ACES WILD (2/?)
Title:ACES WILD
Author: andiivalo
Category: Gen, AU, Western
Characters: Dean, Sam, Crowley
Pairings: None
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The year is 1882, the place is Yuma prison. Fergus MacLeod is awaiting trial and less than impressed with his new cellmate, the notorious outlaw Dean Winchester. Can they resolve their differences and form an escape plan, or is there a bigger agenda in play? What follows is deception, double dealing and deadly peril as the stakes increase along with the six shooters.
NOTE: I will be updating this story with a new chapter every Sunday evening, Brit time. If you like it, you know when and where to find it.
Dean lay back in the bathtub with a grunt of relief. It felt like an age since he’d last experienced this luxury and the feeling of getting clean again was better than words could describe.
His head was stinging from the kerosene the guards poured over it, right before they’d ordered him to strip and removed his clothes for burning, but Dean was glad to see them go. He’d been living in those stinking garments for over a month and it had both pained and amused him to watch people back away on account of the smell.
He wet his hair in the lukewarm water then washed it with tar soap, grimacing as his fingers came into contact with his raw scalp. It took three attempts before all the dust, sand and grime was gone and the water was blackening steadily. He was just about done when a guard banged on the door and ordered him to hurry up so he turned his attention to the rest of his body. The bruises and abrasions were too numerous to avoid so he just gritted his teeth, scrubbed himself down then did it over again for good measure. He dried off with a threadbare towel then reluctantly pulled on his prison uniform. It bore the white and pale grey stripes of the territorial prison, was old and well-worn but starchy and clean. Right now Dean considered that a victory.
The shaving kit he’d been instructed to use was needed sharpening but he did his best with it, cropping his hair short with the scissors provided. It looked rough and uneven, he had no idea what was going on round the back but it wasn’t like anyone here actually gave a shit. He repeated the process on his straggly beard and mustache then got in close with the razor, startled by the many bruises it revealed. He fetched up with a couple days worth of growth but liked it that way. No sense coming into Yuma prison looking like a fresh-faced kid.
He felt almost human again once he was done and grinned as he recalled Fergus MacLeod’s reaction to his slovenly, stinking presence in the cell. MacLeod had looked about to puke at one point and Dean had almost laughed out loud.
“What the hell you smirking at, boy?”
Dean hadn’t heard the guard enter but reacted in character. He scowled at the man lounging in the doorway.
“Nothing to concern an asshole like you.”
The man reddened then called outside.
“Go fetch the shackles, Walt. We got us a live one here.”
Dean didn’t bother resisting. He’d learned from the guards on the prison train, painfully, how putting up a fight only made things worse. He let them shackle his hands behind his back then let them punch him in the mouth. He was so used to abuse like this he barely noticed the pain anymore. When they’d finished he spat blood on the floor and sneered.
“Is that all you fuckers got?”
They looked ready to give him more when another guard hurried into the room and pulled up short, gaping at the scene.
“What the hell’s going on? Zachariah wants to see him and we ain’t even got the photographs done yet.”
Dean tried to get his bearings as they hauled him from the bathhouse to a clapboard office, but it was too dark to see much of anything. He was pushed into a chair beside a desk and the guards jawed behind him while a man with spectacles hunched over a typewriter and tapped his particulars onto a form. Documenting his many offences took an age and Dean was almost asleep when he was pulled upright and led to a corner of the room. A bulky camera sat on a tripod and he was blinded by a flash of light, then twice more for good measure. After that they were on the move again. They took him to a new part of the prison, everything was new to Dean, and fetched up outside an adobe building partially built into a sheer rock face. The words Governor B.C Zachariah were etched into the door. A guard knocked, went inside and was out again in a few seconds.
“Governor wants to see him alone.”
Dean was prodded inside and the door closed softly behind him. He found himself in an ostentatious room, lit by candles and oil lamps. The walls were painted terracotta, hung with colourful paintings and tapestries and Mexican rugs adorned the floor. It was furnished with a polished wooden desk, bookcases and cupboards. A leather Davenport sat in front of a fire which burned in a grate, though it wasn’t yet cold outside. The man seated behind the desk had his nose stuck in a burrito.
The savoury smell made Dean’s stomach growl. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten and whatever it was hadn’t been memorable. The Governor chomped his way through the burrito, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin as he went. Dean was practically drooling by the time he finally looked up.
“Dean Winchester. I’ve waited a long time to meet you again.”
Dean studied him, trying to remember the face. He came up empty. Zachariah was a stout, jowly man in his mid-fifties. He had a pale complexion, receding grey hair and a self-satisfied air about him. Right now he was wearing a tight smile.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
Dean shrugged. “You look like any other rebel son of a bitch.”
“Watch your mouth, prisoner.”
