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spirit of the west

Summary:

Dean grew up on a horse farm and can't imagine any other life. There are drawbacks to working for his father, but they're worth it if it means remaining with his beloved horses. Besides, between his broken arm and his lack of prospects, he hasn't got much else.

Something of an outsider, Dean always feels like there's something he's missing. But this tense summer brings back a figure from his past: years ago, a teenaged Cas worked for a season at the Winchester ranch. His return could change everything.

If you ever wanted a 90s horse girl book, but starring a young Dean Winchester, this is your fic.

Notes:

this is the so-called "horse girl Dean Winchester" fic that has been kicking around my brain too long. to readers who like my spooky case fics and fun monsters, I am so sorry. to the readers who've just arrived, saddle-up. you can, if you so wish, find me at this tumblr.

there is, as always, a playlist: spirit of the west

(See the end of the work for more notes and other works inspired by this one.)

Chapter Text

That’s why I’m giving you warning—there’s something I could not tell
The joys as clear as the morning—The tortures akin to hell.
They never will reach outsiders, who were raised in the town’s confines:
But they’re here for the hard old riders, who can read them between the lines.
— Bruce Kiskaddon, “Between the Lines”

With the sun yet to show itself, Dean checked over Fleetwood in the electric light of the stables. The mare, a good-tempered palomino, wouldn’t lead him to grief over an early morning ride, and she was easily wooed by a scoop of fresh oats.

He worked more slowly than usual in tacking her. Getting the saddle on her back with only one good arm required more cooperation than Fleetwood seemed ready to give, though she put up with the adjustments he made. Her skin quivered over her muscles a few times as he once more smoothed out the saddle blanket underneath, making sure it lay even on her. As she settled he pressed a kiss to the smooth hair of her broad cheek.

He cinched the saddle, attached the bridle, then led her out of her stall and out of the stable. It had been a long time since he’d needed a mounting block, a long time, but he didn’t trust his own balance. Impatience won out over pride. He held the reins in his left hand as usual, his good hand, and gave Fleetwood the go-ahead with an easy press of his legs.

His right arm in its sling followed the natural sway of his body. His upper arm twinged beneath its brace from the effort of saddling, but the riding itself didn’t even seem to be so bad for it, he thought. Now that they were moving, he could stay here for hours.

He needed the fresh air. He needed out of the house. He followed a familiar trail up from the ranch, closing his eyes to better breathe in the morning dew. Fleetwood’s even gait hypnotised him, clearing away the dreck in his head and reminding him of why he didn’t just leave his dad’s ranch. He turned eighteen back in January. High school ended last week. Far from an illustrious close-out.

He didn’t have Sammy’s prospects, out on scholarship at that fancy boarding school near San Francisco. He didn’t have much to show at all. But others got by with less to their name. Anyone else might’ve struck out on their own by now.

Only… John needed Dean. And no one else did. These two facts were sufficient to guide Dean’s actions, for better or worse.

Who was he kidding? It was this, too. The dawn breaking over his ride. Taking stock of the land he loved, marking its changes from season to season, day to day. He rode through a world of open spaces. Miles of rippled countryside without fence posts or powerlines. River, forest, hill, all bright and bursting with natural life. Even the wind had character: would rise to meet him and tug at his clothes and bring the taste of grass and stone and sky down into his lungs.

Dean could’ve kept the outing short, put Fleetwood back in the stable before anyone realised she was gone, but it had been nearly a week. He justified it to himself when he thought of going just a little bit farther, then a little bit farther. To the split rock. To the cottonwood grove. To the next rise.

He’d been up early, but no one at the ranch started late. By now they’d have put together his absence and Fleetwood’s. John would have something to say about how he couldn’t muck out a stable, but could still go for pleasure rides. Acting like some little princeling who lived only for leisure. When Sam’s hay allergy kept him out of farm work, despite having been born into it, John took to calling him ‘Your Highness,’ not kindly. Dean didn’t want to hear what John would call him for this.

With the morning sun full and climbing, he rode Fleetwood all the way back to the stable. He’d remove her tack in the stall, where he wouldn’t have so far to carry it, before taking her to drink and cooling her down.

It wasn’t so hard to dismount one-armed. He met no one in the yard, but as he led the horse through to her stall, Jo turned up from around the open doors at the other end of the stables, carrying a heavy broom.

“There you are,” she said. “Out when you shouldn’t be. Figures.” She was just sixteen, a couple years younger than Dean, although try telling her that. Jo had been working on the ranch for so many years she was practically a sister to Dean, and she gave him enough attitude to make him believe it.

“There you are, skulking around,” Dean said. “Figures.”

“Your dad knows you were out riding,” said Jo. It hit somewhere between accusation and advice. She tipped her head to the side and looked at him from under the silver-grey brim of her cowboy hat.

Dean unclipped his sling so that he could move more freely, if slowly, taking off the bridle to start. He didn’t say anything to Jo’s remark. He didn’t ask for her help, either. Fleetwood was a pretty patient horse, part of the draw this morning, as familiar with these routines as Dean was. He hung up the bridle, then stepped back to look at the saddle.

Jo sighed and stepped forward, elbowing Dean gently in the ribs to make him step back. “I’m doing this for Fleetwood, not for you,” she said, unbuckling the girth so that she could remove the saddle.

Jo wasn’t big and the saddle wasn’t light, but she carried it to the wall rack, the farmwork muscles in her arms cording.

“Thanks, Jo,” said Dean, because Fleetwood couldn’t say it for herself.

“Nice ride at least?” Jo asked.

“Sure,” said Dean. He roughed his fingers through the mare’s mane and stroked along her neck. “Nothing intense. Day’s gonna have some heat in it.”

“Is that any good for your arm?” Jo asked. “Riding, I mean. Is it gonna set back how it heals?”

“I don’t really care,” said Dean.

“You’re going stir crazy, huh?” said Jo.

Dean looked over because she had the make of it. “I can’t stay shut up inside,” he said. “All summer.” The brace could be off in as little as three more weeks. As much as eight.

Jo didn’t look sorry for him, but there was something in the tug of her mouth that said she understood. They’d always been alike in that way.

“You look better,” she said. “Only one eye’s still black. You forgiven Jagger for tossing you?”

“Sure,” said Dean. “Not really his fault.”

Turnip, an affectionate grey cat, hopped down from an upper part of the barn to balance along the beam of Fleetwood’s stall. Dean put a hand out to her, and she placed her head under it immediately, purring. Canny little thing, she stood on her hind legs and put one front paw on Dean’s shoulder so that he had to stay in place, stroking a hand along her arched back.

Jo chewed the inside of her cheek in the wake of Dean’s silence, his brief answers. Finally she sighed.

“Can’t believe I’m saying this, but whatever happened to the Dean that doesn’t shut up? You break your tongue that night too?”

“Maybe if we talked about anything else,” said Dean, though he spoke mainly to Turnip and in a quiet, understated tone of voice, scratching the contented cat between her ears.

Jo folded her arms and cocked one hip to the side, visibly holding back further caustic remarks. She finally turned and took the saddle blanket down from Fleetwood’s back. “If you aren’t busy tonight, maybe you could help me with something,” she said, brushing her hand along the blanket as she folded it, purposefully preoccupied.

“What makes you think I won’t be busy?” Dean asked. The cat butted her head against his chin because he wasn’t petting her enough. She purred more furiously than before.

“This is me you’re talking to,” said Jo. “I know you don’t have plans. Will you help me out or not?”

“With what?” Dean asked.

“Something I gotta do,” said Jo. “Just come down the valley road. I’ll be at the intersection before the old red bridge. Get there before midnight.”

“I take it this isn’t help with your algebra homework,” said Dean.

Jo gave him a glare. But she was determined to be tight-lipped, and Dean’s curiosity was sufficient that she didn’t have to say more. He was bored senseless, with his broken arm. He’d do anything for some excitement.

“Fine,” he said. “If I’m not doing anything else tonight. Then, yeah, maybe I’ll meet you.”

“You need any more help with Fleetwood?” asked Jo.

Dean shook his head. “I got the rest from here.” Feeding her, watering her, brushing her down. Even if every task took him extra time, it was one thing he could do, at least. To use up the day, stay out of the house. If he played his cards right, he could time this day so that he didn’t even see John until suppertime. Over the course of the past week, he’d turned it into an art.




He didn’t like to prove Jo right, but of course he didn’t have anything else on.

The wheels of Dean’s truck crunched over the rough gravel road. He slowed as he reached the intersection, where Jo crouched with an electric hurricane lamp. Turning off the truck’s bright headlights, his eyes took a moment to adjust again to the darkness as he got out. He wore his jean jacket loose over the arm with the brace, the warmth of the day swiftly ebbing away.

“Want to tell me what the hell you called me out for?” he asked.

Jo had a spade in hand, digging a hollow into the gravel at the centre of the crossroads. She answered him only with a little huff, not letting up in her work. He came to a stop in front of her, looking down. “We planting something?” he asked.

“Dreams,” she answered. She looked up, tipping back her head to sweep a blonde strand of hair from her face. It had fallen out of her braid long ago. “Ever hear of a crossroads deal?”

Dean furrowed his brow. “Like with the devil?”

“Maybe,” said Jo. Determining that she’d made a deep enough hole, she tossed the spade aside and sat cross-legged on the ground, pulling a tin from her bag.

Dean kept himself in balance despite his lame arm as he sat down near to her, their knees nearly brushing. “That sounds like something worth inviting in, yeah,” he said.

“You superstitious?” she asked.

“I didn’t know you were,” said Dean. He peered into the tin as she flipped it open. A clip of yellow blossoms, some small animal bones, a smattering of dirt.

“I’m bored,” said Jo. “And I’m… tired of all this. This place. Mom telling me I can’t compete for a living. Can’t trick ride.”

“So you’ll, what, sell your soul to get outta this place?”

“If that’s what it takes,” said Jo. She reached into her bag and pulled out a photograph of Dean and Jo together, smiling, arms looped around one another’s shoulders with the humble midway of a county fair in the background. “You in?”

“You don’t really believe in this stuff,” said Dean.

Jo shrugged her shoulders. “Only one way to know for sure,” she said. “But wouldn’t it be something if it worked? Somebody who could give you anything you asked for, just like that.”

Dean looked at the picture in her hands, not answering. Taking it for a no, she changed her hold to tear the photo in two so that only her picture would go in the tin.

“No,” said Dean, holding out his hand to stop her. “No, put me in.”

If she was calling down evil, he couldn’t let her face that kind of thing all alone.

Jo placed the photograph in the tin and sealed it shut. Dreams, she said, but for a moment Dean could only see a coffin in miniature. Jo lowered it down and used her hands to cover the dirt back over the tin.

The pair of them waited for a moment, breath held, peering through the night for some eerie sign. Wind made the grass and flowering yarrow around the crossroads dip and sway, and stirred at the dirt of the road. After a few minutes of silence, Dean said, “How long do you figure it takes the devil to show up?”

“Maybe he’s a busy man,” said Jo. “Hell’s a long way.” She leaned her elbows on her knees, settling into a more relaxed posture. “I’m okay to wait.”

There was no danger in sitting in the middle of this intersection in the dead of night. It was so quiet, so still, not a soul out but themselves. They had more to fear from a wild animal than from a truck or car at this hour.

They didn’t speak at first, as if expecting an unearthly interruption at any moment. Eventually Dean eased back to lean on his good elbow, legs extended and crossed at the ankle. Between the hurricane lantern and the moonlight, they had plenty to see by, eyes accustomed to the dark. Jo leaned a cheek against her fist.

“I don’t know why you stick around,” she said. “You’re eighteen. Done school. If I was you, I’d be hightailing it out of here. Broken arm or not.”

The pattern of light and shadow cast by the lamp held Dean’s attention. If he stared long enough, he could almost see it dance.

“I don’t have anything to go to,” he said. “Why would I leave? This is where my horses are. My friends: you, Bobby. This is where Sammy comes back to. I can’t go.” His mouth twitched in a frown and he looked down at the turned earth over Jo’s tin. “Besides, that’s not what I want.”

