”
“No,” Sam breathed, shaking his head weakly. “No, not... not gonna... do his bidding. Not after... Ma ’n’ Jess.”
“Damn straight.” Dean would never admit how much this whole situation scared him, but at least Sam was responding the way Dean and Pa had raised him.
Ellen called for Ash just then, so after promising with a gesture and a nod that he’d keep mum, he left.
Sam finally had his breath back enough to sit up and let worried look meet worried look. “Dean....”
“Hey.” Dean moved his hand to Sam’s shoulder. “We’ll figure it out.”
Sam sighed and slumped and nodded.
“C’mon, lie down, try to sleep. Been a hell of a day.”
Sam didn’t even protest as Dean pushed him over to lie down again, and he was asleep before Dean could get his boots off.
Garth woke early the next morning as the effects of the tiny dose of morphine he’d gotten the night before finally wore off. It took him a moment to remember what had happened and why he felt so sluggish, not to mention why he wasn’t at home with Bess, but moving just wrong reminded him in a hurry that there was a hole in his right shoulder. It didn’t hurt as much as it could have, though, so he decided to consider that a win.
There was a knock at the door a few moments later, and Mrs. Harvelle came in. “You all right, Garth? Heard you yelp.”
He nodded. “I’m okay, Miz Harvelle. Thank you.”
“Good. Need anything? I’ll be starting breakfast soon, be ready in about half an hour.”
“I’ll be all right ’til then, thanks.”
“All right. The sheriff got the men that shot you, and Dick Roman’s in jail.”
He heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness that’s over.”
“Oh, it’s not over yet, son. That’s why the family went home without you. I’ll wager someone will be back this morning to take you home, though.”
“Why ain’t it over?”
“Roman’s hired another gunman. Nelse McLeod. Already tried a diversion to get the sheriff once. It’s a cinch he’ll try again until either he gets Roman out or the marshal gets Roman to Austin.”
He stifled a curse. “Can the sheriff hold out? Lately, he’s been....”
She smiled. “Not anymore. And Singer’s got help.”
“From who?”
Her smile widened. “John Winchester.” And chuckling at his astonished stare, she left.
His mind was still whirling when Mrs. Harvelle returned with breakfast and when Dr. Visyak came to check him over and give him another dose of goldenseal to ward off infection. She offered him more morphine, but he refused. His gun arm might be out of commission, but he felt sure Ma needed him to have his head clear, at least.
Not even a minute after Dr. Visyak left, however, there was another knock at the door and Jimmy came in, his dark curls sticking up every which way and dark circles under his worried blue eyes. “Garth?”
Garth smiled broadly at him. “Hey, brother.”
Jimmy’s face brightened considerably as he came over to the bed. “Doc Visyak says you’re doing better.”
“She would know,” Garth joked.
“You sleep all right?”
“Like the dead. Didn’t even hear the commotion Miz Harvelle says happened later.”
“It was bad,” Jimmy reported gravely. “Sheriff Singer got nicked in the leg, I hear.”
“Who’s this McLeod fella?”
“Fastest gun south of the Nueces, they say. Supposed to be even worse than Winchester.” Jimmy paused. “’Course... Winchester and his sons are kind of on our side now, so....”
Garth frowned. “His sons?”
Jimmy nodded. “They’re about our age, maybe between you and Charlie. And you know what’s wild? Mark thinks they’re kin to him somehow, on their ma’s side.”
“Huh.”
“Anyway, they’re all over at the jail, guarding Roman. And Ma sent Charlie and me to come get you, if you’re well enough to ride in the wagon.”
Garth sat up with a hiss. “Yeah, I’ll make it. Might could ride Fizzles, but the wagon’s got better suspension.”
Jimmy chuckled and went to get Garth’s shirt and jacket. “Charlie’s still talking with Doc Visyak, I guess. You think you’ll need help getting your shirt on?”
Garth considered. “Probably.”
