50 States, Colorado - Wanted

[amberdreams]

Wanted

Title: Wanted
Author: amber1960

Characters: Sam & Dean, Victor Henricksen (Gen - AU)
Rating: PG-13

Words: c11,300

State: Colorado
Summary: The year is 1874 and the Winchesters’ family business – hunting evil – has got them into trouble with the law.  A bounty hunter and Pinkerton agent, Victor Henricksen, is hot on their trail. This is an AU broadly based on canon, so think of Season 3 sometime after Sin City.  Some events have happened up till now just as they did in the show, others are slightly different.  It diverges from canon from here on in.

Warnings: Character death, use of the N word and racist behaviour, other swearing, lots of whump.
You can download a PDF version with the art here.

Many thanks to my lovely friends dizzojay and Viv (Edina Clouds) for giving this little fic a very speedy beta!

****

Dean twitched, trying to lose the sensation that Sam’s accusing gaze was burning a hole between his shoulder blades. He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle; his balance off now that his hands were cuffed so cruelly-tight behind his back.  His horse stumbled slightly as the bounty hunter yanked on Dean’s lead rein as they started ascending the steep canyon’s slopes. Dean wobbled, desperately clenching his thighs to avoid sliding off the lively black mare.  There was a reason Dean had called her the Imp, she sure liked to lead him a merry dance.  It was alright for Sam.  Dean’s thoughts were full of resentment.  That Pinkerton bastard had cuffed his brother’s wrists together in front, so Sam could handle his reins and horse with no problem where he brought up the rear of their party.

Apparently Dean was the really dangerous Winchester, and therefore merited the additional security.  So Henricksen had told the bemused brothers as he’d forced Sam to embrace Dean whilst the agent had fastened Sam’s wrists together.  What a palaver that had been.  Though the elder Winchester had to acknowledge that the embarrassment of being pressed up so intimately against the great long streak of his giant brother was a more effective deterrent to thoughts of escape than virtually anything else that sick bastard Henricksen could have devised.  Dean was only too eager to keep his own hands as far away from his brother’s body as possible, so he had obeyed the command to hold them behind his own back with alacrity. 

At any other time Dean would have been making the most of being considered the mad, bad and dangerous Winchester, but right now, he was failing to see the funny side.

 Dean cursed a blue streak as he barely managed to regain his balance, and heard Henricksen snort with disapproval.  Dean shot their captor a glare as the Pinkerton agent glanced over his shoulder, a gesture of defiance that nearly had the outlawed hunter out of his saddle again.  Trust his luck to get captured by a Bible-bashing prissy mouthed bounty hunter.  Maybe the self righteous prick and Sam could get together to discuss theology over the camp fire tonight, do a bit of bonding.  Dean carried on swearing, but under his breath.

And the day had started so well, too.

****

Agent Victor Henricksen was good at keeping his head down and being inconspicuous, in spite of the novelty value of a man with his skin colour in nine out of ten of the places his job sent him.  He was also very good at gauging when remaining anonymous was going to be the best way to get the information he needed; so when he rode into Round Rock, Arizona, it didn’t take him many minutes to decide this was going to be one of those times.

One of the greatest mysteries posed by this particular task, handed to him by Allan Pinkerton himself back in Chicago three months ago, was how these two young outlaws somehow managed to turn a town on its head, so the last thing the local law-abiding populace wanted to do was tell an official Pinkerton agent where two of the most notorious and dangerous criminals in the west were hiding out.  Even the $10,000 dollar apiece reward being offered had not been enough to persuade apparently decent folk to hand them over.

If Victor didn’t know better, he’d have sworn those two had supernatural powers, and were bewitching people.  Because alongside the bloody trail of bodies, the Winchesters left in their wake a small posse of individuals willing to defend those same boys to the hilt, swearing blind the brothers had saved their lives over and over from untold evils. 

