ACES WILD (4/?)
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.
The second part of Dean’s processing took less time than he’d feared and so far he’d got through it relatively unscathed. He’d been allowed to use the toilet facilities before being taken to the depository, the guards barked insults at him all the way. They shoved him in the back when he didn’t move quickly enough, even though he had no idea where he was going. They saw no reason to tell him either. He’d overheard their buddies calling them Walt and Roy but preferred to think of them simply as a pair of cocksuckers. That seemed like a good fit.
Inside the depository a sullen prisoner issued him bedding, wash kit and extra items of uniform then he was herded back to the exercise yard, laden with clothes and blankets. The place was deserted and the heat hit him like a punch in the face. The sun was unbearably bright after the dim coolness of the prison buildings and he staggered as it speared his eyes. A wave of nausea engulfed him, the yard began to spin and his legs lost their strength. He sank gracelessly to the packed dirt, trying not to vomit in front of the guards but was unsuccessful on that account. Since there was nothing in his stomach to bring up though, he simply dry retched for half a minute which wrenched his guts and burned his throat. He heard laughter above him and a boot in his ass sent him sprawling.
“Nobody said you could take a rest. Get up, Winchester.”
Dean struggled to his knees, tried to gather the items he’d dropped and another boot knocked him flat on his face. More laughter and he felt a rush of anger. He was aching to jump up and hit those fuckers in their stupid faces but right now he was having trouble even seeing straight. Maybe he’d save that pleasure for another time.
“I said on your feet, prisoner.”
The threat in Walt’s voice was clear. Dean got up awkwardly and collected his kit, braced to be knocked over again the whole time but it didn’t happen. Walt pulled him to the centre of the yard, right where it was hottest then made him stand there while he rattled off a long list of regulations and punishments. The sun beat on his head, rivulets of sweat ran down his back and his stomach growled with hunger, clenching up and sending spasms through his body.
Dean tried to pay attention but he couldn’t stay focussed. His vision was blurring and the pile of clothes and blankets he was holding became unbearably heavy. He dropped it all on the floor as blackness consumed him but just as his legs were buckling, strong arms slid round his midriff and hauled him upright. A harsh voice rang out.
“What the hell are you doing? Can’t you see he’s dead on his feet?”
Dean thought he recognised the voice then realised he was hallucinating. The owner of that particular voice had no business anywhere near Yuma prison.
Roy responded in a sneering tone. “What’s it to you, Campbell? What do you care about this worthless piece of shit?”
Campbell’s voice went cold. “He missed dinner last night and he’s had no breakfast. How long can a man last without food in his belly? How long would you last, Roy? You stupid fucker.”
Roy sounded righteously angry now. “We ain’t here to wet nurse bastards like him, and you’ve got no business interfering.”
Dean heard the sound of boots approaching and they scuffed to an abrupt halt beside him. The voice which spoke now possessed a gruff authority which stopped the argument dead in its tracks.
“Walt, Roy, you’re a disgrace to that uniform. Yuma is a humane institution and prisoners will be treated with respect unless they give us cause to do otherwise. I’m docking you both a day’s pay and if I hear of any more shit like you’ll be out on your asses. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Captain.” Walt and Roy mumbled in unison and neither sounded happy.
“Pick up Winchester’s stuff, put it in his cell then get out of my sight.”
The dizziness was receding. Dean opened his eyes and wiped stinging sweat out of them with his sleeve. Roy’s flushed face was in his direct line of vision and he looked mutinous. The captain spoke again, harsher this time.
“Keep looking that way and I’ll fire you here and now. What’s it to be?”
The guards slouched away, grousing to each other and Dean blinked at the newcomer. He was middle aged, grizzled and could best be described as battle worn. His beard was shot through with grey but the eyes which met Dean’s were sharp and astute. A battered Union army cap sat atop his head and he bore stripes on the shoulder of his uniform.
The man behind Dean released his grip and came to stand beside him. Dean recoiled in shock when he saw who it was because in this nightmare, hallucination or wherever the hell he was, the guard called Campbell had the face of his brother, Sam. His heat addled brain struggled to comprehend what was in front of his eyes and he opened his mouth to blurt out a question.
“Don’t try and talk.” The apparition spoke with Sam’s voice. “Let’s get him to the pump, Captain.”