So Jimmy gently eased the shirt over Garth’s wounded shoulder and helped him pull on his boots, and together they went down to say goodbye to Mrs. Harvelle and collect Charlie. But Charlie was frowning and chewing on her lip, and seeing Garth made her smile for only a moment.
“What’s wrong?” Garth asked her.
She shook her head. “Not here.”
So Garth let Jimmy get him settled on the pile of blankets and pillows in the back of the buckboard and tie Fizzles’ reins to his own saddle horn, and Charlie drove out of town at a speed that might have been somewhat faster than strictly necessary.
“What is eatin’ you, sister?” Garth asked once they were past the edge of town.
She sighed. “Something Doc Visyak said. It’s—I’m... I’m puzzling over it.”
“How so?”
She hesitated before asking, “So say I want to take a mineral, like maybe salt or something, and make a solid shotgun slug out of it. How would I do that?”
Garth and Jimmy, who was riding alongside the wagon, looked at each other. And suddenly Garth realized just why he needed his head clear right now.
At the jail, the day passed slowly and quietly. Sam rested, badly due to the nightmares both of Dean and Pa’s capture and of Jess’ death that plagued him repeatedly. Bobby, despite the shakes, got himself bathed and dressed and let either Rufus or Pa (they were both helping him) trim his beard. One or all of them had evidently threatened Roman with grievous bodily harm if he acted up, because he didn’t talk or try anything all day. And everyone else took turns resting and standing guard.
Sometime after dark, though—Sam wasn’t sure how long—someone knocked on the door and shoved a note underneath, through the salt line. Dean covered Pa with the Colt while Pa picked it up, fixed the salt, and read the note.
“What’s it say?” Bobby asked at the same time Rufus asked, “Who’s it from?”
“Our old friend Anonymous,” Pa replied. “Says there’s a bunch of men hanging around the Roadhouse, some Roman’s, some McLeod’s. Sender wants us to watch out because they may be planning something.” He flipped the paper over, looked at the back, then flipped it over again. “Ellen’s hand, Ellen’s paper, but it doesn’t have the security code we set last night.”
Bobby sighed. “Guess you and Dean had better go down there, John.”
“No!” Sam cried. “No, Pa, you can’t!”
Pa frowned. “Sam, Ellen’s in danger.”
“So are you!”
“What are you talking about?”
“His nightmare,” Dean chimed in. “He said it happens at the Roadhouse. McLeod wants the Colt and a hostage or two. And if you go down with that bullet in your back....”
Pa sighed. “We can’t leave Ellen alone.”
Sam stood up. “We won’t. I’ll go.”
“Sam—”
“Pa, I’ve got the knife, and I know what he’s after. He won’t find it so easy to use me.”
Pa ran a hand over his mouth.
“I’ll go with ’im, John,” Rufus offered. “You an’ Dean stay put here.”
Pa sighed again, more heavily. “All right. But be careful, both of you.”
Sam and Rufus both nodded, and Rufus got a badge for Sam and a rifle for himself. Then they walked out the front door and hadn’t gone very far at all before someone took a shot at them and ran into the Roadhouse as Rufus fired back. The two hunters gave chase, and at Rufus’ direction, Sam threw a chair through the barroom window as an attention-getter before the pair of them ran inside.
“A man came in here,” Rufus said to demand information, and a knot formed in Sam’s stomach.
It tightened as a wide-eyed Ash replied, “Out the back way!”
Rufus met Ash’s eyes, nodded once, and started toward the back door. Sam followed, trying not to swear. And there they were, Roy and Walt, just like in his dream, urging Rufus to go out the back door.
Sam had just opened his mouth to warn Rufus when Rufus spun and aimed his rifle at Roy. “You first.”
Roy’s eyes went wide, and he started backing toward the stairs. “No, no, please—”
“Not that way.” Rufus shot Roy through the wrist, throwing him off balance.
Roy ran into the wall, clutching his wrist. “There’s somebody out there!” he yelped.
“I know!” And Rufus fired another shot just past Roy’s ear.