Zachariah got to his feet and came round the desk. He was roughly the same height as Dean but judging from his girth, way too fond of Mexican food. He grabbed a piece of paper and approached, brandished it like a trophy.
“This states how you’re the property of the US Marshals in Tucson but while you reside in this facility you fall under my jurisdiction. If you dare speak like that again I’ll have you whipped in the yard.”
The smile which split his features made Dean’s skin crawl.
“It’ll take some considerable time for those Marshals to make their case against you. In the meantime you belong to me.”
Dean had no idea why this man was so belligerent. He covered his confusion with a scowl.
“If you’ve got a beef with me, just come out and say it.”
Zachariah moved fast for such a portly specimen. He grabbed Dean’s shirt and pushed him against the wall. He yanked the garment open and buttons popped and scattered across the floor. The Governor gazed at his exposed torso for a few moments before smirking and jabbing his finger at an old scar on Dean’s left breast, an inch above his heart.
“Think back on how you got that one, you cocksucking bastard.”
The penny finally dropped. Dean had taken that bullet in Nogales, right after the last bank robbery he’d ever committed. He was with his brother, just the two of them and while the raid went like a dream the aftermath was a nightmare from hell. They’d been inside the bank when a company of federal soldiers arrived and they’d walked out into a hail of bullets. Lead was flying, Dean was shot three times, bleeding heavily and firing randomly, just trying to stay alive. They’d gotten away by the skin of their teeth, both badly injured and it had taken the best part of three months to recover. The Pastor who’d taken them in had done more than sew them up and save their lives though. What he’d done was nothing short of miraculous.
Zachariah was watching him closely, nodding sagely. “You remember don’t you? I was commanding officer of that company and you shot my Captain through the head. He was the bravest man I ever knew, stood beside me through a dirty fucking war and all it took was one worthless outlaw to finish him.”
Dean was shaken by his words, wanted to explain how none of that had been deliberate but he couldn’t let his mask slip. He sneered at Zachariah.
“Were you queer for him or something?”
A fist landed in his guts, right on top of his most recent gunshot wound. It was mostly healed now but still tender and the pain forced him to his knees, gasping. Zachariah’s self-righteous voice droned above him.
“I was sure I’d killed you. I thought I’d put a shell through your black heart but what I’ve got here now is downright heaven sent.”
A boot connected with Dean’s ribs, knocked him off balance and he fetched up face down on the floor. Fingers wound into his hair and jerked his head up with force enough to wrench his neck.
“You’re going to do the hardest time possible, Winchester. By the time they hang you, you’ll be begging for death.”
Zachariah released him and called for the guards. A brief conversion was conducted then Dean was hauled to his feet and half walked, half dragged for what seemed like eternity. When his wrists were finally released from the shackles he was thrown onto something only slightly more comfortable than the floor. After that things got hazy.
Dean couldn’t move. His guts were aching, his head spinning and he was trembling from a combination of cold and shock. The scheme he’d been pressured into had always carried risk but that had been comprehensively downplayed by the men from Chicago. Now it was clear those men had made a fundamental miscalculation. Or perhaps it was deliberate… Either way, unless Dean got word out of Yuma quickly, he might well die in this place.
He was dimly aware of a light being struck. It revealed a familiar looking room and he slowly realised he was on his bunk in the high security cell. Fergus MacLeod was standing over him, looking baffled.
“What the bloody hell happened to you? You’re shaking like a leaf.”
He plucked something from his own bunk and spread a blanket over Dean.
“They didn’t get around to the bedroll, eh?”
When Dean didn’t respond he tutted loudly.
“You’re welcome. I suggest you try and drink some of this.”
He was holding the bottle Dean off-loaded earlier. “It tastes like horse piss but I suppose you’re used to that.”
Dean reached for the bottle, grunting as the action aggravated his latest injuries. He took a gulp and grimaced. MacLeod smiled.
“Not exactly top shelf, is it?”
That wasn’t the cause of Dean’s reaction though. The booze was rough but as MacLeod pointed out, he was used to it. However, since taking a bullet in the guts four months ago he had trouble consuming hard liquor and that pissed him off royally. Even though he’d regret it later, right now he needed its comfort more. He took another gulp, then another.
MacLeod was studying him intently. “You look like crap, mate. Processing can be rough but I’ve never seen anyone come out of it this badly. You must have really given those guards some backchat.”
Dean shrugged. “They asked for it.”
MacLeod perched on his bunk. “On the upside, at least that abominable smell is gone.”
Dean nodded. “Small mercies, huh?”
“You still like making things hard on yourself, don’t you Dean Winchester.”
Dean had known it was only a matter of time before MacLeod recognised him. Their relationship six years ago, brief and violent, wasn’t the kind of thing a man forgot in a hurry. He raised the bottle in salute.