They helped Dean across the yard and pushed him to his knees. He heard squeaking, grinding and then cool water was pouring over his head. He cupped his hands to catch some and gulped it down, unaware how thirsty he’d been until now. He felt a hand on his shoulder, Sam’s voice in his ear.
“Drink slowly or you’ll bring it up.”
Dean squinted into his brother’s face, which betrayed no recognition or emotion. Now his mind was clearer he realised this couldn’t possibly be an apparition; what he couldn’t figure out was why the hell Sam was here at all. He was about to ask when a bell started ringing deep in his subconscious and he stayed silent. The captain was frowning at him.
“How are you feeling, Winchester?”
“Okay, I guess.” He tried to get up and was consumed by another wave of nausea.
“Scratch that. I think I’m about to puke.”
Sam helped him to his feet. “You’ll feel better when you’ve eaten.”
He led Dean inside the prison and temperatures grew progressively cooler as they went along. They fetched up in the mess hall, a low room full of trestle tables and Sam pushed him onto a stool then hurried into the kitchen. The captain waited with him, assessing him openly but saying nothing.
Dean’s head felt heavy and he propped it in his hands, listening to water drip from his hair and tormented by the smell of a breakfast already eaten. Hunger had become an unbearable pain and his stomach was clenched so tight he thought he might vomit again. Finally he heard footsteps approaching and raised his head. Sam placed a bowl, a beaker and a spoon in front of him.
“Porridge is all they had left. You eat as much as you need.”
Something in his tone made Dean glance up and Sam looked him right in the eye. “Try to gather your wits, okay?”
It took him a moment to recognise the warning, by which time Sam and the captain had walked off a few paces and Dean turned his attention to the food. The porridge was lumpy and lukewarm but there was butter, sugar and nutmeg in the mix, most likely Sam’s doing. Dean thought it might just be the best thing he’d ever tasted. He wolfed it down, confident there would be no digestive complications then drained the beaker of water in one draught. The captain called over.
“You want some more?”
Dean gawped at him, having never expected to get offered seconds. Sam grinned and took the receptacles back to the kitchen but once again the captain stayed put.
“When your belly’s full we’ll get you to the hospital, have them check you over for heatstroke.”
Dean nodded and the man continued.
“I’m Captain Singer. I head up the guards here in Yuma and I consider myself a fair man. I won’t tolerate individuals being mistreated on account of being prisoners, but I won’t watch inmates make a mockery of us either. Do you understand?”
Dean nodded again.
“The words you’re looking for are ‘yes sir’.”
Dean didn’t reply and the silence dragged out for half a minute before Singer sighed and shook his head.
“Got us another tough guy, huh? Think on this then, Winchester. Some of the guards have orders to make your life hell but that won’t happen on my watch so long as you behave. Anyone I find mistreating you will be dealt with severely.”
Dean pondered how much Singer could influence orders which came right from the top of the command chain and his conclusion wasn’t promising. Now his most pressing needs had been addressed, however, he could at least think properly again. Sam wasn’t a figment of his overheated imagination and Dean’s stomach twisted as he realised how close he’d come to blurting out something incriminating in the exercise yard.
Of course Sam was here with him. Where else would he be except right by his side? When Dean had been cornered into this mission his brother had insisted he be part of it as well. Right now Dean was damned glad Sam had been his usual stubborn self, had gotten his way then come up with the inspired idea of disguising himself as a prison operative. Their immediate challenge now was finding a place where they could talk freely. Dean needed to get urgent word of Zachariah’s vendetta to the men in Chicago, tell them how things had gone south within twenty four hours of his arrival and how the warden was entirely capable of having him killed.
Affairs with Fergus MacLeod, on the other hand, had gone exactly to plan. MacLeod knew he and Sam were connected and had been discreetly curious about the money in their cell. While he was currently hedging his bets, Dean could think of several ways to make him show his hand.
Right on cue the man himself limped into the room, followed by an irritable looking guard. Dean hoped they’d be on their way but they came straight over to his table and MacLeod was pushed onto the stool opposite. The guard joined Captain Singer and Sam put another bowl of porridge in front of Dean.
“You want some, MacLeod?”