“What do you want?” Jo asked. She shifted up, wrapping her arms loosely around her knees. “What would you ask for, if the devil turned up?”

“I dunno,” said Dean.

“You let me put your picture in the tin,” said Jo. “There must be something you’re after.”

There were many things Dean wanted. To be a better son who wouldn’t annoy and disappoint his father so much. To have been the kind of boyfriend Lisa deserved to have. To make something of himself in such a way that he wouldn’t merit his ambitious brother’s scorn. To take back time and figure out where he got it all wrong. He wanted to lead a life no one could object to or sniff at.

“I want to stay on the ranch till the end of my days,” said Dean.

Jo snorted. “You can’t mean that.”

Dean looked up at her now, eyes dark but pupils catching the light from the lamp. “Why not?”

“You want to stick around here working for your asshole dad for the rest of your life?” said Jo. “One day I’m gonna leave. And one day, Sam won’t come back. And you’ll be stuck here with all the petty losers we spent high school with, best days behind you, drinking all the time just to—”

“So you think I’m gonna end up like my dad, huh?”

Jo bit her tongue and had the grace to look reproachful. “You wouldn’t be like him,” she said. A peace offering, made too late.

“Because that’s not what I want either,” said Dean. He sat up again, mimicking her posture, his good arm wrapped more tightly around his knees. He briefly hid his mouth against his shoulder before speaking again. “I just want a quiet life. With the horses.”

“All on your own?”

Dean shook his head. “No. Not with Dad around. And I know Sam will have big things ahead and might not come back. And I know people might leave me along the way. Keep leaving.” He didn’t sound as indifferent as he’d attempted. He gave another shake of his head. “But not alone. I guess if I could wish for something, from the devil or whoever’s listening, it would be that.”

Chapter Text

     it will be all right. Slow inch
by inch America is giving itself
to the ocean. Go to sleep. Let darkness
lap at your sides. Give darkness an inch.
You aren’t alone. All of the continents used to be
one body. You aren’t alone. Go to sleep.
— Albert Goldbarth, “The Sciences Sing a Lullaby”

On the main street in town, the Roadhouse could get a little wild in the evening, but in the morning it had a simple, country-diner character. Farmers came and gossiped like old hens over coffee, some coming only for the conversation, others seeking out a proper breakfast after getting their morning chores done with. The smell of bacon and fried eggs and home fries made the air singularly inviting.

Dean sat up at the bar over a plate of chilaquiles. Ellen Harvelle’s business partner, Cesar, ran the kitchen most mornings. Dean knew he had horses too, just a small handful on a farm the other way out of town from the Winchester ranch. It wasn’t as big of an operation as John’s breeding stables, but Dean envied him, even when Cesar complained about the restaurant business taking him away from the farm where he’d rather be. But most people were always losing money on raising horses and needed some kind of side-hustle. As Cesar put it to Dean once: “I gotta feed you so that I can feed my horses.”

They spoke a little back and forth—side comments, not deep conversation—as Cesar brought back plates to the kitchen or restocked the dessert stand near the cash register. Cesar was packing up a couple of pies, taping the white boxes closed, when the door opened to three guys Dean knew from high school.

Cole, Eldon, and Nick. Dean didn’t make eye contact, but that didn’t stop them from catching sight of him as they herded themselves inside.

“Hey Pretty Boy,” Nick hollered out, even as they passed him by to find a table. “Pretty Boy,” he said again, while Cole whistled like he was calling a horse.

Dean briefly lost the taste for his food, forking through the chilaquiles. It wasn’t an easy thing to bite his tongue, but he had a broken arm, and in his experience, they found their way to their seats faster when he didn’t say anything.

“I missed that, was that me they were talking to?” Cesar asked, stacking the pie boxes. “About time someone noticed I’m pretty.”

Dean gave a half-hearted smile. While part of him appreciated Cesar making a joke of it, standing on his side, part of him wished they could ignore it altogether.

“It’s a stupid thing,” said Dean.

He hesitated. Cesar hadn’t asked for an explanation. In fact, he’d offered an out. But Dean had to give the backstory. So that he wouldn’t be misunderstood. He liked Cesar and didn’t want to give the wrong idea, whatever that might be.

“I was an instructor last summer at the Talbot stables,” Dean said, looking up from his plate, praying he wasn’t going too far. “Whenever I was training, I just used a horse of theirs. It was the horse’s name. Pretty Boy. I didn’t think anything of it.” Horses had all kinds of funny names. That one had brothers named Fancy Boy and Darling Boy. He could’ve had it worse. Dean sighed and picked up another forkful of his breakfast, unable to let anything go to waste. “I guess some of the guys found out and thought it was pretty hilarious.”

Cesar studied Dean for a heavy moment, and Dean wished he hadn’t said anything.

“Guess it doesn’t take much to amuse small minds, huh?” said Cesar, and he left it at that.

Later, as Dean put his wallet back in his pocket after paying the bill, the scrape of a chair from the back corner table preceded Nick slinking up, looping an arm around Dean’s shoulders. It hooked right over the top edge of his fracture brace. Dean held back a wince.

“Heeey, Pretty Boy. Something I’ve been meaning to ask you.” Nick wore that mock serious face, pretending to be pensive when in fact he thought he was just about to be very funny. Dean never had much of a sense of humour around Nick. It wasn’t just the gelled-up hair and the puka shell necklace; the guy was annoying as fuck. Whatever he got it in his head to say, it was always brewed with the intention of setting somebody off.

“Can it wait till never?” Dean asked.

“I heard you broke up with Lisa,” Nick said, as if Dean hadn’t spoken.

Dean immediately tried to shrug out of Nick’s hold around his shoulder, rolling his eyes. Nick only gripped tighter, putting pressure on the brace that Dean felt down his broken arm.

“On prom night.” Nick gave an exaggerated grimace. “Ouch. What was with that?”

“None of your business,” said Dean.

Again, he might as well not have said anything. Nick was on a roll.

“Did she not put out? No… No that wouldn’t be it.” Nick leaned a little closer. “You know she’s not a virgin, right?”

“Shut the fuck up about Lisa,” said Dean, gripping his good hand in the collar of Nick’s shirt. He didn’t have a strong angle, from here, but it was enough of a threat to get Nick’s arm off him. Nick held both hands up in concession like he was suddenly the wronged party. Dean quickly let Nick’s shirt go. He didn’t need to start a fight in the Roadhouse, and without his right arm he’d be useless for it. Nick’s timing today had absolutely taken all of this into consideration.

“The people want answers,” Nick said. “Is that so wrong? ‘Cause if you’re not gonna have her, I was thinking of making a move, but I don’t want to bet on a losing horse, y’know?”

Dean nearly tore into him, despite the broken arm strapped to his chest with the sling. It was a near thing, and a thread of viciousness still pulsed through him. He said instead, “I’d tell you to stay away from her, but she’d never look twice at an asswipe like you.”

He didn’t need to stick around and give Nick further opportunity to piss him off. Nick was a lot of talk, and the trouble came when you listened.

Because it was that kind of day, the moment he stepped out of the diner and into the main street, he nearly collided with someone. He’d no sooner held out his good hand in case it was needed as they both stopped short than he realised who it was.

“Lisa.”

Her dark eyes looked up warily at his face, and then, without a word, she moved quickly past him to continue down the street. She didn’t look back once. Why would she?

He couldn’t help but wonder if Jo’s black magic at the crossroads might’ve done something.

Each day seemed endless with a broken arm, no school, no farm work. He went into the small public library, thankfully air-conditioned, and spent longer than usual browsing the stacks just to kill time. He picked out three books and two movies, and eyed the book sale cart beside the desk as the librarian stamped the due date cards inside the books and cassette cases.

For a quarter each he picked up a beaten-up copy of Lonesome Dove and a couple of schlocky cowboy romances in paperback. “My friend Jo eats these up,” he explained to the librarian with a fast smile. “Hey, you got a bag for all this?”

He took the long way to Bobby’s so that he could stop by the Moseley’s produce stand, which stood at the end of a long lane out from their farm. He filled the passenger side of his truck’s bench seat with a flat of fresh strawberries, long stalks of rhubarb, and some jars of salsa and preserves that Missouri gave to him at a special rate.

“You look like you’ve been having a hard time, honey,” she said.

“Just one of those days,” said Dean. He hitched on another smile, holding up one of the large mason jars before packing it away in its box. “Nothing your spiced peaches can’t fix.”

It wasn’t true and they both knew it.

Dean didn’t ever turn up to Bobby’s by invitation. He was already in the kitchen when Bobby came back from the garage, clothes stained with tractor oil. Bobby arrived in time to see Dean drop a pile of stacked nesting bowls on himself, attempting to retrieve them from the cupboard.

“Bobby, you’re almost out of flour,” said Dean, picking up the bowls while Bobby just shook his head and went to the fridge, taking out the fixings for a sandwich.

“Well if somebody didn’t keep using it up,” said Bobby, leaving Dean to the counter and bringing his meat, lettuce, and mustard to the kitchen table. “Hello to you too, by the way.”

“If you’re backing out on our deal…” said Dean, looking over his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah. You make the pies,” said Bobby. “I eat them.” He gave a nod of his head towards a pad on the fridge. “Add ‘flour’ to that list, will you?”

“Already did,” said Dean.

He felt comfortable in Bobby’s kitchen, like his skin was his own here. Bobby’s wife, Karen, passed away eight years ago, taken by that most indiscriminate of monsters, cancer. After Mary died, Karen treated Dean and Sam as her own kids, or as much as she could when John Winchester wasn’t being contrarian and on the outs with Bobby. Karen taught Dean how to bake, although now he suspected sweet things were merely a gateway for teaching him how to cook when he’d need to do that for himself and his brother. John deemed Dean a fit babysitter for Sam at a young age, whenever he had to go away for auctions, horse races, grief benders.

Not long after Karen passed, Dean came over on his own and baked one of her favourite pies just the way she’d shown him. When Bobby came into the kitchen, caught the smell of it before he even saw Dean waiting at the table, he’d teared up immediately. Dean doubted he tasted a bite of that first pie over the salt of his tears, but he never asked Dean to stop. Dean didn’t make a strict habit of it, but whenever he had the yen for pie, he’d end up back in Bobby’s kitchen.

“When’s your next appointment?” Bobby asked, giving a nod to the arm brace.

Dean worked left-handed with the pastry cutter, mixing cold butter into the dry ingredients and using his lame arm to keep the bowl in place. “End of the week,” he said.

“You gonna tell the doctor you been riding again?” said Bobby.

Dean paused in his work. There were no secrets in this town. “Jo spilled.”

“She was here with Ellen this morning,” said Bobby. “Asking me to fix up that run-down mower again.”

“What’s wrong with it this time?” said Dean.

“It’s a piece of junk is what’s wrong with it,” said Bobby. “Don’t think you can distract me, Dean. I know you don’t wanna be on bed rest, but you gotta give those bones time to heal.”

“I took Fleetwood,” said Dean. “She’s the easiest of all of them. You know that. I didn’t take her barrel racing. It was a trail ride. Simple.”

“I don’t want to see you push yourself too far is all,” said Bobby. “And drag out the recovery because you couldn’t wait to get back in the saddle. Those medical visits aren’t coming to you cheap.”

Dean dumped the double-batch of dough onto the counter and quartered it, wrapping it up to put in the fridge.

Bobby sighed in the face of his silence. “I figure I can’t stop you just by telling you to have some sense,” he said. “But let somebody else tack the horse. Jo’s willing. She said as much already.”

“I’ve already shifted off enough work—”

“Just accept some help, Dean,” said Bobby. “You’d do it for anybody else.”

Dean started washing the stalks of rhubarb, cleaning them of the fresh earth that still lingered. “I’ll think about it,” he said.