In a panic, Roy lunged for the door, wrenched it open, and ran out, calling, “Don’t shoot, it’s Roy!”
But the ambush party shot him anyway, several times over. They did the same to Walt a moment later when Rufus herded him out the door.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a Dutch oven came flying through the air and slammed into the side of Rufus’ head, knocking him out. Sam ran to help him but found himself flying into a wall, where some invisible force immobilized him.
And McLeod came out of one of the back rooms, eyes a sickly yellow from corner to corner and an evil smile on his face. “Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite boy. Little Sammy Winchester.”
Sam’s gut twisted all the more.
Not five minutes after Sam and Rufus left, the validity of Sam’s dream-vision became apparent. Guns were still firing down the street when John, pacing in his anxiety, suddenly got hit by the worst bullet spell he’d had yet, and the blinding pain and muscle spasms didn’t let up for what felt like an eternity but was probably a couple of minutes. By the time he was able to hear and see normally again—or as normally as he could with one eye stuck shut and one ear not registering anything—it felt like Dean had gotten him onto the cot and taken his gun belt and boots, and the world outside was quiet. Too quiet.
“Can you feel that, Pa?” Dean asked, and it took John a moment to find the boy because he was standing at the foot of the cot, bent over a little.
“Feel what?” John ground out.
Dean’s shoulders moved. “That.”
“Don’ feel anythin’.”
“I’m touching the sole of your right foot.” Dean’s shoulders moved again.
John sighed. “Nothin’.”
Dean swore.
“Don’... don’ worry... ’bout me, son.” John realized belatedly that only the left side of his face was moving when he talked. “Where’s Sam?”
“They’re not back yet.”
John let his other eye close and decided to focus on catching his breath. By the time he’d succeeded, his face and ears were back to normal, and he could move his head again. But a full hour passed without the return of sensation in the rest of his right side—or of Sam or Rufus.
Bobby was trying to decide whether to send Dean after them when there was a knock on the back door. Dean ran to open it and came back with Rufus, Ellen, and Ash.
“McLeod’s got Sam,” Ellen announced as they entered the office. “Disappeared with him somewhere, so God alone knows what they’re doing to him.”
“How the hell did he get in?” Bobby asked.
Ash shook his head. “Did somethin’ to the building, broke all the devil’s traps.”
“Why the hell didn’t Sam throw the knife?” Dean demanded.
“Couldn’t. Demon never gave ’im the chance. And I hate to say it, but I don’t think he just wanted a hostage. Didn’t do more to Rufus than knock ’im out, didn’t come after ’im when we got ’im into Mama Ellen’s room. And he knew Sam’s name—and said Sam was his favorite.”
John swore. There’d always been one tiny corner of his mind that held onto a shred of hope that the rumors about Sam were wrong. Now it was gone.
Bobby sighed. “Well, it’s not too good, is it?”
“Sure ain’t,” Rufus replied, rubbing his head.
Roman chuckled loudly enough that even John could hear him.
“You shut your trap, Roman,” Dean snarled. “If anything happens to my brother—”
He was interrupted by someone shooting at the jail’s front door.
“BACK!” Bobby ordered, drawing his gun.
But only Ash scurried out of sight of the door. Dean dove behind the leather-top desk and aimed his handgun at the door, while Ellen and Rufus grabbed rifles and headed back to keep Roman covered. Then the lock and latch finally gave way, and the door swung open—and Sam, gagged and bound hand and foot, fell into the room.
“Sheriff?” McLeod called. “Can you hear me? It’s Nelse McLeod.”
“I hear you,” Bobby called back.
“We haven’t hurt Sam—yet. But we have five guns on him from across the street, so don’t try to move him.”
“We’ve got enough guns on your boss to get the job done.”
“I expected that.”
“All right, McLeod, what’s your deal?”
“You send out Roman alive, and you get your boy.”
“MM!” burst from Sam. “Mm mm mm!”