Yet all Victor was seeing was that death travelled with the Winchesters, and that not many of those deaths were clean, nor quick neither.  Back in Milwaukee in that bank the Winchesters had so singularly failed to rob, they had left three bloody bodies, one a young woman whose skin had been ripped from her arm before she’d been stabbed in the chest with, of all things, a silver paper knife.  That had been one of the worst so far, and Henricksen couldn’t for the life of him understand why the girl’s identical twin had been convinced that her own sister was some sort of shape shifting monster, and refused to even go to the funeral. 

Shape shifters with glowing eyes, werewolves, ghosts that wouldn’t rest and needed their corporeal remains desecrated and burned?  It was all just madness - sheer ungodly madness that followed the Winchester brothers around like a bad smell.  Well, Victor was the man to put an end to the madness.  Put an end to those Winchesters too, if he had to.  He was a fair man and wanted to see justice done, but from everything he’d seen, Dean Winchester at least deserved the hangman’s noose, and if push came to shove, Victor knew how to shove.  The man was a monster, and would get no mercy from Victor Henricksen.

Victor knew he couldn’t be more than a day or two behind the brothers when he rode into Round Rock and settled his tired horse into the livery stables.  After the debacle in Milwaukee, where he’d called in local law enforcement and then suffered the public humiliation of having the outlaws slip through his fingers, Victor was playing things more cautiously this time.   He strolled into the town’s one and only saloon bar with the minimum fuss, ordering his whiskey (a full bottle of their best rot-gut) and retiring to a quiet table at the back of the room before any of the regular clientele even noticed a stranger was in town.  Not that there were many folks about to notice anything; the place was quiet as a grave for the first hour or so, but Victor was a patient man.  He nursed his bottle and the chipped glass, drank sparingly and sat back in the growing shadows to wait.

As the sun coloured the horizon first gold, then deep crimson, the Rooster Saloon began to fill up with noisy cow hands, and the Round Rock saloon girls, such as they were, got busy.  Victor listened carefully to the rumble of conversations, picking out the threads that sounded interesting and starting to weave them into something useful.  Something like a fragile piece of rope that would lead him to the men he was seeking.

After another hour, Victor had the information he needed.   He also knew that he had time to get this right.  The Winchesters had been here and were staying tonight at the Lonely T Ranch, a few miles out of town.  Thanks to the gossip, Victor knew exactly where he could find the two criminals the next day – heading north-west up the Indian trail towards Durango, Colorado.  Perfect country for setting an ambush.

Henricksen dismissed the distracting tall tales that were woven around the hard facts he needed.  The arrant nonsense about the Winchesters taking out a nest of vampires here in Round Rock, and then heading out to tackle demons in Colorado, was clearly just another case of the mysterious mass hysteria that seemed to follow the two men around.

Victor put it all out of his mind and focussed on his prime objective; the capture, dead or alive, of Dean and Sam Winchester.

****

The Winchesters had left the Lonely T Ranch early that morning, the sun just pinking up the sky in the east as they headed out.  Sam reluctant, Dean eager to leave.

“I don’t see why we can’t stop here for a few more days at least, Dean.  Missy Anne was mighty grateful to us, and the townsfolk too, and we could do some more research with that Indian guy Marshall Beck mentioned, before rushing head-first into trouble like we always seem to…”

Sam droned on and on, but Dean was doing a good job of filtering him out, letting the sound of the crickets in the dry grasses and the steady clopping of their horses’ hooves on the hard packed earth smooth over his little brother’s plaintive monologue.

Sam would run out of steam eventually, if Dean just let him talk it out.

“…and it might stop you trying to get yourself killed while we still have months to find a way out of your deal…”

Or then again, maybe Sam wouldn’t run out of steam.  Maybe he’d just keep scratching that particular itch until Dean was raw and bleeding again.

“Sam, that’s enough.” 

Dean reined in his mare and blocked his brother’s path, flung his arms out.

“Look.  We have the old Paterson colt, and we know it works thanks to Casey and the Padre.” Dean managed not to show the internal flinch that memory still brought with it – or the blank look that had leached all the warmth out of Sam’s hazel eyes as his little brother had pulled the trigger on the pretty demon’s meat suit.