He set out a wooden cutting board and picked out a knife, testing it in his left hand over the end of the rhubarb. The first cut he made didn’t land quite right, the rhubarb ends ricocheting off to the floor.

“Starting with that,” said Bobby, standing up. “I can handle the rhubarb this time.”

Dean stepped back, though he lingered as Bobby took over his station. Hovering.

“Don’t cut the pieces too thick,” he said on the first slice down. And, “Try to keep them even.”

Bobby stopped and looked him in the eye. A playful glint entered as he raised his eyebrows. “Might I remind you I’m the one who’s armed?”

“Hey, that’s a low blow,” said Dean, tapping his brace. “I’m the one who’s winged.”

Bobby barked a laugh and shook his head, returning to his work with his eyes squinching in the corners. For a long time after Karen passed, he hadn’t laughed like that. In an otherwise bad day, it was something to get that laugh back from Bobby.

Bobby sliced up all of the rhubarb before Dean could notice. It was way too much for the two pies Dean was baking. While Bobby went back out to work in his shop, Dean rolled out the dough, filled the shells to bursting with strawberry and rhubarb filling, covered each crust with egg white wash and crimped the corners in the pattern Karen taught him.

While the pies cooked, he pulled down one of her recipe books from the shelf above the stove. He flipped through pages softened by buttery hands, marked at certain corners with a smear of sauce or batter. He tracked down a recipe for rhubarb muffins, used up the last of Bobby’s flour, and he set these in the oven while the pies cooled.

Everything took him longer with one arm in a sling, but he had the time. When the muffins were out, most of the clean-up was already done with. He was putting away the stack of mixing bowls, more carefully this time, when the phone rang.

It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to track him down at Bobby’s, given how much time he spent here. He crossed the room to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Dean!”

Dean broke into a grin. It was Sam’s voice. Sounding light, unburdened, easing away any worry with just the way he used Dean’s name.

“Heya, Sammy,” said Dean. “Wasn’t expecting you to call. You’re home in like, two days.”

“Uh, right,” said Sam, and Dean immediately deflated. “About that.”

“Your flight get moved or something?” Dean asked. Grasping at straws, hoping to turn this around before Sam could say something worse. “I can still pick you up at the airport. Any time.” He hadn’t yet told Sam about his broken arm, being off farm work. “Could be four in the morning. I’ll be there.”

“Look, Dean, I was really looking forward to coming home,” said Sam. “I swear. I was.” Too much emphasis. Protesting too much. “But a last-minute spot opened up on my school’s Wilderness Experience. And you know, it’s a requirement to graduate, so if I have the chance to go for it now I could really be ahead.”

Dean leaned his good arm against the wall, tracing his finger back and forth across the sloped corner of an open phone book on the side table. “That covered under your fancy scholarship, then?” he asked.

“See, that’s part of it,” said Sam. “They know I’m a charity case. Since it was such a late cancellation, the spot is already paid for in full. Gear, provisions, travel, everything.”

Huh. Dean couldn’t imagine just walking away from something that no doubt cost more than he’d ever had to his name at any given time. No shifting and scraping for a refund. Just opting out because it didn’t suit. Probably had a chateau in France to go visit for the summer instead.

“Sounds like a pretty sweet deal,” said Dean, although there was no spirit left in his voice. “How long’s the trip?”

“It’s a full month. Starts next week.”

“And you’re not coming back in between,” said Dean.

“It doesn’t really make sense,” said Sam. “There’s a lot to prepare for and—”

“Do the dorms even stay open after school?”

“Well, no,” Sam said. “But they’ve got these, sorta, ‘alumni families’ around and there’s one couple that lives right in the city who will take me in for a bit. The same people I spent Thanksgiving with, actually.”

Dean was losing his little brother bit by bit.

It had probably been decided the moment Sam showed up with the admittance letter and the thick school brochure. It had probably been decided earlier. In any one of Sam and John’s explosive fights. In the boredom that came from living in a podunk country town, stuck as the smartest boy in any room he entered. In the way Dean and John shared an interest in the horses when Sam couldn’t take part. The way Dean looked to take John’s side over and over again, only to keep the peace.

“Well that’s,” said Dean. “That’s, um. Real nice.”

“Dean, I’ll still come back home,” said Sam. “It’ll just be a little later. You’ll have a whole month to get sick of me again.”

Dean laughed. As if every summer Sam spent at home wasn’t filled with Dean’s attempts to win him back over. In any spare moment taking him to the movie theatre, to the best place for burgers, to the vistas you just couldn’t find in the city, even San Francisco. “Right, sure,” he said.

“Anyway, I’m glad I got hold of you. I didn’t want to just leave a message with Dad.”

Dean nodded. There was a fifty-fifty chance that John would bother reporting it back to Dean. The odds came from how he took the news. If he didn’t care, it would never come up. If he was pissed about it, Dean would know.

“Don’t worry,” said Dean. “I’ll break it to him.”

He left with his baking, but in worse spirits rather than better.

At home again, he started the first of his library books in the hammock on the covered porch, page after page evaporating as the afternoon sun moved across the sky. He hadn’t had time like this before in his life. When he couldn’t keep his mind on the pages anymore, he turned his head and looked out, thoughts drifting far away from him.

He couldn’t even rest right. Where he should take this time to relax and heal he just felt anxious. Like if he stood still too long, whatever he’d been running from his whole life would catch up.

Just ahead of supper, he packed up a fresh container with the rhubarb muffins and brought them out to the stables. It was nearly six, and Ellen would be here any minute to pick up Jo.

He found Jo in the feed room, washing her hands and up to her arms over a deep farmhouse sink.

“Hey, I brought you something,” said Dean.

Jo dried off her hands and cocked one hip against the sink. She eyed the container in his hands. “Motive?” she asked.

“No motive,” said Dean, handing over the container. She lifted it to look inside, casting a look of impressed acknowledgement at the sweet muffins inside. “Figure you’ve had some long days doing my work around here.”

“Well that’s true,” she said.

“Bobby mentioned you talked to him this morning,” said Dean.

“If you’re coming around here hoping for an apology, you’re not gonna get one from me,” said Jo.

“Nah, I’m over it,” said Dean. “But he said…”

“Oh? You willing to consider my offer?”

“I don’t want to bother anybody,” said Dean.

“Well it was my idea,” said Jo. “How about tomorrow morning? Should I get her ready for you?”

It gave Dean a burst of hope just to know he could be on a horse tomorrow. “That’d be great, Jo. Really.”

“Well, gotta let you heal and not get yourself more messed up. The sooner you’re back at work, the easier my life will be.”

Dean didn’t believe that was all, but he gave a faint smile nonetheless. “Right,” he said. He leaned against one of the countertops, folding his left arm underneath the right one in its sling.

“You know, that spell of yours?” he said. “I don’t really think it worked. I think I’m cursed.”

“Cursed?”

“Everything that happened today was some kind of terrible. I dunno, Jo. If that trick was real, I think it backfired.”

“Well I’ve spent all day with the same-old same-old horseshit,” said Jo. “Literally. So I don’t think it did anything for me. I guess any kind of change around here is too much to hope for.”

“I dunno,” said Dean. “Maybe I’m just older, but I think things are changing all the time.”

Jo shook her head and picked up her hat to put on again. Dean could hear through the open window the sound of Ellen’s Jeep pulling up. “Yeah right,” Jo said, leading the way out. “Oh, hey though. Did you hear Cas is coming back?”

Dean’s head jerked up in attention. “Cas is— Cas is coming back?”

Cas Novak stayed for a summer at the ranch six years ago. Dean, only twelve, had been filled with inexplicable admiration and trailed after the aloof and strangely focused sixteen-year-old. Instead of the usual delinquents and would-be criminals that did seasonal work for John—enticed not by the meagre pay but the promise of a roof over their heads and no personal questions—Cas was a self-emancipated teenager who had already graduated high school.

“Yeah, he’s a vet, now. Or, he just finished vet school, apparently. He’s going to work for old Benton’s practice for a while. That’s what I heard.”

Cas talked about it before he left. Normally the degrees required to become a vet took longer, but Dean had no doubt in Cas’ ability to condense that. He didn’t cut corners, but he didn’t do things by halves either. He wouldn’t know what to do with downtime if he had it, so singularly focused on his path that he didn’t have hobbies. He never knew the movies or shows or current events that Dean tried to talk about. His fractured family history made him a little different from other people. Dean never saw it as a fault or an obstacle. Cas was Cas, and that was all he needed to be.

“He’s coming back here,” Dean repeated. He didn’t know why. Quickly he said, “Do you know when?”

“Maybe next week?” Jo said with a shrug. “Maybe the one after.” They were outside the barn now, and Jo turned in order to heave the sliding door closed behind them. “Don’t know what he’s thinking. People leaving I’m used to. Not so much to people coming back.”

Ellen’s Jeep stood in the driveway. When Jo and Dean came out of the barn, she parted from her conversation with John on the porch. John was already back inside by the time Jo and Ellen got in to drive away, by the time Dean was up on the porch and following John inside.

It was a quiet supper, but not a bad one. Leftover meatloaf, scalloped potatoes, and green bean casserole that Dean made the night before. John was always easier on leftovers nights. Dean didn’t have an exact handle on why. Or rather, he had an idea, but it wasn’t like either of them talked about it. John didn’t like Dean doing domestic work. He also didn’t like to do without it. He liked a good meal, liked the freshness of line-dry laundry, liked when the kitchen was clean with no dishes in the sink come morning. He just hated the evidence of Dean doing it.

And leftovers put it all at a remove. The equivalent of warming up a Hungry Man microwave dinner like real bachelors would do.

What Dean hated was the pageantry of it all. How John would turn the TV on right after supper, and when Dean came into the living room after washing up the dishes John would pretend like Dean had just been doing his own thing until that point. As likely to be in the stables as the kitchen. It was an extended piece of performance art on both sides. And what Dean hated most of all was the implication that he wasn’t supposed to like doing any of it. He could never take a moment to bask in the satisfaction of something well-made, or a kitchen restored to order after a messy-to-prepare meal.

Tonight was simpler. When Dean brought up Sam, John stopped chewing for a moment, then simply said, “One less mouth to feed, I guess.”

If he felt more than that, he didn’t blow up about it. Maybe he’d save it for a later day, or maybe he genuinely didn’t mind. Maybe he’d given up on Sam in a way Dean just couldn’t.

After dinner they went out to the porch and listened to the ball game. And it was so easy that tonight John felt like his friend, like he wouldn’t have anyone but Dean around in this moment. Dean made more than one comment that earned a laugh, and John said things like “That’s how I know you’re my son,” and “It’s us against everybody else.” Things that granted Dean a firm place in the world and in this family. They were a couple of outsiders like cowboys of old: outlaws who’d never courted crime, drifters who stayed rooted in one place. Dean admired John’s misanthropic streak.

He never saw how far he failed to match it.

Chapter 3

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

... the expectation once more to see your face again makes me feel hot and feverish, and my heart beats so fast — I go to sleep at night, and the first thing I know, I am sitting there wide awake, and clasping my hands tightly, and thinking of next Saturday…
— Emily Dickinson to Sue Gilbert, June 27, 1852

Dean refrained from asking Jo about it again, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking constantly about Cas’ return. Riding his horse at a slow gait through familiar trails, lying in his hammock with a library book rested on his chest as his thoughts drifted, washing up dishes and cleaning the kitchen in his one-handed way. Cas lived out of the bunkhouse that summer, six years ago, back when it was still fit for workhands to stay in. He kept to himself most nights, didn’t go out seeking trouble on the town like other hands. But then, he wasn’t old enough. At twelve, Dean thought sixteen was fully grown. On the other side of it, Dean was struck by just how young Cas had been when he took fate into his own hands.

You had to wonder what a man like that would be now.

Jo said a week, maybe two. Dean counted the days. He couldn’t say why.

He heard it from John first: “Called Doc Benton about vaccinations for the yearlings. Guess who he says he’s sending up?”

