Title: Tall Black Hats and Horseless Heroes

Author: Silverkitsune

Part: 1/1

Pairings: None

Rating: G

Summary: Sam never gets trapped in the family friendly clichés. Firefly crossover if you squint

Spoilers: None

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Firefly or any of their respective characters. No money is being made from this.

Author's Note #1: Ok, this is dedicated to my friend Christie who literally dreamed this. Originally, we laughed at ridiculousness of the idea. Then I decided to write a fic about it, because I have no will power.

Author's Note #2: If you tilt your head, squint, drop your pants around your ankles and sing "Lay Down Sally" you will see two Firefly characters show up in this. Think of it like a Magic Eye game. Not knowing who these characters are will not hinder your ability to read this.

Sam knew how to find clichés. He knew the patterns they made as they danced across the T.V. screen, and the way the notes looked when scratched over a sheet of music. He could pluck them out of novels, poetry and really bad fanfiction (though he liked to keep his interest in the last one under wraps), and lock them in neatly typed term papers for English teachers to marvel over, film professors to approve of and Dean to scoff at. His brother, always the proficient hunter, knew how to spot clichés too, but while Dean was willing to let the little suckers scamper off into the proverbial sunset, Sam's hunt for them had never ended.

The college degree, the beautiful girlfriend, the marriage, the older brother as best man at said wedding, the job, the smart successful wife who would talk with him before falling asleep, the 2.5 kids (or even the 3.5 if that's how it worked out because he was a flexible guy), the house in the suburbs, taking his grandchildren to baseball games. Yes, he Sam Winchester knew the world's clichés and embraced them all. Or at least, he embraced most of them. He was not, for example, too crazy about the one he was currently trapped in.

He'd woken up alone with a fuzzy head, a swollen tongue, and his hands tied to the wheel of the Impala. It had taken a minute for him to adapt to the dull ache that had set up shop in his brain. When his vision had cleared, he'd seen that he was not in the parking lot of a small town Texas library, but straddling a set of train tracks in the middle of nowhere.

It wasn't the clichés' fault. It wasn't like the cliché had seen him, knocked him out and tied him to a set of railroad tracks. Still, it was annoying to know that the only clichés willing to pounce on him were the ones found in black and white silent films and not PG rated family flicks.

The first half hour consisted of him rubbing his wrists raw, even though he'd known it was hopeless from the moment he'd woken up. The ropes were tight, and both the knife he kept in his boot and the one in his pocket were missing. Still, it created the illusion that he was being pro-active, and until he could think of a better plan it kept him calm. It wasn't until a long train whistle sliced through the night that he started to panic.

The train was a problem for a few reasons. The first being that if it took out the Impala Sam was pretty sure Dean would never speak to him again. The second being that if it took out the Impala Sam knew Dean was no longer going to have a brother to not speak too. And where the hell was Dean anyway?

The train let out another long throaty whistled, and Sam heard the steady chug of the wheels and gears mixed into the low sound. A soft yellow light that grew larger by the second barreled forward. A quick whistle blast followed by yet another long mournful one skittered across the Impalas gleaming black hood.

North American train whistles blow in the minor seventh chord, his brain announced in what Sam was pretty sure was supposed to be a helpful tone. Different combinations of long and short whistles have their own coded meanings.

He got an eyeful of the train's cow catcher, and then the head end was on him, swallowing both Impala and passenger.

The noise was deafening. It slid into his bones, making his teeth vibrate. The world around him became a sick mess of colors. Sam was unable to get a good look at the blurred and tilted workings of the engine as he passed through it (or rather as it passed through him), but his nose picked up a burning smell of coal. He didn't scream when he slid through the first passenger car. He thought he would have liked to scream, but having the minds of some 200 deceased passengers slam into his skull hurt too much. His mouth was open, he knew that much, but he also knew that if he did cried out it was in some sort of high pitched dog whistle key.

The bleeding colors came together in the passenger cars to form a variety of hazy shapes. Women in long skirts and bonnets, men in boots and cowboy hats, dirty faced children and carpet bags. For one brief moment he locked eyes with a girl of sixteen with long brown hair and bare calloused feet.

"Your symbol is late," she said, her voice slipping in and out of his mind. "But it's not his fault. Don't let him turn to paper."

She moved to brush a lock of hair out of her eyes, but flew by before Sam could see her complete the gesture.