 “Thanks to Casey we also know there are hundreds of demons out there gunning for you, Sam.  So hanging around drinking tea with the lovely Missy Anne is not top of my list of things to do.  Going to Durango like we promised Bobby, and ridding the world of some more demons – now that is up there.”

“Yeah, Dean, we do have the demon killing colt, but that doesn’t make us – make you – invulnerable.  You can’t seem to stop throwing yourself in front of every evil thing that comes our way.  Like back there in Round Rock, cutting yourself and practically inviting those vamps to snack on you.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue but Sam just rode over his unspoken words.

“And then there was that crazy move with Gordon Walker and his cronies, drawing their fire on you like that.”

“Oh come on now, Sam, it worked, didn’t it?  Both times. It worked, and nobody but the bad guys got hurt.”

It was Dean’s turn to cut Sam off this time.  “And you going after Gordon after he turned, all on your own, killing him with nothing but a piece of wire – reckless, don’t you think?  As for more research, well, no Indian shaman can help me get out of a crossroads deal.  Ain’t nobody who can wangle that one.”

Sam was frowning, looking like he was going to protest so Dean carried on hastily.

“We’ve been through this already, Sam.  I’m not having this conversation again.  If we try and get out of the deal, you die and I am not letting that happen.  Not again.  Not ever.”

“So it’s alright for you to die…”

“Yes it is!” Dean yelled.  Then his shoulders slumped and he carried on more quietly. “Yes, it is. What’s done is done, Sam.”  He left unsaid the words that were always at the back of his mind. Because you will be fine without me, you’ll get over it.  But I couldn’t live without you.

“Dean…,”

“No, Sammy, please.  I can’t…” Dean paused.  Swallowed convulsively, fighting to get himself back under control.  He pulled on the reins sharply and turned his mare to face north again.  “So tell me about these demons signs in Colorado then.  What did Bobby’s telegram say?”

He didn’t need to look back to see the look of frustration that was crossing his little brother’s face right now. In the last few weeks and months he’d seen it too many times, could hear it in the furious breath Sam huffed out as the younger Winchester kicked his heels into his mount’s flanks and followed Dean along the Indian trail out of Arizona.   The kid was angry, Dean understood that, but there was nothing he could do about it.

He patted the Imp’s gleaming neck and tried to enjoy the scenery.

****

It was the distinctive sound of a rifle cocking that finally brought the Winchesters out of their angry silence.

“Hold it right there, gents,” came a vaguely familiar voice, drifting down from the cover of jumbled rocks that lined the side of the trail.  The brothers froze, and their mounts came to a stand, Dean’s black mare tossing her head restlessly.  “Hands in the air where I can see them.”  The voice commanded, and the brothers obeyed after a swift exchange of glances.  The recognition hit both brothers simultaneously, and Sam nodded, grim faced, as Dean mouthed Henricksen at him.

“Very good.  Dean first; dismount, nice and slow.”  Sam could see the calculating look in his brother’s eyes and desperately signalled with his own for Dean to stay calm and not do anything stupid.  He watched with relief as the older Winchester obediently if reluctantly followed the Pinkerton agent’s instructions to the letter, and lay face down in the trail dirt.  With fingertips only, Dean un-holstered his Remington pistol and with an audible groan of protest threw it awkwardly into the grass beyond his reach.  Cheek pressed into the dirt, he laced his fingers behind his head and watched helpless as Sam followed suit, joining his brother prone on the ground.  Both Winchesters visibly winced as the precious Paterson colt skittered into the dust alongside Dean’s pistol.

“Gotta hand it to ya, Henricksen.  You’re certainly persistent.” Dean muttered into the uncaring earth.