Dean was supposed to ask who. There was a script here. But he’d been waiting in anticipation of this moment, and the name tripped from his mouth before he could think.

“Cas.”

John lifted one brow, then subdued his reaction. “Yeah,” he said. “Take it you knew he’s back?”

He’s back. Just like that.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean said, looking away and trying to shrug it off. He’d been too eager. He had no reason to be so invested. “Jo mentioned. When’s he coming?”

Today, Dean hoped. Say today.

“Friday or Saturday. Most likely Saturday. Busy time of year.”

That was days away, yet. Dean almost wished he hadn’t been told. With a broken arm, time crawled by.

Sometimes the events of three weeks ago felt impossibly fresh, haunting him.

Barely three weeks ago it had been prom night, and Lisa still wouldn’t speak to him. He’d broken his arm the very next night. He missed the last week of classes and exams, but what was the point when he wouldn’t graduate anyway? Let vague ‘medical reasons’ stand in for why he didn’t attend the ceremony with his peers.

He’d never had so much to dwell on, so much he wanted to avoid, and never so much time to contemplate it as he did now when he couldn’t work, when he couldn’t be of use to anybody.

He spent Friday in a useless state of agitation, unable to focus on anything and trying to watch the lane for Cas’ arrival. He didn’t ride in case he missed Cas. He didn’t go into town. The hours slipped by until it was no longer worth holding out hope that Cas would turn up.

When Dean asked about it at supper, John said that Cas had called around noon to confirm he’d make his visit on Saturday. John would be out for the morning—he had to see a man about a horse, quite literally—but Jo knew to get the yearlings ready in a pen.

If John had only said something earlier, he might’ve spared Dean some suffering.

Or perhaps it wouldn’t have made a difference. That night he barely slept. Wind stirred the white curtains at his open window and a half-moon hung in the sky, framed like a picture. Weariness warred with anticipation until restlessly Dean succumbed to sleep.




The familiar sand-coloured veterinary truck pulled up and parked by the barn. Dean left his half-washed breakfast dishes in the sink. By the time he was out to meet it, Cas was already at the back of the truck taking out his supply of vaccines and syringes. An early summer breeze feathered through his dark hair and stirred waves into the bright grass in the pasture.

Dean hooked his good arm over the edge of the truck bed, resting his chin on top, the smile that hitched across his mouth more genuine than any he’d worn in a long time. “Hey, stranger,” he said.

Cas looked up as he took his cases in hand, his face momentarily as still and serious as it had been while invested in his task. His expression turned briefly studious, head tilting to one side.

Then: “Dean?” he said. He smiled briefly, but it was sincere. A rare thing.

“Been a while, hasn’t it?”

“It’s good to see you again,” said Cas. “I didn’t know if you’d be here.”

“I live here. Where else would I be?”

Cas gave a noncommittal shrug of one shoulder. “A lot can change,” he said. “You’ve changed. You’re taller.”

Dean laughed. “I’d sure hope so.”

Six years; the difference between adolescence and manhood.

Cas wore the time differently too. He had broader shoulders. His hair had darkened, losing the last of youth’s fairness. His outline had sharpened, from the cut of his jaw to the angles of his body. Dean could tell all that despite what Cas wore: a beige vest with coloured stripes that looked to have been made out of a rejected rug pattern fastened over a simple white t-shirt. When he was just a teenager, he didn’t own anything without holes or hand-sewn patches. Now his stonewash jeans were fresh and whole, not even marked by the dirt that came with farm work.

Dean would’ve asked if Cas dressed up on purpose today, but he was a fancy veterinarian now. A flicker of fear ran through Dean. What else might have changed?

“It is nice to be back, though,” said Cas, looking out across the fields, down towards the lush valleys and purple hills in the distance. He spoke a little haltingly, charmingly awkward. His voice was deep, Dean realised. If he’d heard it over the phone, he’d never have guessed it for Cas. “I’ve never forgotten how beautiful it is out here.”

Dean looked over his shoulder, following Cas’ gaze. “It’s alright, isn’t it?” he said. Tone light, but the truth was that he could never leave this place on account of it. These hills and fields were his homeland, the only place he wanted to be.

“Come on,” said Dean. “I’ll show you where the yearlings are. Jo brought them out to the stable paddock this morning.” He straightened up and gave a jerk of his head towards the barn.

Cas slid his cases from the tailgate and closed it up, starting to follow after Dean.

“You broke your arm,” said Cas, noticing the sling for the first time.

Dean offered a weak smile. He took a slow pace so he could walk side-by-side with Cas. “Yeah,” he said. “About three weeks ago. Doctor says it’s healing and I should be able to lose the brace in another week, hopefully.”

“What happened?” Cas asked.

Dean looked ahead, squinting his eyes. It was one of those bright, overcast days. He’d left his hat inside since there wasn’t much sun, but he might’ve wanted it. He shrugged his good shoulder. “Got thrown,” he said.

“Which horse?” said Cas.

“Uh, Jagger. Young one of ours.” Dean looked at the ground with a shake of his head. “Not his fault, though.”

“When can you ride again?” Cas understood the important things. That was what Dean liked about him.

“Well, the doctor said to stay out of the saddle for at least six weeks,” said Dean.

“Rough,” said Cas.

“But I’ve been taking Fleetwood out a bit most days.”

“Ignoring medical advice,” said Cas, squinting up at the sky. “One of the true rewards of my chosen profession. You know, you might set yourself further back?”

“I know,” said Dean.

“And still,” said Cas. He pinned Dean with the easy sweep of his deep blue eyes.

“Well,” said Dean, tipping his head a bit. “I ain’t right.” He smiled after saying it though, and it made Cas smile too, the argument left behind in mutual good humour.

They reached the paddock gate, where the five young horses had been brought. They were at a playful age, eager to move around and test their speed.

“This okay?” Dean asked. “We can take them out one at a time if you want.”

“I can work in the paddock,” said Cas, leaning over the gate to look at the horses. “Where’s Jo? They don’t know me. I’ll need a handler for them.” Cas threw a glance back at Dean. “And no, you can’t be the handler. We aren’t going to break your other arm.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “I’ll go get her,” he said. “She’s probably in the new barn.”

The so-called new barn was twenty years old, built by Henry Winchester a few years before he passed on. It mostly held the broodmares, with foaling stables built special. Dean found Jo mucking out the last of the stables.

“Hey,” he said. “Cas is here. Needs you to keep the horses steady while he gets them their shots.”

“Cas? I saw the truck come in. I figured it would be Doc Benton.” Jo dusted off her hands on her jeans as she made to follow Dean out. “What’s he like? Much the same?”

Dean’s answer caught in his throat. It was hard to put into words. “I don’t know,” he said. All he knew was that he felt impatient to get back out there. He wanted to see Cas at work. He wanted to talk to him more. About the horses or life or anything. “It’s like all of a sudden—”

He didn’t know where he wanted to go with that.

He wet his lips as they left the close, dusty air of the barn behind and were in view of the paddock again, Cas’ figure looking small in the distance between them. “Just, I can’t remember what he used to be like at all.”

“Smart,” Jo supplied. “Better with animals than people. That’s what I remember.”

“You were ten, you don’t remember anything.”

“Do so,” said Jo. “I was a kid, not an idiot.”

“You were just a little baby,” said Dean. “You weren’t allowed to hang out with us.”

Jo punched him hard in the good arm for that and Dean laughed, stumbling to the side as they walked. Jo had always been like a sibling to him, but with Sam gone away so long, she filled that empty space more and more. Dean had to have somebody to tease mercilessly.

In lighter spirits than he’d been in ages, he hopped up to stand on the fence rails and watch as Jo joined Cas in the paddock. Cas wore that serious, focused look again as he gave Jo his instructions. The way he spoke was both clear-cut and detailed. Methodical. Jo had been around horses all her life, but Cas still explained what he’d be doing, what he needed her to do, why she’d be standing on the same side as him, all of it. John would’ve just handed her a rope and expected her to read his mind.

Better with animals than with people, Jo had said. As the two of them worked together through the horses, Dean kept himself balanced on the fence, not quite as steady as he usually would be with one arm bound up. He knew Cas was good with animals: that he had a way with the horses and the barn cats and that even the chickens seemed to like him, at least, as much as chickens could be accounted to have a developed impression of anything.

The people bit Dean hadn’t noticed. He’d always found Cas easy to be around, even if that meant Dean working on his summer reading sitting across the edge of a stall while Cas brushed down a horse in companionable silence. At twelve, Dean was perfectly attuned to what was and wasn’t permissible, what made someone an outsider. What kind of different got a pass, what kind got attacked. But that was in school, in town. He’d only ever known Cas out here on the farm. Each in their own element.

Cas gave a final dose to the last remaining horse and thanked Jo for her help. He wasn’t formal, but he wasn’t really warm either. Dean could see it now. So maybe he wasn’t a natural, but his manners were better than some.

Jo left out of the paddock gate to return to her work, meanwhile Dean climbed over the top of the fence. He hopped down, catching his footing before Cas could dip towards him with a hand extended. “I’m good, Cas,” he said.

Cas nodded his head once in acknowledgment and didn’t go on about it like some would. Dean liked that about him too.

“I want about thirty minutes to observe them,” said Cas. “Make sure there aren’t any reactions. If anything crops up in the next day, you’ll call.”

“‘Course,” said Dean. “You got anything on after this, Cas? You should stick around a little. Meet all the old faces again.”

“Well,” said Cas, and he looked faintly more awkward for a moment. “I did make this the last stop on my schedule. I thought it might be nice to… Revisit. If I got a chance.”

“You’re always welcome, Cas,” said Dean. He smiled wide, unable to stop himself and not wanting to. “You can come up anytime. I mean… Maybe you’re busy now with your vet job. But when you’re not…”

“Thanks,” said Cas. And that was all. Simple, neutral, uncommitted.

Dean was coming on too strong. He didn’t mean to. He wasn’t good at this. His male friends were always leaving, going in and out of his life. Lee, Benny. Friends made through weekend eventing competitions and 4-H shows, friends that moved away. Jo was right. He knew about people leaving. Not so much people coming back.

“I mean,” said Cas, “I’d like that.”

Cas came to lean against the fence beside him, arms crossed loosely over his chest with a fraction of his attention on the horses, the rest on Dean. The young horses seemed to have already forgotten the needles of a few moments before, play-fighting with one another or investigating the edges of the paddock.

It was easy and aimless, the way they talked, catching up on the past few years. For Cas those years had been dominated by university and veterinary school, any spare moment not spent studying was spent in internships at practices. He’d known from the start he wanted to focus on the equine side of things. He was a good fit for it, Dean thought. He had the kind of calm demeanour that horses needed, and he had steady, capable hands for surgery, for care. When one of the yearlings came to mouth at Cas’ shirt sleeve, Cas lifted one of those hands to pet her velvety nose.

He checked over the rest of the group once more after half an hour passed, time that evaporated in moments. He left the paddock by opening the gate, probably in an effort to keep Dean from climbing over the fence again as much as anything else.

“Most of the other horses are down in the meadow,” said Dean. “If you want to see them, it’s a bit of a walk.”

“I like a walk,” said Cas, placing his cases back in the truck.

They cut through the orchard. At this time of year, the apple blossoms were peaking, leaving the air sweet with their scent. They climbed a stile to get into the pasture, where the soft grass moved like a green sea as it sloped down towards a wide, flat meadow. Beyond the fence line, the grass continued until it met the elbow of a running river that always seemed to cool the air around the pasture.

A handful of horses grazed here. It was Springsteen’s favourite spot, and where he went the others generally followed. Springsteen was a bright bay gelding; in the sunlight he looked to be made of burnished bronze.

“He’s a real athlete,” Dean told Cas, able to wax about this subject to no end. “You can feel it when you ride him, as soon as you get on. He’s like the Lamborghini of horses. Any competitions I won have nothing to do with me, it’s all because of him. Well, you know: born to run.”

Cas nodded seriously at that remark, and Dean had a feeling he’d completely missed the reference. Oddly, Dean didn’t mind at all.

