[AU] two worlds, a lot of demons, and a new set of problems

[gavemea_45]

It's still hard to believe it's over; that the yellow-eyed demonic bastard they'd spent their whole lives hunting is finally dead.

Sam figures it'll sink in eventually. Given everything else -- right now he's still pretty numb.

He's also desperately tired, but that doesn't matter. There's something he needs to do, and he can't afford to delay.

He waits until they've settled in for the night, and then waits still longer. Once Dean's been asleep for half an hour, Sam picks up his messenger bag -- already stuffed with books and his computer -- and heads straight for the bar.

He orders black coffee and snags a table with a good view of both doors and the stairs, then pulls out the first of the old texts and starts to search through it.

There's work to do.

Comments

[gavemea_45]

It's been a while since he's felt like smiling, but he can't help it. "I think she's giving you a hint," he calls over.

[pacificator]

She glances over her shoulder at the guy, then reaches for the bottle itself, unscrewing the top and taking a swallow. "I don't do hints," she says – to him, to the Bar, to –

Okay. Maybe just to those two. As she tips the bottle up, she glances down at the sheaves of paper and stacks of books on his table, the laptop he's working on. "Sheesh."

Wynonna sets the bottle down. "Actually, maybe you need this more than I do. What's with the homework, braniac?"

[gavemea_45]

"Just some research." At least here he doesn't have to hide the basics of what he's working on. Sam takes a fast look at the visible notes and browser tabs, concluding it's okay - if weird, for a civilian - then looks at the bottle she's holding.

"Celebrating or drowning sorrows?"

[pacificator]

"Research."

She tips a measure of the whiskey into a tumbler, just so she can scoff into the glass as she takes a sip. "You should meet my sister. She's a nerd, too."

His question gets a lift of her eyebrows. "Maybe it's both. Maybe I'm multitasking."

[gavemea_45]

"You sound like my brother," he drawls. "Don't knock the book work. It can be useful."

It's got to be. Humor fading, he looks down at the entry in front of him for a moment.

"Don't let me keep you, then."

[pacificator]

"Oh, believe me, I know exactly how useful it can be."

She drags out another stool and sets one fringed black boot on it, then crosses her other foot over the first. Peacemaker's tucked in, nice and cozy along her calf, the handle of the ancient revolver poking up over the edge of her boot. Lounging like this, she sips at her whiskey and considers him.

She's already multitasking. Why not add one more thing to the list? Say... finding out what Nerdy McGiant over there is so focused on. "Okay, I'll bite. What kind of research?"

[gavemea_45]

He clocks the weapon sticking out of her boot, and in the next instant his eyes narrow in interest as he sees the deep polish to the wood that speaks of age. "Nice gun."

Sam eyes her, then shrugs and turns the book so she can see the title page, which proclaims an English translation of Goethe's Faust.

[pacificator]

"Thanks." She rolls her wrist, letting the whiskey slope around the tumbler. Research, he'd said. Her eyes narrow a little, though her tone stays easy.

"Someone you know make a deal with the devil?"

[gavemea_45]

Sam gives her a second, sharper look. "Most people would ask if I was an English major."

[pacificator]

Up go her eyebrows again, and she cants her head to the side. That book, and all those papers, and the way he'd clocked Peacemaker –

"Are you?"

[gavemea_45]

"No, but it's what most people would ask. First," he adds, since she'd done just that when he called her on it. "So why didn't you?"

[pacificator]

"No English major would notice Peacemaker. First," she amends. There's a sarcastic edge to the words.

She meets his glance and holds it, her own cool and steady. "And you said research. Not that you were writing a book report."

[gavemea_45]

His eyebrows rise. "Peacemaker? As in Colt?" He leans a little to the side to get a better look at what he can see of the gun.

[pacificator]

"Uh-uh-uh."

She tsks at him and crosses her legs the other way to remove Peacemaker from view. "I asked first."