****

The canyon opened out into a wider valley, and the trail began to wind its way upwards, hugging the steep rock tumbled sides.  The view was magnificent, the valley framed by wind-sculpted pinnacles of striated sandstone in many shades of pink and gold, and up ahead the vista was punctuated by the dark evergreen of pinyon pine and juniper, a promise of shade.  However, Dean was no longer in the right frame of mind to appreciate the glories that Mother Nature had to offer. The river wound its way through the valley, gleaming silver in the sun, but all Dean could think of was how the shimmering light hurt his eyes.  He was intensely irritated by the rivulets of sweat running unchecked down his face, unable to brush it away with his hands cuffed behind his back, and irritation turned into desperation when a droplet collected on the end of his nose.  Finally he lost patience with it, and twisted his head to try and wipe off the offending drip on his shoulder.  All he accomplished was to knock his hat off, so he was then being simultaneously choked by its lanyard where it hung down his back, and roasted by the rays of the sun, beating down on his exposed head.

“Son of a bitch!”

Sam looked up at that, and in spite of their predicament, laughed out loud at the chagrined look on his brother’s red sweaty face.

“Hey, Henricksen, give us a minute, would ya?”  Sam pulled up his mount and waited for Dean to catch up the length of the lead rein.  He ignored the snick as the Pinkerton man cocked his rifle just in case.  Sam knew Henricksen would take no chances, and he wasn’t stupid enough to test the agent’s resolve.  His stubborn brother tried to pull away from Sam’s helping hands, but the younger Winchester knew Dean too well and refused to be put off from his mission to straighten him out.  Hat firmly back in place, the Winchesters reluctantly turned back towards their captor. 

Victor was frowning, rifle held loose but ready, when his bay mare shifted her stance and the rattle snake that had been sleepily sunning itself woke up to the fact that a ton of horse-meat was about to step on it.  All three men were taken by surprise, but none of the humans were as upset by the dry threatening rattle as Victor’s horse was.  She whinnied loud and shrill enough to wake the dead (and Dean had to hope that analogy stayed figurative not literal) and reared up, throwing the startled Agent. 

Henricksen disappeared over the edge of the steep slope in a tumble of flailing limbs, while his mare took off in a cloud of dust back the way they had come.

The Winchesters were quick to respond in kind.  Sam yanked his horse around, Dean’s black mare’s lead rein still firmly tied to his pommel, unlike Sam’s own rein that had been in Victor’s hand, and was consequently now hanging loose and free; an error on the Pinkerton Agent’s part that Sam was happy to take advantage of.  He set their horses at a canter back down the slope they’d just ascended, not slowing until they’d put a mile or more between them and the fallen Agent.

“Don’t suppose you got the keys to these cuffs, eh, Sammy?”  Came a plaintive, slightly breathless voice from behind him, as they slowed their mounts to a walk.

“Nope, but I do have this,” Sam worked his bound hands into his waistcoat pocket, and pulled out a bent piece of wire; a paper clip.  Dean would never mock Sam for collecting newfangled office stationery ever again.

“That’s my boy,” Dean said with a smile of satisfaction.  Sam helped the older Winchester dismount, and had the lock on the handcuffs jimmied in no time at all.  Dean circled his shoulders and shook out his hands, relieved of the heavy weight at last, then grabbed the mangled-looking paper clip to make similarly short work of his brother’s cuffs.  Sam rubbed his wrists then looked across at Dean.

“You know we have to go back, don’t you.” 

It wasn’t really a question, and Dean knew it; but he had an image to maintain, so made his token protest regardless.  Sam ignored him, but Dean understood that perfectly, since he was undermining his own position by pointing the Imp’s velvety nose northwards, even as he spoke.

“There’s water down in the valley, and his horse will probably come back…”

“Dean, he could be injured; we can’t leave him out here alone to die.”

Dean sighed, rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, taking a moment to luxuriate in his ability to wipe the trickle of sweat away.  He kicked his heels into Imp’s sleek flank.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.  He’d only come back and haunt our asses any way. Vamos compadre.”

It didn’t take them long to find the agent.  Dean had been right - the Pinkerton agent’s horse had wandered back, and was standing over the unconscious man, just a little way down the slope.  The two outlaws set up a camp and by the time Dean had a fire started, the agent had woken up.  To their chagrin, it didn’t take Henricksen long to get over his gratitude and surprise that the Winchesters had come back for him.