“He’s not really supposed to be my horse, but I was taking him to most events.”

“Your horse is Zeppelin, right?” said Cas.

Dean looked sharply toward Cas. He wasn’t able to choke down the look of wonder that touched his face. It made his heart stutter, just to think that Cas knew that after all these years.

“Yeah,” he said. “You remember?”

“Of course I remember,” Cas said. He had a lingering smile in his eyes, more comfortable out here than Dean had seen him yet. “He was your first horse. I was there when John let you pick him out from the foals. He gave you a week to choose and I don’t think you slept or ate the whole time.”

“That’s—” Dean tried to protest, but he fell short. “Not true,” he muttered in the end, unconvincing even to himself.

“There are worse things than caring a lot,” said Cas.

“Eh,” said Dean. “I’m not convinced. Come on, he’s up here.” He tugged on Cas’ shirt sleeve and then pointed ahead, to where two horses stood under the wide shade of an old oak tree.

“He’s hanging out with his friend Ringo,” said Dean. “She’s a mare. Sam named her.”

The horses both looked to Dean as he approached, used to him and his relaxed voice. Ringo nosed at his pockets for treats and he ruffled her forelock, then stroked through her mane. “Not today, lady,” he said.

He moved more slowly towards Zeppelin, locking eyes with the horse and saying, “Hey, Zepp,” in a quiet voice. When he reached out a hand, Zeppelin put his nose under Dean’s palm, then Dean slid closer to scratch his fingers along to the base of Zeppelin’s neck.

“Cas, this is Zeppelin,” he said.

Cas offered out a hand for the horse to respond to, which Dean watched carefully. He didn’t have any doubts about Cas, seeing him with so many other animals, but he wanted the two of them to get along. He trusted Zeppelin’s opinions of people.

Evidently passing muster, Zeppelin let Cas stroke a hand down his broad nose. He was a dark bay gelding, with chestnut hair so deep in colour it looked black from afar. A striking streak of white blazed down from the centre of his forehead to the top of his nose.

“He likes to be scratched right here,” Dean said, stepping back to let Cas take over. “Come around this side.”

Cas did so, his fingers taking over the work Dean left behind. Zepp lifted his chin out, a sign he enjoyed it.

“Good boy,” Cas said in a low voice.

Dean took a step back from both of them. He held in a sharp breath and looked away towards the river, thinking of its cool currents, the water that fingered down from cold, high places to feed it.

“Cas, can I tell you something?” he asked. “If you promise not to tell another soul?”

Cas looked up at Dean, shoulders slowly straightening, hand falling away from the horse.

“Anything,” said Cas.

For a moment they simply looked at one another. Dean had only asked for a ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Expected a banal ‘okay’ or ‘sure.’ And here Cas gave him carte blanche and he didn’t even know what to do with it.

He took a step closer to the horse and put a hand on his nose. “I think Zepp’s going blind,” he said.

He hadn’t said it aloud to anyone else, and now he felt a sense of rising panic. “I’m not telling you ‘cause you’re a vet, I’m not asking to get him checked out. I just need to tell somebody that understands and that won’t— My dad can’t know. If he found out, he’d have him put down, I know he would. He’d say what’s the point of keeping a horse that’s not fit.”

Cas came around to stand at Dean’s side, to get a better head-on look at Zeppelin. The stoic, focused expression was back on Cas’ face.

“What makes you suppose he’s going blind?” Cas asked, looking at each of the horse’s eyes.

“He started acting a bit different this year,” said Dean. “He spooks more, and he sticks closer to his friends when he’s walking. He’ll follow Ringo with his nose all the way in and out of this pasture. It’s his right eye more than his left eye, I think. That’s why I try to approach from the left side now. He can still see some out of the right, but I tested him a bit to try and see what the range was. And it was like, well. Like he had a blinder on that eye.”

Cas took it all in, nodding his head. “Have his eyes looked irritated? Red or sore?”

“No,” said Dean. “It never seemed painful to him. I—I tried to do some reading. I thought maybe it would be moonblindness or something, but he didn’t have any of the signs. I don’t think it’s infection.”

“And he hasn’t had any head trauma? Or been exposed to any possible toxins? Something as small as a splinter in his eye could do it.”

Dean shook his head. “I looked into all that stuff,” he said. “And I don’t know what else to do.”

Cas stepped away from his place at Dean’s side. He stroked a hand down Zeppelin’s back, rubbed at his side, looking him over and otherwise seeing only a fine, strong horse.

“Blindness is usually a symptom,” said Cas. “Not a diagnosis.” His voice was flat and it made Dean hopeless. Cas looked along the horse, back to Dean. “It’s hard to say without a proper exam. He’s young, but it could be progressive retinal atrophy. He might lose all sight in one or both eyes.”

Dean had to strangle back the grief that swept through him, framing Zeppelin’s head with his one good arm, sweeping his fingers up under the black mane. What a pair they were.

“But that’s not a death sentence, Dean,” said Cas.

“It’s not?”

“Horses can deal with blindness better than you’d think. It may take more work—”

Dean shook his head. “My dad won’t hear it,” he said. “He’ll say the horse is useless.”

“Zeppelin’s your horse,” said Cas. “It would be for you to decide.”

Dean looked back up at Zeppelin and briefly imagined a world where it would be that easy.

“Zeppelin’s healthy, and you’ve already been training him for years. You could add spoken commands to help guide him. Like people, if a horse loses one sense, he’ll depend more on others. Don’t clip his whiskers—they’ll help him out. And this isn’t a bad thing, but if he continues losing his sight, he’ll depend more on you, Dean. A blind horse has to place trust in his rider, but the rider has to earn that confidence. I know that you’d be able to give him what he needs. I wouldn’t say that of everyone.”

Dean nodded his head but for once didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want Cas to stop talking. He’d buried these worries about Zeppelin for months, and he was finally hearing it might be okay. He couldn’t get enough of that.

“There are a few more risks,” Cas said. “So it’d be up to you. But I’ve even seen a blind horse ride through a jump competition with no faults.”

Dean gave a small, humourless laugh. “He might be fixable, but there’s still me. I could be out of the sling soon, but being in shape for events? Year-and-a-half, maybe two.”

“I’m sorry, Dean—” Cas started.

“Don’t be,” said Dean. He stroked Zepp a few more times. “You know, I was training him for eventing,” he said. “Stopped when I noticed the changes in him and went back to Springsteen. But I was so afraid of Dad finding out I stopped training Zepp that I started thinking about quitting events altogether.” He looked over at Cas. “And when I started thinking about that I realised… I didn’t even wanna do ‘em. I won a bunch of ribbons and trophies, and obviously the prize money was nice, but I never actually cared. I mean I never actually wanted it that bad. I just wanna be with the horses.”

Dean shook his head. Their roles had switched. Now it was Cas who watched him with a curious silence as Dean dug deeper, more confessional than he’d been with anybody in ages. Ever, possibly.

“Growing up around here, going to all those weekend competitions, people act like it’s the only thing worth doing. Like what’s the point of keeping horses if you aren’t trying to win something? And when the doctor told me the outlook, that I might not be in a show again for years? It felt like… deliverance. I was so fucking relieved. For the first time in ages.” He gave a hollow laugh. “And the ironic thing is, me quitting is what dad and I were fighting about the night I broke my arm.”

Cas looked puzzled, head tipping as he said slowly, “That’s… ironic?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, sliding his hand away from Zeppelin and stepping back. “Like rain on your wedding day. I dunno.” Cas probably wouldn’t get that reference either. It was just as well.

“Alanis Morissette,” said Cas.

“Come on, let’s go see the other horses,” said Dean, leading the way on. There were some mares Cas might remember as well as a few two-year-olds that had been claimed by buyers but wouldn’t leave the farm quite yet.

Cas caught up with Dean again, both of them quiet.

After a few moments Dean said, “You won’t tell my dad or Benton or anybody about Zepp?”

Cas looked back at him. “You asked me not to,” he said.

Dean nodded, looking down at the ground. “Means a lot,” he said.

 

Cas left a little after that, and it had been the most eventful day Dean had known in ages. Six years of distance disappeared in the course of one long, late morning.

After Cas was gone he went upstairs to his bedroom, rolling onto his bed and letting out a sigh. Around him the familiar four walls reflected his life so far. Drawings he’d made of horses pinned to the walls, a rack of trophies and ribbons, a poster of a rodeo.

He turned his face towards his open window, which looked down over the fields they’d just walked through, the river snaking by in the distance.

He wanted an excuse to see Cas again, just to hang out with him.

He wanted this cast off his arm.

He wanted to be able to do everything he used to do, from riding to mischief to dancing. Unencumbered. Free.

Free.

He wanted to be free like a wild mustang living only to run.

Notes:

» in the interests of total visual accuracy, the vest Cas wears is this little number worn by Tim McGraw in 1994
» don't ask me why, but Cas in this fic likes vests. which I mis-typed as vets first. maybe that's why. vets invest in vests

Chapter Text

Love's not the way to treat a friend.
There are so many better things for you
than to see your feelings sold
as magic lanterns to somebody whose body
casts no light.
— Richard Brautigan

The church organised a Father’s Day BBQ cook-out every year, which Dean and John attended less out of religious affinity or father-son bonding than for the menu. While John might complain about it being a dry event, the important thing was that the church ladies didn’t short on the endless array of meats and desserts. It was popular enough with the town that they sold tickets in shifts and kept the grills going from eleven until almost two.

The easiest part of it was that Dean didn’t even have to stick around John, who, upon arrival, settled in with a few other farmers at a sagging picnic table to bitch about the state of everything these days. Instead, Dean ate with Bobby, who always told Dean he didn’t need a ticket to this damn thing year after year, but who always showed up right on time with the ticket Dean pinned to the fridge in his hand.

This year, Dean scanned the crowd more frequently than he normally would’ve. Of course Cas wouldn’t be here. He was alone in town, wasn’t a father, and obviously hadn’t had much of a relationship to his own dad if he’d gotten the hell out when he did. Still, it was a big event in town and there was lots to eat. Surely no one would fault him for not celebrating the occasion according to its intended purpose, as long as he paid for his ticket. Maybe Cas heard about it, or smelled the food on the grill and would wander down. Dean’s brain spun out a hundred reasons why Cas might show.

He didn’t see Cas, but he saw Lisa.

She sat at the edge of a picnic table bench, finger tapping against her cheek, not particularly interested in the conversation at the table. Just a month ago, he could’ve come along and distracted her. Turned this day into something a little more fun for both of them. While they were dating, he also kind of thought they were friends. But they hadn’t spoken since that night and he didn’t know where he stood with her. He could only assume her bitterness hadn’t thawed.

Dean took up the empty paper plates from the table to toss away, balancing them in his good hand as he stood, the right arm still cradled in a sling. He wasn’t paying attention to Lisa anymore until he saw her, after a moment’s decision-making, move away from her seat to join him.

He cast a glance at her family at the table, unsure if he was in for trouble from that quarter, but they didn’t pay any mind to her leaving.

Dean straightened up his shoulders as she approached. He had no idea of what to say to her, what she wanted from him, but he wouldn’t be a coward.

“Hey, Lisa,” he said.

“Hi Dean,” she said. She had that serious look on her face, that serious tone of voice. Her mind was set, something to get off her chest. He might not have been much of a boyfriend, but he knew her tells.

“Could we talk?” she asked.

Dean nodded. He’d wanted this, in some ways. Wanted closure. Wanted to know if they’d ever be friends again or if he should give up the idea. “Yeah,” he said. “Should we…” He gestured down to where the church lawn met a gravel path beside the river. “Do you wanna walk?”

“Okay,” she said.

Despite their mutual resolution to speak, they walked in silence down to the path. To any outsider, they looked like a handsome young couple in their Sunday best. Lisa’s dark flower-print dress and Dean in a loose blue button-up, tucked in, that had enough room in the sleeves to cover his arm brace.