“Here’s to old times.”
Author: andiivalo
Category: Gen, AU, Western
Characters: Dean, Sam, Crowley
Pairings: None
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The year is 1882, the place is Yuma prison. Fergus MacLeod is awaiting trial and less than impressed with his new cellmate, the notorious outlaw Dean Winchester. Can they resolve their differences and form an escape plan, or is there a bigger agenda in play? What follows is deception, double dealing and deadly peril as the stakes increase along with the six shooters.
NOTE: I will be updating this story with a new chapter every Sunday evening, Brit time. If you like it, you know when and where to find it.
Dean lay back in the bathtub with a grunt of relief. It felt like an age since he’d last experienced this luxury and the feeling of getting clean again was better than words could describe.
His head was stinging from the kerosene the guards poured over it, right before they’d ordered him to strip and removed his clothes for burning, but Dean was glad to see them go. He’d been living in those stinking garments for over a month and it had both pained and amused him to watch people back away on account of the smell.
He wet his hair in the lukewarm water then washed it with tar soap, grimacing as his fingers came into contact with his raw scalp. It took three attempts before all the dust, sand and grime was gone and the water was blackening steadily. He was just about done when a guard banged on the door and ordered him to hurry up so he turned his attention to the rest of his body. The bruises and abrasions were too numerous to avoid so he just gritted his teeth, scrubbed himself down then did it over again for good measure. He dried off with a threadbare towel then reluctantly pulled on his prison uniform. It bore the white and pale grey stripes of the territorial prison, was old and well-worn but starchy and clean. Right now Dean considered that a victory.
The shaving kit he’d been instructed to use was needed sharpening but he did his best with it, cropping his hair short with the scissors provided. It looked rough and uneven, he had no idea what was going on round the back but it wasn’t like anyone here actually gave a shit. He repeated the process on his straggly beard and mustache then got in close with the razor, startled by the many bruises it revealed. He fetched up with a couple days worth of growth but liked it that way. No sense coming into Yuma prison looking like a fresh-faced kid.
He felt almost human again once he was done and grinned as he recalled Fergus MacLeod’s reaction to his slovenly, stinking presence in the cell. MacLeod had looked about to puke at one point and Dean had almost laughed out loud.
“What the hell you smirking at, boy?”
Dean hadn’t heard the guard enter but reacted in character. He scowled at the man lounging in the doorway.
“Nothing to concern an asshole like you.”
The man reddened then called outside.
“Go fetch the shackles, Walt. We got us a live one here.”
Dean didn’t bother resisting. He’d learned from the guards on the prison train, painfully, how putting up a fight only made things worse. He let them shackle his hands behind his back then let them punch him in the mouth. He was so used to abuse like this he barely noticed the pain anymore. When they’d finished he spat blood on the floor and sneered.
“Is that all you fuckers got?”
They looked ready to give him more when another guard hurried into the room and pulled up short, gaping at the scene.
“What the hell’s going on? Zachariah wants to see him and we ain’t even got the photographs done yet.”
Dean tried to get his bearings as they hauled him from the bathhouse to a clapboard office, but it was too dark to see much of anything. He was pushed into a chair beside a desk and the guards jawed behind him while a man with spectacles hunched over a typewriter and tapped his particulars onto a form. Documenting his many offences took an age and Dean was almost asleep when he was pulled upright and led to a corner of the room. A bulky camera sat on a tripod and he was blinded by a flash of light, then twice more for good measure. After that they were on the move again. They took him to a new part of the prison, everything was new to Dean, and fetched up outside an adobe building partially built into a sheer rock face. The words Governor B.C Zachariah were etched into the door. A guard knocked, went inside and was out again in a few seconds.
“Governor wants to see him alone.”
Dean was prodded inside and the door closed softly behind him. He found himself in an ostentatious room, lit by candles and oil lamps. The walls were painted terracotta, hung with colourful paintings and tapestries and Mexican rugs adorned the floor. It was furnished with a polished wooden desk, bookcases and cupboards. A leather Davenport sat in front of a fire which burned in a grate, though it wasn’t yet cold outside. The man seated behind the desk had his nose stuck in a burrito.
The savoury smell made Dean’s stomach growl. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten and whatever it was hadn’t been memorable. The Governor chomped his way through the burrito, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin as he went. Dean was practically drooling by the time he finally looked up.
“Dean Winchester. I’ve waited a long time to meet you again.”
Dean studied him, trying to remember the face. He came up empty. Zachariah was a stout, jowly man in his mid-fifties. He had a pale complexion, receding grey hair and a self-satisfied air about him. Right now he was wearing a tight smile.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
Dean shrugged. “You look like any other rebel son of a bitch.”
“Watch your mouth, prisoner.”