MacLeod shook his head and Sam shrugged then went over to his comrades. Dean was still hungry enough to be more interested in food than anything else and he was halfway through his bowl when he realised MacLeod hadn’t said a word. That was unusual bordering on miraculous and he glanced up. MacLeod’s face was sombre and he was staring at the table, eyes glassy and unfocussed. He looked to be miles away and Dean took a rare opportunity to study him.
MacLeod was stouter than he remembered. He’d always been fond of his food and it was beginning to show round his midriff. His hair was dark, well-groomed as ever and these days he was sporting a spruce-looking beard. Dean placed him in his mid-forties but in truth he had no idea of the man’s age. He remembered those hooded eyes well though. MacLeod had always reminded him of a hawk, a lone, predatory bird in a harsh terrain but right now it seemed his wings had been clipped.
Dean took a mouthful of porridge and spoke round it, knowing it would irritate his companion.
“You’re awful quiet, for once.”
It took MacLeod some time to rouse from his reverie. “I don’t like doctors.”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Why’d you go to the hospital, MacLeod?”
“None of your bloody business. How’d you get a bullet in your guts, Winchester?”
Dean shrugged. “I got involved with the wrong man and he’s dead.”
He paused, watching MacLeod closely. “Did you kill the man who gave you that limp?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But the question hit its mark and MacLeod’s left eye twitched slightly; the tell Dean had been looking for.
“Sure you do. Word is someone shot you in the back, left you for dead then rode off with the bullion you’d just robbed.”
MacLeod’s expression darkened. “Let’s just say I’ve got affairs to settle.”
“From inside a cell?” Dean snorted. “The only thing you’ll be settling is your date with the hangman.”
MacLeod tensed and some of the colour left his face. “How is your situation any different, Winchester? When they get round to trying you, you’ll swing for sure.”
“Except I don’t plan on being around for that.”
MacLeod threw him a pitying look. “You’ll need more than money and a tame guard to get out of here, old chum. Didn’t I tell you things have changed?”
Dean shrugged. “A change is as good as a break.”
MacLeod scowled. “A change is as good as a rest, you pillock.”
Dean smiled. “You go ahead and rest, MacLeod. See how that works out.”
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.
The second part of Dean’s processing took less time than he’d feared and so far he’d got through it relatively unscathed. He’d been allowed to use the toilet facilities before being taken to the depository, the guards barked insults at him all the way. They shoved him in the back when he didn’t move quickly enough, even though he had no idea where he was going. They saw no reason to tell him either. He’d overheard their buddies calling them Walt and Roy but preferred to think of them simply as a pair of cocksuckers. That seemed like a good fit.
Inside the depository a sullen prisoner issued him bedding, wash kit and extra items of uniform then he was herded back to the exercise yard, laden with clothes and blankets. The place was deserted and the heat hit him like a punch in the face. The sun was unbearably bright after the dim coolness of the prison buildings and he staggered as it speared his eyes. A wave of nausea engulfed him, the yard began to spin and his legs lost their strength. He sank gracelessly to the packed dirt, trying not to vomit in front of the guards but was unsuccessful on that account. Since there was nothing in his stomach to bring up though, he simply dry retched for half a minute which wrenched his guts and burned his throat. He heard laughter above him and a boot in his ass sent him sprawling.
“Nobody said you could take a rest. Get up, Winchester.”
Dean struggled to his knees, tried to gather the items he’d dropped and another boot knocked him flat on his face. More laughter and he felt a rush of anger. He was aching to jump up and hit those fuckers in their stupid faces but right now he was having trouble even seeing straight. Maybe he’d save that pleasure for another time.
“I said on your feet, prisoner.”
The threat in Walt’s voice was clear. Dean got up awkwardly and collected his kit, braced to be knocked over again the whole time but it didn’t happen. Walt pulled him to the centre of the yard, right where it was hottest then made him stand there while he rattled off a long list of regulations and punishments. The sun beat on his head, rivulets of sweat ran down his back and his stomach growled with hunger, clenching up and sending spasms through his body.
Dean tried to pay attention but he couldn’t stay focussed. His vision was blurring and the pile of clothes and blankets he was holding became unbearably heavy. He dropped it all on the floor as blackness consumed him but just as his legs were buckling, strong arms slid round his midriff and hauled him upright. A harsh voice rang out.