Lisa folded her arms over her middle and looked away to the river. They passed a family fishing knee-deep in the water, a father with his daughter and son. Dean watched the distant expression on her face until the pain in it had barbed him enough.

“I’ve been wanting to say I’m sorry,” said Dean. “About that night.”

“Uh-huh,” said Lisa. She looked ahead at their path, squinting faintly against the shine of sunlight off the glassy green-brown of the river.

“I should’ve treated you better,” he said.

“Yeah. Agreeing with you so far,” said Lisa.

“So,” said Dean. He didn’t know what she was waiting for. “That’s what you wanted to talk about, right?”

Lisa looked up at him, her dark eyes making a careful study. He dreaded her looking too closely, too deeply. He quickly turned his face ahead.

“You’re sorry,” said Lisa. “You’ve said. What I’m waiting for is an explanation, Dean.”

“I gave you an explanation,” said Dean.

“No,” she said. “You gave me a mixtape with ‘It Ain’t Me, Babe’ on it and a letter saying I ‘deserved better.’ But what I deserve isn’t up to you to decide. I wasn’t asking for anyone but you.”

Dean looked away, sure of all he’d said on the matter and trying to figure out how to make her see. He took in a breath, but she interrupted him before he could begin.

“If you don’t like me, or if there was something I did wrong, just be honest and say that’s the reason why you ended it. But don’t put it on me to figure out.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Dean said, watching the ground in front of them, frowning as he tried to weave through this. The panic in his head was so much like it felt that night. An inner tempest at odds with the river running slow against grassy banks, and the way the shade trees bobbed their branches above the path. “I’m just… I’m not boyfriend material.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I’m not the kind of guy someone settles down with,” said Dean. “I can’t be what you want.”

Lisa turned her face away again and clutched her arms more tightly around herself, biting her tongue.

Her silence worked on Dean. He had to fill it. “I don’t know what I’m looking for,” he said, and it was more honest than the rest of his vague lines. “It’s like I’ve got a new feeling every minute. Or ten of ‘em all at once. And I don’t wanna promise you something when I might change before you can blink. So on prom night, when…”

Lisa looked up at him, the air between them tightening like a knot.

This was what it was all about. Dean following Lisa’s directions as they drove along the edge of the field out to the bunkie on the end of her parents’ property. The romantic nest she set up there, lighting candles that illuminated the room with warm, flickering light. An inviting and suggestive hideaway for two teenagers on a particularly significant night. Short of scattering rose petals across the bunkie’s low bed, she couldn’t have made her hopes any clearer. Any guy would be thrilled to have a girl like that who knew what she wanted.

But Dean left. He sent her the tape and the letter the next day.

Like that night, he found his mouth dry. It was hard to take a deep breath. He couldn’t show any of these signs of panic because he knew there was something wrong with it all. He forced himself to speak instead.

“I didn’t wanna take things further between us when I knew I’d just end up leaving you,” he said. “I didn’t want to hurt you more.”

“You did that just fine,” said Lisa.

“Lisa, I like you a lot,” said Dean. “I miss being friends with you.” They hadn’t been close before they started dating—that day Lisa asked him to the Sadie Hawkins dance—but in the time since they got along famously. Neither of them was popular. Dean spent all his spare hours on the farm, and Lisa’s worldly interests didn’t jive with the predominant culture at their high school. If she brought up yoga, a suspiciously foreign pursuit, people around here assumed that stood for tantric sex.

Dean genuinely believed they had enough things in common that he’d figure himself out. That he’d just know how to treat her. She was pretty, she was cool, she was easy for him to talk to. He just didn’t want to spoil things between them, then ended up doing exactly that.

“Or at least that’s what you think right now, do I have it right?” said Lisa.

“No…”

“Look, Dean,” she said, coming to a stop on the path and facing him. “I am moving on. I’m not the kind of girl who’ll wait around for a guy to figure out what he wants. But you deserted me that night and it hurt a lot. It’s still a hard thing to think about. You have no idea what it feels like, that rejection. It was prom. It was a big deal to me. And I thought I read the signs right.”

Dean couldn’t look at her, hating to be pressed on this subject. He knew he’d done everything wrong, but he couldn’t explain himself further. He didn’t know why people wouldn’t just let it go.

He hadn’t been a good date that night. He’d been edgy and miserable and he only danced reluctantly when Lisa pulled him onto the floor. Prom wasn’t his scene and things were already falling apart. He wished she’d picked up on that and spared them both this terrible ache. He’d suffered through the hope that she would break up with him first until they reached the point where he had no other option.

It wasn’t her fault, though. Of course it wasn’t. Dean just wasn’t a match for the kind of life she wanted. He didn’t know what kind would ever be right.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I just didn’t want to do something that would make the heartbreak worse.”

Lisa shook her head, then rolled her eyes as she turned away. “What a gentleman’s way of saying we never stood a chance.”

Dean let her go ahead back to the picnic, granting a head start before he made his own return. He didn’t know if it was closure, but then again, there was nowhere else for it to go.

Back at the picnic, Dean scanned the crowd again, just in case anyone had shown up while he was gone. There were fresh faces he knew, but not the one he was looking for.

He’d stopped near a high-traffic area, but he didn’t see Jody approaching until she was there, ostensibly to make a choice from the table full of plated desserts. It threw him off when she was out of her sheriff’s uniform. Today she wore a printed dress, perfectly casual and smart on her, but it meant he didn’t clock her with enough time to make a getaway.

“Hey there, Dean,” said Jody, looking over the choices between a chocolate sheet cake and various slices of pie. “How’s that arm treating you?”

“It’s good,” Dean said quickly. “I mean, it’s healing.”

“Glad to hear that,” Jody said, looking up at him with a smile that didn’t stick for long. “You here with your old man?”

“Yeah,” said Dean. “He’s over there.” He gave a nod of his head at a picnic table. It helped to always know where John was.

He wanted to get this over with quickly. He never felt comfortable around Jody. She always turned up when it was the last thing he needed. She’d been at the hospital the night he broke his arm, passing through to check up on some other issue, and she’d stopped for a while in his room. She quizzed him all about the injury, made a whole thing about how he drove himself to the hospital so busted up and with a broken bone, until he finally asked if he was going to be under arrest for falling off a horse.

She always asked questions like there was something she wanted to get at.

“Hey, I never asked,” said Jody. “You have any big plans for the fall? College, job, that kind of thing?”

“No ma’am,” said Dean.

“Ma’am?” Jody said raising a brow. “That makes me feel about a hundred.”

“It slipped out,” said Dean. He felt like he was in trouble, was the thing. “I just mean to say, I’m not going away in the fall. There’s lots of work on the farm. My dad needs me there.”

Not like he could get into college anyway. You had to have passed twelfth grade for that.

He’d missed too much school. Had been needed too much on the farm already.

It wasn’t anybody’s fault that foaling season and exams lined up so neatly. That Dean slept in the barn most nights in spring, at the ready for birthing mares. By the time of the accident, he hadn’t attended enough classes to pass.

“You like the work?” Jody asked. “Staying around home?”

“I do,” said Dean, and that was honest, at least. “I like the horses.”

“Even if they can be temperamental,” Jody said, eyes trailing over his brace. She picked up a couple of plates and said, “Well, I’ve got a hungry husband and a kid who’ll eat him alive if I don’t get back. Always good to talk, Dean.”

“Yes ma’am,” said Dean, and this time as Jody side-eyed him his wry smile said it was on purpose.

He was glad to have her focus off of him, able to let out a long breath at last.

“Dean.” The voice came from behind him, startling Dean once more. Deep and rough and longed-for. He whipped around, and Cas stood a little closer to him than Dean expected.

“Whoa. Cas, hey,” he said. Cas wore a grey t-shirt stamped with the Colorado State University logo and a pair of running shorts. Sweat marked the collar of his shirt. His dark hair was exceptionally untidy, and though it was certainly sweaty Dean wanted to put his hands through it to shape it into place, or else see how much messier it could get.

“What are you doing here?” Dean asked.

“I normally run down by the river,” said Cas. “But I saw you and… Hadn’t seen you since I was at the farm. I thought I should say hi. I think it’s what people do.”

“Especially around here,” said Dean. He smiled. “Hi.”

“Hi,” said Cas. “I thought your brace would be off by now.”

“Tomorrow, actually,” said Dean. “I can’t wait. I haven’t been able to shower properly in ages. Not to mention get back to working. I’m sick of lying around.”

“It may take some time for you to get back to normal,” said Cas. “Is the physical therapist here in town?”

Dean grimaced, shrugged as much as he could. “I’m not gonna bother with seeing a therapist,” he said. “The cost is… I can do some stretches on my own.”

“It’s… an important part of healing,” said Cas.

“I don’t really think I’ll have the time,” said Dean. “There’s a lot of work to catch up on around the ranch.”

“If you had an injured horse, wouldn’t you—”

“That’s different. I can get by with the stretches from gym class and stuff. I know what I’m doing.”

Cas frowned, but he nodded his head slowly.

Dean liked that he backed off these things fairly quickly. He didn’t need another person in his life telling him he was doing it all wrong. It didn’t seem to matter what decision he made, somebody had an opinion.

“I have to go,” Cas said.

And he didn’t trouble with a goodbye. Perhaps he thought he’d already covered that. He turned and took up a jog again, heading down to follow the trail by the river.




Monday afternoon they took off the brace and Dean had that long shower he’d dreamed of. And yet the change didn’t provide the relief he’d been looking forward to. His arm still ached sometimes, and it was made worse by the fact that Dean tried to do everything with his right hand that he could. He’d had the dumb idea that the brace was the only thing keeping him from usual activity, but now he found his arm stiff and weak in ways he never expected. He couldn’t raise it past a certain point, his shoulder twinged at particular movements, and even trying to turn his wrist met with resistance. So much for freedom.

On Tuesday he tried to get back to regular work in the barn, but he had to stop frequently in the middle of his chores. He couldn’t lift what he thought he should be able to lift. He couldn’t work his arm at the angles he needed. He couldn’t close his fist to grip around the manure fork.

At the open door of the barn, a shadowy figure stepped into the bright light. Dean squinted until it took shape, entering the dim interior of the stables.

“Cas?” he said.

“Dean,” said Cas. “I hope you don’t mind. You said I could visit any time.”

“Sure,” said Dean, leaning against the pitchfork he’d been trying to clean stables with. “What are those?” He nodded his head at a sheaf of papers in Cas’ hands.

Cas came forward, looking down at them, stopping near Dean. He stood a little closer than most people would. “Exercises,” said Cas. He looked back up at Dean, gaze levelling with him. Steady and intense. “Someone I knew from undergrad went into physical therapy. I asked her about it, and she faxed over some worksheets.”

“Oh,” said Dean. He looked down at the diagrams on the paper. He didn’t think anyone thought of him when he wasn’t around. His instinct to downplay took over. “I’m sure I’m fine, Cas,” he said. “You didn’t have to do that. I’ll get lots of exercise in around the ranch, believe me.”

“These are specific to your injury,” said Cas. “There are things she wants me to check on. In case there are any modifications needed.”

“Well, that’s real nice of her, but I told you I don’t have any extra money for—”

“There’s no cost,” said Cas. “She was happy to help me out. Is now a good time?”

“Now? Uh. I mean, you’re here now, so uh—”

Cas took the pitchfork from Dean and set it aside.

Now, then.

Cas studied the papers seriously, and Dean even more seriously, as he asked him to go through a series of range-of-motion tests. When Dean’s arms hung straight at his sides, he could barely turn his right palm out when asked to make it face forward. Compared with how his left arm moved, the differences were equal parts obvious and pathetic. Every one of Cas’ exercises emphasised that.

“You can sit down on the bale,” said Cas, taking up a small wooden stool for himself to place close by. “There are some hands-on stretches she laid out for me.”

