Not Until We Are Lost

Peter was no stranger to waking up in unfamiliar places. Normally those places were the middle of fucking nowhere, curled up butt-naked at the base of a tree somewhere with mud and pine needles under his fingernails.

That, he was used to.

Waking up butt naked in dry dirt, with the fading warmth of the sun radiating off the ground? That was a new one. He pushed himself upright on arms that felt little better than the bendy straws you got on cheap juice cartons, flimsy and thin and sure to give out at any moment. His hair was hanging in his eyes, his skin gritty with sweat and dirt. He'd been lying out here long enough that his pale skin was prickling, sweat still drying on his skin. Getting his legs under himself, he crouched, his eyes flicking around as he took in his surroundings.

Welp. This was fucking wierd. This....was not Hemlock Grove. This was a very, very long way from Hemlock Grove, from anything familiar at all.

It looked like he'd walked on to the set of a fucking cowboy movie. Any minute now, Clint Eastwood was going to stroll down the middle of the road, spurs clinking, stale cigar hanging from his lips.

As post-moon fever dreams went, this was shaping up to be a doozy.
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Of all the worlds she had been to so far, this was Phaedra's least favorite. It was an easy thing to decide; here she'd awoken at the end of a rope, relying on Winchesters to save her.

The horror.

She did not like the human beings in this place. Or the aliens posing as humans. Whatever. They were the type to hang their kind. And anyone that wasn't.

She couldn't be sure since she'd woken up already in the noose, but Phaedra tended to suspect the worst of people when it came to their open-mindedness.

Which is why she didn't trust the situation unfolding before her.

Some of the locals--one whose thoughts she seemed to recognize from her time on the gallows-- were approaching this new arrival. She couldn't blame them for THAT fact: he was naked in the street. They were going to have some questions.

She watched and waited to see what they would do, hidden in a shadow. After all, to at least one of these men, she was dead. They'd watched her die, commented on how strange it was that her neck didn't break, taken her pulse.

"Hey, you," one of the men said, as he approached. "Boy!"
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Oh boy. This was a good start.

Peter shoved himself to his feet, unashamedly naked, making no attempt to cover himself as he brushed his hair back from his face with both hands.

"Evening," he said, a disarming smile on his face. "I seem to have gotten myself a little turned around - you know how it is. One whiskey too many at the..." he glanced over, briefly, "...saloon, and suddenly you don't even know what day it is." Or year. Or century. He was really hoping there was an elaborate practical joke being played on someone that wasn't him. The alternative reasoning of 'time travel' was a little too wierd even for him.

"I don't suppose one of you fine gents would be willing to lend me a pair of pants?" He lifted his eyebrows, trying to look as unthreatening as he possibly could. The advantage of being scrawny and average height - it was easy to appear defenseless, even if you weren't.
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The man that'd called the newcomer 'boy' looked him up and down, turned his head, and spat tobacco juice. "We got rules here about public decency."

He shook his head.

"And we got an empty cell over in the jail since we hung the last person who couldn't follow rules. I think you should sleep it off. Maybe your pants'll come back. Whatddya say, Wyatt?"

Phaedra half hoped it was Wyatt Earp, but Wyatt turned out to be a redheaded skinny guy with a tooth missing. He'd bee part of the group that strung her up.

"Let's take 'em in before one of the ladies sees," Wyatt said.