[gavemea_45]

Sam gives her an exasperated look, but leans back in his chair. “Ran into a few who did, a while back,” he says, bluntly. “It was a damn mess.”

It isn’t even a lie. “Figured I’d better read up on it before the next time.”

[pacificator]

"Was that so hard?"

Her tone is angelic, though her glance is thoughtful. She takes another swallow of the whiskey and swings off her seat, reaching down in the same motion for Peacemaker's polished ivory grip. She draws the 12-inch barrel from her boot and lifts the gun for his inspection, balanced in her hands, as she strolls towards him. "The Colt Buntline Special," she says, her steps slow. She turns the gun in her hands, the nose of the barrel against her fingers, and watches his reaction carefully.

"Five of them were commissioned in 1876. Presented by Ned Buntline to five lawmen. As thanks for helping to give a little color and realism to his books."

A beat. "Allegedly."

[gavemea_45]

“Allegedly, huh?” He keeps his tone light, although his gaze is searching. The way she’s holding it, he can’t see if there’s a familiar engraving on the grip, but he has to wonder.

“Samuel Colt was a genius, back where I’m from.” Among other things.

[pacificator]

"He made good guns, I'll give him that."

Either he doesn't know the apocrypha of Wyatt Earp and the Buntline Special, or he's keeping it to himself. Wynonna nocks a hip against his table and idly glances down at the books and papers there. "So, these people who made deals. What kind of mess it turn into?"

[gavemea_45]

“That’s not all he made.” Sam holds out a hand. “May I?”

[pacificator]

Her smile flickers, short. "Why not?"

No one can shoot Peacemaker but her, and it might tell her something she needs to know. She sets the gun on top of the open book, the long barrel underlining the title that had so piqued her interest.

[gavemea_45]

Sam lets out a low whistle as he takes in the quality of the weapon. The barrel’s longer than their Colt, which makes sense since it’s a Buntline instead of a Paterson.

Carefully, admiring the ivory grip, he picks it up to sight along the barrel to the floor - and yelps as it suddenly flares and sears his hand with fiery pain. Sam’s unable to hold it, dropping it back to the book in front of him.

“What the hell?!”

[pacificator]

Quick as a snake, she snatches the gun back, her thumb moving instinctively to cock it, before she grimaces and pauses, halting the smooth swing up to aim it at his forehead.

No business in the bar. For some reason, she hears it in Dolls' voice.

Though maybe she shouldn't be surprised. The guy loves his rules. "I don't know how you got here," she says, low and dangerous. "But why don't we take this outside, and you can tell me just exactly what the hell you are. Or I can make a mess of this bar and get tossed in the slammer for a few days."

Her eyes are hard as she watches him. "Your choice, Stretch."

[gavemea_45]

“It’s Sam,” he bites out. The gun’s pointed at his leg, which would be more reassuring if it hadn’t just burned the hell out of him and if he hadn’t seen what a leg shot from their Colt could do. “Winchester. Not Stretch.”

He raises his hands a little, slow and careful, watching her like a hawk. “Take it easy. I don’t know what the hell just happened, but I’m not here to cause trouble. I’m guessing you’re a hunter back where you’re from?”

[pacificator]

"Do I look like I give a crap what your name is?"

He's stalling for time, and her grip tightens a little on the gun. "I don't know what you mean by 'hunter.' I'm the goddamned Heir, and it's my job to send demon scum back to Hell on the Peacemaker express."

Her jaw's tight as she watches him. "Peacemaker burned you. So you're a demon, or a revenant, or both."

Or some other kind of supernatural piece of shit. Honestly, it's getting hard to keep track of them all. "Which is it?"

[gavemea_45]

“I’m not a demon!” He can almost hear Yellow-Eyes laughing, telling him all about his plans, and wishes they could shoot him again. Reluctantly, he admits, “…but I was …marked… by one. Maybe that’s why. But that son of a bitch is dead now. For good.”