Ok, so I posted this story briefly last weekend and then freaked the fuck out about it and took the thing down. But a kind friend read it, unruffled my feathers, and encouraged me nicely to get a grip and post it again.
Here’s the deal: this story’s a Western AU for Supernatural, one that begins at the end of episode 6.18, “Frontierland.” I’m fond of it. It’s different. I hope you dig it, too.
This is Part I of III, I think.
The sheriff of Sunrise knows that something in his head ain’t right. That he don’t quite fit in, where he’s at, even if he’s not sure why. He stands out a little, sure. But then, so does the town doctor—a man who seems determined to run Sheriff outta Sunrise once and for goddamn all.
When the dust settled, the sheriff was alone.
Six-shooter, sure. Dead Phoenix at his feet. Ok. But no Sam, no fucking clue as to why watching the clock on the courthouse strike twelve felt final, once and for all.
He waited there in the street for a while. Alone, only by rights, because the rest of the town was still terrified: of him, of the thing he’d just smoked, of each other.
He stood stock still, yelling his brother’s name like it was the only word he could remember. Hell, at that point, maybe it was.
His head felt cloudy, like a June day with a storm that wouldn’t break. Like something was wrong. Like he was.
But he couldn’t remember why.
There was just Sunrise. An afternoon in April in the year of Our Lord 18 and 61.
“Well, shit,” he whispered finally, all shouted out at last.
And that was the smartest damn thing he said all day.