“Bob,” Rufus warned, “we let Roman go, McLeod can do whatever he wants. What chance you got then?”
But John didn’t know what the right choice was. On the one hand, Rufus had a point, and the Millses had no chance at all against McLeod if he went after them again. Plus, there was that little news item Ash had brought about Sam. But still... John couldn’t take his eyes off his baby boy, muscles straining against whatever force was keeping him pinned to the floor, valiantly trying to resist. And John had understood Sam’s cry even if Bobby hadn’t: No! Don’t do it!
Sam was willing to die to save a family he’d barely met. John didn’t know if he was willing to let Sam do that.
But the choice wasn’t his to make. It was Bobby’s. And Bobby sighed and said, “Let him out, Rufus.”
“Bob—” Rufus objected.
“I said let him out.”
Sam let out a muffled sob.
Rufus sighed, and a moment later John heard the rattle of keys and the creak of the cell door. Smirking triumphantly, Roman walked out, ignoring the guns the hunters kept trained on him and kicking Sam’s feet out of the way as he passed and closed the door behind him. Then Dean hauled Sam over to the desk chair while Rufus used a rifle box to brace the door shut. Ash and Ellen helped Dean get Sam untied.
But Sam was crying bitterly, and his first words after the gag came off were, “You shoulda let him kill me.”
Bobby looked at him sadly. “I couldn’t do that, Sam. I’m sorry.”
“Why would you sell out your friends for a freak like me?”
“Because you’re family, idjit.”
Sam sobbed loudly again.
Dean handed him a handkerchief. “You all right, Sammy?”
“No,” Sam said. “I haven’t been all right since I was six months old.”
John frowned in alarm and tried to sit up but couldn’t, although his right leg did twitch.
“Hey,” Dean pressed, brushing Sam’s hair back from his forehead. “What’d he do to you?”
Sam shook his head. “I—I can’t. There aren’t words.”
“In the jail,” McLeod’s mocking voice called. “John, I’m sorry it had to end like this. I’ll always wonder which of us was best.”
Hot rage swept over John, but his body refused to respond with action.
“All right, we need to get out of here, fall back to my ranch,” said Bobby. “Ash, go get Doc Visyak, meet us out at my place. Ellen, you and Rufus get your wagon for John. And Dean, take Sam in the back, check him over.”
Dean nodded and pulled Sam to his feet, and everyone else got to work while Bobby holstered his gun and pulled a chair up beside John’s cot.
“Some bargain,” John said quietly as Bobby sat down.
“Go ahead, John,” Bobby shot back at the same volume. “Tell me how you’d have done it different.”
John sighed. “You’re the one who’ll have to face Mrs. Mills.”
“I’d rather face her than you.”
“Even laid up like this?”
“You still got one good hand.”
John snorted.
“Doin’ any better?”
John tried to move his right foot and succeeded. “Little.”
“You know... if you hadn’t listened to Sam... good chance that woulda been you up against that door.”
John sighed again. “I know.”
“Would have put me in the same spot.”
“And you’d have done the same?”
“Family don’t end with blood, idjit. But even the days I could kill you with my bare hands, I wouldn’t, if only for the boys’ sake. They need you.”
John shook his head. “Some father I am. This thing with Sam and Yellow-Eyes....”
“Sam was willin’ to die for Jody Mills. Whatever the hell else we find out about Yellow-Eyes, hold onto that. Sam’s a grown man in a heap o’ trouble—but he’s still your boy, and he’s still good.”
John ran his left hand over his face. “Thanks, Singer.”
Bobby patted his shoulder, and together they settled in to wait for the others to be ready to leave.
Then something occurred to John suddenly. “Bob? Did you get a look at Roman’s face when he left?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Did he still have a mark from where you slammed your rifle into his face last night?”
Bobby thought for a moment. “He should have, but... I don’t remember.”
John felt his stomach churn as they looked at each other. The last thing they needed was for Roman to turn out to be non-human, too... especially if they couldn’t work out quickly what he was.