“What the hell are you doing? Can’t you see he’s dead on his feet?”
Dean thought he recognised the voice then realised he was hallucinating. The owner of that particular voice had no business anywhere near Yuma prison.
Roy responded in a sneering tone. “What’s it to you, Campbell? What do you care about this worthless piece of shit?”
Campbell’s voice went cold. “He missed dinner last night and he’s had no breakfast. How long can a man last without food in his belly? How long would you last, Roy? You stupid fucker.”
Roy sounded righteously angry now. “We ain’t here to wet nurse bastards like him, and you’ve got no business interfering.”
Dean heard the sound of boots approaching and they scuffed to an abrupt halt beside him. The voice which spoke now possessed a gruff authority which stopped the argument dead in its tracks.
“Walt, Roy, you’re a disgrace to that uniform. Yuma is a humane institution and prisoners will be treated with respect unless they give us cause to do otherwise. I’m docking you both a day’s pay and if I hear of any more shit like you’ll be out on your asses. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Captain.” Walt and Roy mumbled in unison and neither sounded happy.
“Pick up Winchester’s stuff, put it in his cell then get out of my sight.”
The dizziness was receding. Dean opened his eyes and wiped stinging sweat out of them with his sleeve. Roy’s flushed face was in his direct line of vision and he looked mutinous. The captain spoke again, harsher this time.
“Keep looking that way and I’ll fire you here and now. What’s it to be?”
The guards slouched away, grousing to each other and Dean blinked at the newcomer. He was middle aged, grizzled and could best be described as battle worn. His beard was shot through with grey but the eyes which met Dean’s were sharp and astute. A battered Union army cap sat atop his head and he bore stripes on the shoulder of his uniform.
The man behind Dean released his grip and came to stand beside him. Dean recoiled in shock when he saw who it was because in this nightmare, hallucination or wherever the hell he was, the guard called Campbell had the face of his brother, Sam. His heat addled brain struggled to comprehend what was in front of his eyes and he opened his mouth to blurt out a question.
“Don’t try and talk.” The apparition spoke with Sam’s voice. “Let’s get him to the pump, Captain.”
They helped Dean across the yard and pushed him to his knees. He heard squeaking, grinding and then cool water was pouring over his head. He cupped his hands to catch some and gulped it down, unaware how thirsty he’d been until now. He felt a hand on his shoulder, Sam’s voice in his ear.
“Drink slowly or you’ll bring it up.”
Dean squinted into his brother’s face, which betrayed no recognition or emotion. Now his mind was clearer he realised this couldn’t possibly be an apparition; what he couldn’t figure out was why the hell Sam was here at all. He was about to ask when a bell started ringing deep in his subconscious and he stayed silent. The captain was frowning at him.
“How are you feeling, Winchester?”
“Okay, I guess.” He tried to get up and was consumed by another wave of nausea.
“Scratch that. I think I’m about to puke.”
Sam helped him to his feet. “You’ll feel better when you’ve eaten.”
He led Dean inside the prison and temperatures grew progressively cooler as they went along. They fetched up in the mess hall, a low room full of trestle tables and Sam pushed him onto a stool then hurried into the kitchen. The captain waited with him, assessing him openly but saying nothing.
Dean’s head felt heavy and he propped it in his hands, listening to water drip from his hair and tormented by the smell of a breakfast already eaten. Hunger had become an unbearable pain and his stomach was clenched so tight he thought he might vomit again. Finally he heard footsteps approaching and raised his head. Sam placed a bowl, a beaker and a spoon in front of him.
“Porridge is all they had left. You eat as much as you need.”
Something in his tone made Dean glance up and Sam looked him right in the eye. “Try to gather your wits, okay?”
It took him a moment to recognise the warning, by which time Sam and the captain had walked off a few paces and Dean turned his attention to the food. The porridge was lumpy and lukewarm but there was butter, sugar and nutmeg in the mix, most likely Sam’s doing. Dean thought it might just be the best thing he’d ever tasted. He wolfed it down, confident there would be no digestive complications then drained the beaker of water in one draught. The captain called over.
“You want some more?”
Dean gawped at him, having never expected to get offered seconds. Sam grinned and took the receptacles back to the kitchen but once again the captain stayed put.