“You gotta understand, boys.  You are dangerous men, and I owe it to the innocent people of America to make sure you ain’t gonna harm anyone else.”  Henricksen was saying, as he had them cuff each other again – and where the hell did he find another two sets of handcuffs anyway? Dean wanted to know.  The only acknowledgement the Pinkerton man made to their gesture of goodwill was to allow Dean to have his hands bound in front of him this time.

“Man, we could have just left you to die out here, and you do this to us?” A plaintive Dean waved his steel cuffs at the agent.

Victor just shrugged, lowering his rifle now both outlaws were safely restrained again.

“I admit, I was surprised to see you hadn’t run away when you had the chance.” He said.

“That’s because we are not the evil sons of bitches you think we are,” Sam was leaning forward, giving Victor his most potent earnest face.  Dean was proud of the boy.

“So how do you explain those poor women your brother tortured and murdered in California?  Or the three dead people in that bank in Milwaukee?”  Victor raised a hand.  “And don’t tell me it was a demon or a ghost, please.”

“Both of those were shape shifters, actually,” Dean grinned at the agent, and leaned back against a fallen tree, stretching his booted feet out towards the flames.

It was going to be a long night.

****

The party had unknowingly crossed the border into the state of Colorado and were approaching the flat table tops of the Mesa Verde when trouble found them again.

The trail twisted, following the eroded path of the canyon as it turned west for a mile or so into the setting sun.  Its rays were angling straight into the faces of the travellers, almost blinding them as it dipped towards the horizon, and that is why none of them saw the black bear before they were on top of it.  Or rather, the bear was on top of them.

The first clue that this was nothing natural was the fact that the black bear attacked them at all.  Bears were not uncommon in the wooded parts of the mesas, but they tended to be wary of humans.

This one was not at all wary as it reared up to its full height and swung at Sam, who tumbled off his panicking horse onto the ground, landing awkwardly and laying still as death.  It took Victor, who was in the lead as usual, a few precious moments to get his horse turned around so he could find out what was happening, by which time Dean had flung himself off his horse with a yell.  Victor watched in stunned disbelief as the older Winchester rolled and regained his feet in one swift motion, only to pitch himself at a run towards the looming form of the bear that was menacing the younger Winchester.  For the life of him, Victor couldn’t see what Dean thought he was going to do with his hands still cuffed and no weapon. 

Coming to his senses, Henricksen had his rifle to his shoulder in seconds, and fired off round after round into the broad shaggy back of the animal where it stood over the prone outlaw, fully expecting to see it go down.  The bear didn’t even flinch as the bullets hit.  That was the second clue.

The bounty hunter was forced to hold his fire as Dean Winchester literally charged headlong into the fray, butting the bear’s side as if he was a human bull.  The bear staggered slightly then turned on Dean with a roar, felling the man with one swipe of a paw.  Dean rolled with the blow and started to crawl away, drawing the enraged creature away from Sam.  Victor raised his rifle again and took aim, but his lead flew uselessly over the bear’s head as it dropped to all fours and chased after Dean.

“Goddamit!”

The third clue was more of a giant house-sized sign.  It was the killer blow to all of Victor’s years of education and rational thought.  The bear moved like a black blur and caught up with Dean. Before Victor could reload the rifle, the creature had scooped up the young man in a dark embrace and was swinging around on its hind legs again, as if it preferred being upright.  Dean dangled in the bear’s arms, his face white and strained, the animal’s slavering muzzle pressed up against his cheek. And when Dean attempted a typical Dean Winchester wise-crack about this not being the sort of hugging he had in mind, the bear answered back.

“Dean Winchester. Always the clown.”

Victor froze, rifle hanging limp in his hand, his mouth dropped open.

The words were garbled and tortuous, mangled by vocal chords designed only for growling and roaring.  But they were clearly words, spoken in English by a black bear.

****

Part 2 this way....

Comments

[quickreaver.livejournal.com]

*squeeeeee!* A Western!!! Be still my heart. Downloading this to bring with me on Xmas vacation; I'll comment when I get back!

[amberdreams.livejournal.com]

I hope you like it! :D Happy Holidays.... xx