Dean didn’t put together what ‘hands-on’ meant until they were seated directly in front of each other, knees an interlocking pattern. Cas held Dean’s arm out straight, and his other hand rested soundly on Dean’s shoulder. It covered the shoulder completely, broad and solid, Cas’ fingertips placing slight pressure on Dean’s shoulder in a way that felt so good.

Dean closed his eyes, but he couldn’t keep them closed. He was too curious about what Cas’ face revealed.

Cas focused on Dean’s shoulder, looking at it like a piece of a puzzle, fingers changing their pressure as he carefully moved Dean’s arm in one direction, then another. He paused, looked down at the sheets in his lap, then bent Dean’s arm slowly in.

“Do you actually know what you’re doing?” Dean asked.

“I am very good at following instructions,” said Cas. “And I know what to look for. I’m a doctor.”

“You’re a horse vet,” said Dean.

Cas gave him a flat look.

“And I ain’t a horse,” said Dean.

Cas angled his head to the side, eyes narrowing after a moment. He looked back down at Dean’s shoulder, tugging the sleeve of his t-shirt up a bit further. His hands shifted now, both of them carefully framing Dean’s recently-fractured upper arm, then trailing down towards his elbow.

“How unusual,” murmured Cas.

“Huh?” Dean wet his lips, unable to look away from Cas’ hands.

“It’s strange. This horse has a very sparse coat,” Cas said as if talking to himself. “That can’t be healthy.” He shook his head gravely, hand sliding in a smooth path over Dean’s forearm. Dean couldn’t help that he started to laugh.

“Not to mention these hooves,” said Cas, touching Dean’s hand now. He spread out his thumb, then his fingers one by one. “They appear to be bifurcated, trifurcated. No, four. Five. Very unusual.” His fingers danced between Dean’s and Dean laughed harder, especially because Cas was beginning to crack a smile in turn.

“And this strange whinnying sound,” said Cas. “Perhaps a sign of some distress.”

Dean, still laughing, stood up and walked away because he liked Cas so much it was gonna make him sick.

He dragged a hand across his face and shook his head, trying and failing to stop the way the smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

He twisted to look back at Cas, perched on the stool and looking back at Dean with his head tilted at a slight angle. He had his eyes faintly narrowed, but he looked pleased. With himself. With Dean. Dean couldn’t put a finger on it exactly, and gave one more laugh, bowing his head and, in vain, combing back the hair that fell across his forehead with a hand.

“I thought you’d be a little less skittish than my other patients,” said Cas.

Skittish. The word felt a little too accurate, although why it should made no sense to Dean. He liked being around Cas. He wanted to hang out with him. In fact, didn’t want him to leave.

“Sit down,” Cas suggested. He nodded at the sheets in his hand. “There’s just a few more.”

Dean considered a moment, then swaggered back to sit on the straw bale. He was a little more prepared this time when Cas touched his arm, held his wrist, checking in with Dean along the way.

When he’d made it through everything, Dean asked if he wanted to stay for supper. He didn’t offer it only as a ‘thank you’ for the help, but because he wanted to make good food for Cas. He wanted to impress him. Who knew what a recent university grad like Cas got to eat, especially living alone.

But Cas couldn’t stay. Dean wasn’t his only appointment.

Of course. Cas had an important job and other people who relied on him. It wasn’t Cas’ fault that Dean felt his parting like a rejection.

Chapter Text

Oh, I adore thee, wild thing upon the Earth.
— Spring Creek Basin Mustangs blog

Cas called out of the blue a few days later and asked if Dean was busy. Dean had worked through the morning and was sore from shoulder to fingertips in his right arm, but he couldn’t turn down an offer from Cas.

“Meet me in town,” Cas said. “I’m at the clinic.”

“What for?” said Dean, leaning one hip against the messy phone table. Behind him, haphazard notes and take-out flyers were pinned to the corkboard around a calendar. A snapshot of a month in the Winchesters’ life.

Cas’ voice came deep and stone-rough over the telephone line. The heat of the day pressed on Dean, drawing up sweat between his skin and his clothing as Cas said, “Something I thought you might like.”

So enticingly vague. He wouldn’t say anything further and didn’t need to tell Dean twice to come soon. Dean grabbed a hat on the way out the door—his favourite: a black cowboy hat that by chance matched the black t-shirt he wore today. In moments he was turning the key in his truck’s ignition and heading into town.

Cas locked up the clinic on his way out just as Dean parked ahead of the vet truck. Hitched to the truck was a horse trailer. Dean came slowly around the side, calm and steady. The shadowy form of a horse moved within.

“Who’s in there?” Dean asked. Knowing the horses in the local area was Dean’s business.

“This is a wild mustang,” said Cas. “He was found completely on his own, but we suspect he escaped quarantine after a round-up. I’m bringing him to Cesar, who agreed to train him. I thought you might like to join and see.”

“Really?” said Dean. “You think he can break him?”

“Cesar practises natural horsemanship,” said Cas. “I’ve been curious to see him at work.”

“He won’t mind I’m there?” said Dean

“I told him I was going to invite you along,” said Cas. “He said: as long as he didn’t have to feed you.”

Dean rolled his eyes.

“We should go,” said Cas. “This horse broke down a fence to escape enclosure last year and put himself in huge danger doing it. I don’t want to see him get himself hurt in that trailer.”

Dean didn’t need to be told twice, especially not by Cas who spoke with such a mix of sense and compassion. You didn’t see that with all the farmers and animal workers around here. To some, an animal was just an animal, an investment. To others, animals should have more rights than humans, horses particularly, and to stable them or ride them was unfeeling and unjust. From everything Dean had seen, Cas took a more measured approach. Animals needed to be cared for when they couldn’t do it themselves and bonds went both ways.

Dean hopped into the passenger side of Cas’ truck. He rarely rode passenger these days. He and John didn’t travel together as much, and Dean’s fondness for driving usually meant he was the one cabbing others around. There was something nice about settling in, watching Cas’ hand wrap around the column shifter to put it into gear, or the way the steering wheel slid smoothly against his open palm as he rounded out of a turn.

Cesar’s place was out of the way off a few different sideroads Dean never had occasion to take. He would’ve missed the turn-off for it entirely if Cas hadn’t slowed and signalled his way into an opening in the brush.

The gravel lane was long too, passing through a section of rich forest until it opened out to some flat fields. Five horses grazed together; a motley mix of breeds kept for the love of having them instead of business. A striking Appaloosa trotted by the fence line as if determined to keep pace with Cas’ slow-moving truck. A handsome Morgan horse, the kind that Dean once dreamed of owning, looked up from the ground to meet Dean’s eye. There was a book he read about seventeen times when he was eight years old about the adventures of a boy and his faithful Morgan horse. While he wouldn’t give up Zeppelin for anything, a warm and wistful feeling overtook him as he summoned up that old dream.

They came in sight of the barn and house, Dean looking out more curiously than before. The grey barn might stable seven or eight horses and had enough height for a hay mow on top. Further along the lane, a low ranch house with pale yellow boards stretched out in front of a dark green row of cedar trees. It looked comfortable and unpretentious, cared for but not fussy. The roof extended out to cover a porch at ground level, paved with rough flagstone and with dark timber beams for supports. Two low porch chairs on either side of a table almost invited Dean to sit.

He dragged his attention away as Cas pulled up near the barn. Cesar waved Cas along and directed him through a slow reverse to park the trailer by the round pen. Another man waited nearby, and Dean vaguely remembered that Cesar lived out here with his friend Jesse.

Man. Living out in a place like this, a quiet acreage with a few horses and nobody to bother you, with your best friend for company? It sounded perfect to Dean.

Cas was out of the truck first and nearer to the two men, shaking their offered hands in greeting. He’d clearly been up here before.

Dean came around the front of the truck and Cesar flashed a brief but familiar smirk, then reached out his hand to shake. “Dean,” he said. “Welcome to our place. This is Jesse. Jesse, Dean.”

Jesse shook Dean’s hand as well, although it couldn’t be said he had the same warmth as Cesar. His eyes narrowed faintly in consideration. “Dean…?” said Jesse, waiting for a last name.

“Winchester,” Cesar supplied, his dark eyes locking for a significant moment with Jesse’s.

Jesse’s mouth shaped into a sneer and he looked back at Dean. “Not a kid of John Winchester’s,” he said. “Seriously?”

Jesse likely would’ve had a kinder look for the dogshit he’d stepped in than he had for Dean right now.

Dean made an effort not to react, cautious of escalating his father’s fights. His chin dipped enough that his hat shaded more of his face, but he kept his shoulders straight and his posture loose. This was Cas’ gig. He didn’t want to cause any trouble for him.

“Well,” said Dean carefully, “my dad blows up with pretty much everyone he’s met, so whatever your beef is, I’m sure he’s earned it. But I’m not him.”

“No. You’re our guest,” said Cesar, like that settled it. “Now Cas, I want to see this mustang.”

Jesse took his cues from Cesar and backed off, flicking just one more sharp gaze over Dean.

Dean never knew if he acted right in times like these. It would disgrace John to see this absolute lack of loyalty, but he burned so many bridges that Dean wouldn’t be able to speak to anyone in town if he didn’t establish some distance. In a way, he did it for his father. In a community like this, it didn’t serve anyone to have a reputation as callous and intractable. Dean kept them from being complete outcasts.

Dean stayed out of the way while Cas and Cesar set about the process they’d planned out together. They lined up the trailer with the gate to a small pen for the mustang to exit into, where there was food and water if the horse could be enticed to take it. The next step was to open another gate to a round pen, and this was where Cesar’s work really began.

Training a horse for riding wasn’t something that could be done in a day. Getting it used to humans and accustomed to a rope would be today’s chief goals. At first glance, seeing how the mustang bucked and reared and kicked out its legs in protest against the contained pen, even this seemed impossible. Cas said it broke out of its last enclosure. Dean winced at the way it looked prepared to tear down the fence with its front hooves. It would hurt itself, going on like this. Already, the mustang was marked with scars from his last escape. He was lucky not to have suffered worse.

It was a beautiful horse despite that, this mustang. Strong and tall, with a blue roan coat and black mane. The dark points of its face and lower legs faded up into silver like watercolour, like the horse moved so fast it blurred its own pigment.

He didn’t have enough weight on him, Dean could see that. If he’d been alone, he didn’t have the protection of a herd if some wild animal came upon him. A pack of coyotes or a hungry mountain lion would find him easy prey. Around here there was an even greater danger to him: if this horse turned up in a cattle farmer’s field, eating their green grass and drinking their water, the farmer would shoot it on sight.

He wanted to be free, but horses were social animals. He wasn’t meant to be alone, and the rest of his herd had been captured and divided long since. If he hadn’t found another herd to run with in all this time, it might be that he’d been rejected by them. To set him free extended a different kind of cruelty. Here, if Cesar could ever bring him around, he’d have comfort and good food and friends.

Watching the mustang rear again, Dean wondered if it could be done.

Cesar didn’t let the horse’s antics fluster him. He calmly entered the pen with the riled-up horse, giving it distance as he moved to stand in the middle. He held a coiled rope held in his hand and, just by raising it towards the horse, he got it started running in a circle around the outer edge. With another movement of the rope, the horse would quickly change direction while still running around the edges of the pen. It wasn’t aware it was doing just what Cesar wanted it to for now. Dean and Cas stood on the fence watching, while Jesse came and went, sometimes lingering, sometimes returning inside the house.

Cesar didn’t shout or cuss out the horse or whip his rope towards it. He didn’t need to be anything but calm. He let it tire itself out with those circles. Time stretched out, Dean sometimes lowering himself from the fence for a break, sometimes climbing back up or perching on top next to Cas. When they sat next to each other, when their arms brushed in the course of some small movement to reposition or steady oneself, Dean remembered the heat of the day in the contact of their warm skin. Cas shed his brown canvas vest and laid it over the fence, left in a loose t-shirt with rolled sleeves, as pale blue as the summer sky.