Zachariah got to his feet and came round the desk. He was roughly the same height as Dean but judging from his girth, way too fond of Mexican food. He grabbed a piece of paper and approached, brandished it like a trophy.
“This states how you’re the property of the US Marshals in Tucson but while you reside in this facility you fall under my jurisdiction. If you dare speak like that again I’ll have you whipped in the yard.”
The smile which split his features made Dean’s skin crawl.
“It’ll take some considerable time for those Marshals to make their case against you. In the meantime you belong to me.”
Dean had no idea why this man was so belligerent. He covered his confusion with a scowl.
“If you’ve got a beef with me, just come out and say it.”
Zachariah moved fast for such a portly specimen. He grabbed Dean’s shirt and pushed him against the wall. He yanked the garment open and buttons popped and scattered across the floor. The Governor gazed at his exposed torso for a few moments before smirking and jabbing his finger at an old scar on Dean’s left breast, an inch above his heart.
“Think back on how you got that one, you cocksucking bastard.”
The penny finally dropped. Dean had taken that bullet in Nogales, right after the last bank robbery he’d ever committed. He was with his brother, just the two of them and while the raid went like a dream the aftermath was a nightmare from hell. They’d been inside the bank when a company of federal soldiers arrived and they’d walked out into a hail of bullets. Lead was flying, Dean was shot three times, bleeding heavily and firing randomly, just trying to stay alive. They’d gotten away by the skin of their teeth, both badly injured and it had taken the best part of three months to recover. The Pastor who’d taken them in had done more than sew them up and save their lives though. What he’d done was nothing short of miraculous.
Zachariah was watching him closely, nodding sagely. “You remember don’t you? I was commanding officer of that company and you shot my Captain through the head. He was the bravest man I ever knew, stood beside me through a dirty fucking war and all it took was one worthless outlaw to finish him.”
Dean was shaken by his words, wanted to explain how none of that had been deliberate but he couldn’t let his mask slip. He sneered at Zachariah.
“Were you queer for him or something?”
A fist landed in his guts, right on top of his most recent gunshot wound. It was mostly healed now but still tender and the pain forced him to his knees, gasping. Zachariah’s self-righteous voice droned above him.
“I was sure I’d killed you. I thought I’d put a shell through your black heart but what I’ve got here now is downright heaven sent.”
A boot connected with Dean’s ribs, knocked him off balance and he fetched up face down on the floor. Fingers wound into his hair and jerked his head up with force enough to wrench his neck.
“You’re going to do the hardest time possible, Winchester. By the time they hang you, you’ll be begging for death.”
Zachariah released him and called for the guards. A brief conversion was conducted then Dean was hauled to his feet and half walked, half dragged for what seemed like eternity. When his wrists were finally released from the shackles he was thrown onto something only slightly more comfortable than the floor. After that things got hazy.
Dean couldn’t move. His guts were aching, his head spinning and he was trembling from a combination of cold and shock. The scheme he’d been pressured into had always carried risk but that had been comprehensively downplayed by the men from Chicago. Now it was clear those men had made a fundamental miscalculation. Or perhaps it was deliberate… Either way, unless Dean got word out of Yuma quickly, he might well die in this place.
He was dimly aware of a light being struck. It revealed a familiar looking room and he slowly realised he was on his bunk in the high security cell. Fergus MacLeod was standing over him, looking baffled.
“What the bloody hell happened to you? You’re shaking like a leaf.”
He plucked something from his own bunk and spread a blanket over Dean.
“They didn’t get around to the bedroll, eh?”
When Dean didn’t respond he tutted loudly.
“You’re welcome. I suggest you try and drink some of this.”
He was holding the bottle Dean off-loaded earlier. “It tastes like horse piss but I suppose you’re used to that.”
Dean reached for the bottle, grunting as the action aggravated his latest injuries. He took a gulp and grimaced. MacLeod smiled.
“Not exactly top shelf, is it?”
That wasn’t the cause of Dean’s reaction though. The booze was rough but as MacLeod pointed out, he was used to it. However, since taking a bullet in the guts four months ago he had trouble consuming hard liquor and that pissed him off royally. Even though he’d regret it later, right now he needed its comfort more. He took another gulp, then another.
MacLeod was studying him intently. “You look like crap, mate. Processing can be rough but I’ve never seen anyone come out of it this badly. You must have really given those guards some backchat.”
Dean shrugged. “They asked for it.”
MacLeod perched on his bunk. “On the upside, at least that abominable smell is gone.”
Dean nodded. “Small mercies, huh?”
“You still like making things hard on yourself, don’t you Dean Winchester.”
Dean had known it was only a matter of time before MacLeod recognised him. Their relationship six years ago, brief and violent, wasn’t the kind of thing a man forgot in a hurry. He raised the bottle in salute.
“Here’s to old times.”