The sticky sweat and blood mix staining the rope, and the violent chattering of his teeth were the first things he noticed when the last of the cars ran through him. It took him longer to pick up on the nose bleed since it was dark and the blood dripping onto his jeans looked black instead of red. He would have missed the head injury too if a pale white hand hadn't reached over and brushed his bangs out of his eyes.

"You've knocked your head against something."

Sam was clear enough to guess that the 'something' was the Impala's steering wheel since he was leaning against it.

"Can you sit up?"

Sam's answer was less a word than it was a jumble of consonants all battling to get across his tongue first. He settled for a groan and hoped whoever the speaker was could translate.

"Let me help."

Cold hands tipped his head, and Sam shivered. He'd expected an older man, late thirties at least, and dressed in black. He'd expected a sharp mean face, a tall stove top hat and the droopy kind of mustache that begged to be twirled. He'd expected thin lips and a voice like rusty nails that would taunt him, tell him how his hero had been too late to ride to his rescue. It may not have been the kind of cliché Sam wanted, but it was still his cliché and he wanted things done properly. However, a proper cliché, even a twisted one, didn't seem to be in any deck of the Winchester's cards. The man occupying the passenger seat looked no older than 25. His hair was black, combed and neat looking, a sharp contrast to Sam's shaggy mess. A long clean shaven face was accented by a long nose, and two bright blue eyes that studied him intently.

"Don't worry. I'm a doctor," the man said reaching for a slim black medical bag, the kind Sam had only seen in old westerns.

Despite the dust the other man felt sterile and clean, or at least he did until he leaned over to get a better look at Sam's temple. In the light of the gibbous moon Sam saw that where the man's left arm should have been there was only a bloody stump.

"It won't need stitches," the doctor said. "Still, I want to clean it before I bandage it. I'll have my sister ask the conductor for some water when he comes back this way."

Sam blinked, and the doctor did a full body convulsion that left nothing but a skeleton in his place before the skin reappeared. "What?"

The other man frowned at the question. "Can you tell me your name? Where you are? What year it is?"

Ducking his head, Sam wiped his still bleeding nose on his shirt sleeve. "What year do you think it is?"

There was no change to the doctor's expression; no pregnant pauses or concerned twitches in the blue eyes. "I think you may need that water now. Stay right here. I'll be back."

The slightly dusty shoe passed through the Impala's side door, and the doctor was gone. Bleeding back into own phantom pattern.

A light flashed in the rearview mirror, and Sam's jaw clenched, his breath coming in quick pants. An Asian woman with smile lines down her mouth and crows feet around her eyes materialized on the other side of the door.

"Sam Reynolds?" she asked, her voice butting against the glass of the closed window. The sharp clear white light bounced from the mirror and straight into his eyes, leaving him blind

"Yeah," Sam answered even though he distinctly remembered Dean settling on the name Washburne before rolling into town.

"I'm Deputy O'Malley," she said, tipping her wide brimmed hat away from her face. "Are you alright?"

"I'm….here."

She didn't respond, turning instead towards another moving light, this one bobbing and weaving across the grass.

Sam jerked away from the door as the deputy was roughly shoved aside.

The jingling sound of keys caught Sam's ear, and the door was yanked open. "Sammy? You alright? Jesus Christ, your hands."

There was a flashlight in his eyes again. "Dean?"

"Oh, sorry." The light disappeared, and Sam shut his eyes tightly hoping to chase away the spotty vision.

"Hey," he said once Dean's face came into focus. "Where's your horse?"

"What? Horses are jerks, Sam," Dean answered. "Your nose is bleeding."

Sam stretched his tongue to lick his upper lip. "Yep."

"Told you he'd be here," the deputy said from behind Dean. "They always end up here. A little shook up, but right as rain."

Dean's eyes pinball from his brother's forehead, to his nose to his hands. "Right."

"Your brother's not the first person to go missing around here and end up on these tracks," the deputy continued as Dean sawed away the ropes. "We think it's some kind of prank the high school kids are playing on people. It's a cruel, but harmless. These things haven't been used in decades. Not since-"

"A train derailed?" Sam asked in a tired voice.

"Yes," the deputy said, surprised. "How did you know?"

Sam sighed, and accepted Dean's outstretched hand. "Because that's just how these kinds of things go."