“When your belly’s full we’ll get you to the hospital, have them check you over for heatstroke.”
Dean nodded and the man continued.
“I’m Captain Singer. I head up the guards here in Yuma and I consider myself a fair man. I won’t tolerate individuals being mistreated on account of being prisoners, but I won’t watch inmates make a mockery of us either. Do you understand?”
Dean nodded again.
“The words you’re looking for are ‘yes sir’.”
Dean didn’t reply and the silence dragged out for half a minute before Singer sighed and shook his head.
“Got us another tough guy, huh? Think on this then, Winchester. Some of the guards have orders to make your life hell but that won’t happen on my watch so long as you behave. Anyone I find mistreating you will be dealt with severely.”
Dean pondered how much Singer could influence orders which came right from the top of the command chain and his conclusion wasn’t promising. Now his most pressing needs had been addressed, however, he could at least think properly again. Sam wasn’t a figment of his overheated imagination and Dean’s stomach twisted as he realised how close he’d come to blurting out something incriminating in the exercise yard.
Of course Sam was here with him. Where else would he be except right by his side? When Dean had been cornered into this mission his brother had insisted he be part of it as well. Right now Dean was damned glad Sam had been his usual stubborn self, had gotten his way then come up with the inspired idea of disguising himself as a prison operative. Their immediate challenge now was finding a place where they could talk freely. Dean needed to get urgent word of Zachariah’s vendetta to the men in Chicago, tell them how things had gone south within twenty four hours of his arrival and how the warden was entirely capable of having him killed.
Affairs with Fergus MacLeod, on the other hand, had gone exactly to plan. MacLeod knew he and Sam were connected and had been discreetly curious about the money in their cell. While he was currently hedging his bets, Dean could think of several ways to make him show his hand.
Right on cue the man himself limped into the room, followed by an irritable looking guard. Dean hoped they’d be on their way but they came straight over to his table and MacLeod was pushed onto the stool opposite. The guard joined Captain Singer and Sam put another bowl of porridge in front of Dean.
“You want some, MacLeod?”
MacLeod shook his head and Sam shrugged then went over to his comrades. Dean was still hungry enough to be more interested in food than anything else and he was halfway through his bowl when he realised MacLeod hadn’t said a word. That was unusual bordering on miraculous and he glanced up. MacLeod’s face was sombre and he was staring at the table, eyes glassy and unfocussed. He looked to be miles away and Dean took a rare opportunity to study him.
MacLeod was stouter than he remembered. He’d always been fond of his food and it was beginning to show round his midriff. His hair was dark, well-groomed as ever and these days he was sporting a spruce-looking beard. Dean placed him in his mid-forties but in truth he had no idea of the man’s age. He remembered those hooded eyes well though. MacLeod had always reminded him of a hawk, a lone, predatory bird in a harsh terrain but right now it seemed his wings had been clipped.
Dean took a mouthful of porridge and spoke round it, knowing it would irritate his companion.
“You’re awful quiet, for once.”
It took MacLeod some time to rouse from his reverie. “I don’t like doctors.”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Why’d you go to the hospital, MacLeod?”
“None of your bloody business. How’d you get a bullet in your guts, Winchester?”
Dean shrugged. “I got involved with the wrong man and he’s dead.”
He paused, watching MacLeod closely. “Did you kill the man who gave you that limp?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But the question hit its mark and MacLeod’s left eye twitched slightly; the tell Dean had been looking for.
“Sure you do. Word is someone shot you in the back, left you for dead then rode off with the bullion you’d just robbed.”
MacLeod’s expression darkened. “Let’s just say I’ve got affairs to settle.”
“From inside a cell?” Dean snorted. “The only thing you’ll be settling is your date with the hangman.”
MacLeod tensed and some of the colour left his face. “How is your situation any different, Winchester? When they get round to trying you, you’ll swing for sure.”
“Except I don’t plan on being around for that.”
MacLeod threw him a pitying look. “You’ll need more than money and a tame guard to get out of here, old chum. Didn’t I tell you things have changed?”
Dean shrugged. “A change is as good as a break.”
MacLeod scowled. “A change is as good as a rest, you pillock.”
Dean smiled. “You go ahead and rest, MacLeod. See how that works out.”