Anyone else might’ve found it boring to watch so long, but Dean wanted the afternoon to last forever. Under his eyes, everything about it was new and fascinating. The relationship between Cesar and this mustang kept changing, until finally he could get nearer and it would follow him, mirror him. Until he could touch the horse’s nose and stroke it. Until he could put a halter on and lead it.

Dean had broken in horses for riding at the farm, but they’d all been handled from their earliest days. Rubbed with a towel by Dean’s hands after birth, hooves and legs regularly touched and lifted in their first year to prepare them for clipping and wrapping. Acquainted with human activities and intervention throughout their lives and never knowing anything different. They were already incredibly used to humans when they wore halters and saddles for the first time. He couldn’t imagine doing what Cesar had just done, and what he’d made look so simple.

Dean was close enough to Cas on the fence that he could brush shoulders with him. “That was pretty cool,” he said.

Cas turned his head to look at Dean, a faint smile on his face. “You liked it?”

“He’s got a way with horses,” said Dean.

“Yes,” said Cas. “You’ve never been up here before?”

“No,” said Dean. “Sounds like Dad got us kicked off the guest list.”

“Mm,” said Cas, but he didn’t comment further. “Cesar and Jesse have done a lot with the place since the last time I was here.”

Dean, having been briefly distracted by Cesar and the mustang, whipped his head to face Cas again. “You were here before? I mean, back then?”

He hadn’t known Cas’ world existed beyond the borders of the Winchester farm. When Dean thought back to that summer, he only remembered the moments Cas was around. How could there have been room for him to go anywhere else, see anyone else?

Cas tipped his head, lips parting curiously. His eyes flicked over Dean as if he didn’t understand what answer Dean wanted to that question. At last, he looked back towards the round pen and said, “I was on the guest list.”

Dean pressed his lips tight to keep them from skewing into a smile, not totally successful. It wasn’t fair for Cas to be so continually funny. For a long moment he studied Cas’ profile, as if by looking long enough he’d figure out how to retaliate, either this time or next. He only looked away again when Cas met his gaze with a faintly raised brow.

Cesar and the mustang had both earned a break from the pen. The horse drank deeply from its water trough now and Cesar hung up the rope. Dean didn’t turn down a tour of the barn, or a walk around the surrounding land. He became lively with questions, things he’d been sitting on all that time he and Cas watched Cesar with the horse.

By the time they were ready to go, Cesar had obviously softened on the condition about not feeding Dean. He went inside and came back out with a couple of fresh-made conchas for them to eat on the road.

“You know,” said Cesar, “I’m glad you came today Dean.” He looked between Dean and Cas. Dean couldn’t read what was going on in his eyes, only that Cesar seemed to be speaking from some kind of wisdom Dean didn’t have access to. Meanwhile, Jesse rejoined them from inside the house. “It’s good to get to know you better,” Cesar said.

“Thanks, same,” said Dean. “It was great to see you work and see all your horses. You’ll have to let me know how this new mustang comes along.” Dean meant it all from the bottom of his heart, feeling lighter just from having been around here.

Cas and Dean drove out in mutual silence, chewing on the sweet buns Cesar left with them. Out of the side mirror, Dean watched the ranch house disappear. The green foliage of shade trees meeting over the long gravel lane closed out the view.

“I didn’t know you had other friends in town,” Dean said finally.

Cas raised both his eyebrows. “What, I’m not friendly?”

“No,” said Dean with a laugh, shaking his head. “Not that. I just mean you’re new again. And a small town like this one, it can be hard to crack into.”

Cas nodded his head. “Most of the people I know are clients,” said Cas. “That’s true. And not all of those are friends. But if Cesar is a friend, that would be a good thing.”

“You don’t know if he is or not?” said Dean.

“I can’t always tell,” said Cas. He shrugged one shoulder mildly. “He’s polite and likeable, and that makes him friendly. But it would help if people just said it outright.”

“You’re my friend, Cas,” said Dean.

Cas kept his face forward, toward the road, but after a moment he smiled, gaze dropping to the dash, then ahead again. “Thanks,” said Cas. “You’re my friend as well.”

He looked over at Dean, wearing once more that serene smile in his eyes. Comfortable with each other. Dean found a smile chasing across his own mouth and he bowed his head and looked away.

“Man, Jesse and Cesar have it good, right?” he said. “Can you imagine how great it must be living out on a ranch with your friend? The freedom, the privacy. They’ve got it figured out.”

Cas’ lips parted to answer, but it was a moment’s struggle before he managed to find his words. “I think they do,” he said.

Chapter 6

Notes:

this is the chapter with a pregnant horse! now I know not all readers were farm kids and all of us have different thresholds for, uh, the very natural but not exactly picturesque process of birthing. if you think you might need to skip that over, go to the notes at the bottom of the chapter for where to stop and restart reading.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The summer that I was ten–
Can it be there was only one
summer that I was ten?
— May Swenson, “The Centaur”

John had to bring a horse up to the border for an international sale, leaving Dean in charge of the farm while he was gone. He joked about timing it on purpose to avoid that afternoon’s visit from the Junior Girl Scouts.

It was the kind of thing John never would’ve agreed to, but Donna Hanscum, the Scout Leader, had been wise enough to corner Dean about it instead. She caught him in the middle of an aisle at the grocery store, when he had nowhere to go but backwards into the canned green beans, and was so tenacious and smiley in the way she asked that you didn’t realise it was all a foregone conclusion. He’d agreed before he fully knew what she was asking.

So the kids would get a tour of a working farm and a trail ride. After John left with his vet papers and horse trailer to meet the broker at the border, Dean set about making a batch of chocolate chip cookies and two big jugs of lemonade. No one asked him to, but when you got back from a trail ride you gave the horses feed and a drink. Only made sense to offer the same to the riders.

Besides, he wanted the kids to like the place, to love the farm and horses in the same way he did. John scorned inviting strangers over and it was Dean who typically granted leave to a couple of the friendly local sportsmen to fish in their river, Dean who built the stile adjoining the far edge of Bobby’s property to their own. This place was full of bounty and beauty: it wasn’t a finite resource that got used up by sharing it with others.

John was gone, and that meant Dean could do things in his own fashion.

The kids came in two minivans, one driven by Donna, the other by Jody Mills. Dean felt a phantom pain in his arm just looking at her, guilty for no reason at all. She wasn’t in sheriff-mode today, though, being more concerned with making sure the girls didn’t run off or take liberties in treating the farm like a more-than-usually hazardous playground.

Dean had no idea of what he was doing. He didn’t have much experience with scouting groups or guided tours, but it turned out their enthusiasm compensated for that. These girls were mostly nine or ten years old, and they followed him around like a gaggle of ducklings. They barely came up to his armpit and weren’t afraid to tug on his shirt when they had a pressing question. They were funny, though, and Dean eased into a low-effort way of managing them.

His tour consisted of letting them explore whatever they showed interest in. To say they weren’t hard to impress was putting it mildly. They were thrilled when he let them go up inside a horse trailer and squealed when they saw a young foal running to catch up with its mother out in the pasture. A horse pooped near the fence and they went into hysterics.

One girl clutched a plastic StarLight horse with a light-up mane and frilly pink saddle, but when Dean took them up to the pasture fence and a couple of the horses began to approach, she quickly moved to the back of the group and held the figurine tighter. He let the girls offer the horses small chunks of carrot and apples, spurning giggles as they reacted to the flutter of soft muzzles moving against their open palms.

He brought them into the stables so that they could see Velvet, a pregnant mare. She was a showstopper, with her protruding round belly. They’d promised to be quiet for the mare’s sake, but could barely clip their oohs and ahhs around her.

“How many babies is she going to have?”

Dean laughed. “Just one. Foals don’t come in litters.”

“Could she have that baby right now? Will we see her have a baby?”

“She’s not having it yet,” said Dean, trying to nip it in the bud before the girls got too excited. “There aren’t any signs she’s ready.” His eyes flicked over to Velvet. This would only be her second birth, and the first time she hadn’t shown the typical early signs either. She was the last of the mares yet to give birth this season, and every day he checked on her. Horses weren’t precise about gestation, but they’d passed the 370-day mark with Velvet two days ago, and that was long.

“Anyways,” said Dean, “most horses usually foal at night.”

“Why?” asked one of the Scouts.

To be a pain in my ass, thought Dean.

“It’s safer for them in the wild,” said Dean. “The foal can be born in the dark and ready to run by daylight. And the mothers like when it’s calm. Sometimes it’s like they wait for me to leave. I go inside to get a cup of coffee, come back out, and what do you know. There’s a baby foal in the stall.”

That earned a squeal from some of the girls, and Dean hushed them again with a reminder not to startle the horse. It didn’t stop them being starry-eyed and hopeful, even as they zipped their mouths shut.

“Can we stay here and see if she has her baby?” one whispered.

Dean laughed again. “You’d be waiting a long time. Besides, you’re here for a trail ride. Now, who’s ready to be a real-life cowgirl?”

At this point they were practically vibrating with excitement like riding horses packed the same emotional thrill as a Hanson brothers concert. He barely got them calmed down again by the time he was bringing them out to the yard, where Jo brought around the horses that were ready and saddled for the ride.

Jody managed to get the StarLight figurine put back in the van, although it was now a comfort talisman more than anything as the nervous girl faced up the row of horses. For anyone not used to riding, horses were simply a lot of animal. Tall, heavy, strong, and a creature capable of making up its own mind. This was no automated ride. It was one thing to collect plastic ponies, another to actually ride one.

There was nothing for her fear but to face it. Dean could already see that she would bolt from the mounting block if left to herself. Instead, he knelt on the ground and gave her a boost up onto the horse, getting her settled into her seat and adjusting the stirrups for her feet. He showed her where she could pet the horse’s neck, stroking in the same direction as its hair, with a reassurance that she had the nicest, calmest horse in the bunch. She bit down on her trembling lower lip and nodded her head.

He gave the horse half an apple from his pocket as a treat.

Dean took Zeppelin and led the way at a slow, and comfortable pace. This kind of thing was easy, even for a horse losing sight. Dean remembered what Cas said, that Zeppelin would come to depend on Dean more. He’d started working in more verbal commands alongside the press of his legs or the touch of a rein, doubling up Zepp’s confidence in Dean’s instruction. There was no one to tell Dean which cues he had to use, no one to fault him if he spoke cowboy to Zepp with ‘whoa’ to stop and ‘get along’ to go.

This wasn’t a pony-ride at a fair, going in circles attached to a ring. He took them on a proper trail which, while not technically difficult, wasn’t just a flat loop. There were moments when the girls got a little scare—when the horse moved more quickly down an incline, or when one decided it had to be near the front of the line instead of the back and trotted forward to wedge its way in. Nothing Dean worried about, with all his experience, but enough for nerves, enough for adrenaline. When they made their way back, when Dean helped the girls down from their horses and their feet touched solid ground again, he saw the equal mixture of thrill and relief. The gratification of having tried something new and lived to tell.

The lemonade and cookies after the ride were a hit. Amped up on sugar and the rushing adrenaline from their ride, the girls ran around the grassy yard in front of the farmhouse. Two pretended to be horses, although they pawed the ground and reared and galloped more than any horse Dean had seen. Others enthusiastically rehashed episodes from their ride just ten minutes ago.

Having flown under Jody’s radar for most of the venture, it was too much to hope he’d entirely escape her attention. She came around to his side, looking out past the girls to the farmland that surrounded them, to the horses grazing and drinking deeply from the water trough as Jo removed the tack from each one.

“You know, this is something you’re quite good at, Dean,” she said.

Dean tried to shrug, a little lost for what to say. “I just know horses,” he said.

“I mean that you’re good with the kids, too. As a teacher.”

“I’ve taught riding lessons to kids this age,” said Dean. “At the Talbot stables.”

“That something you think about getting back into?”

“You’d think with what they charge for lessons and stabling, they could pay their instructors a little more,” said Dean. “It’s not a big taking. And Dad needs me here.”

“Right,” said Jody. “You’ve said.” She pressed her lips together, then looked away from the girls to meet Dean’s eyes. “Just, I see a lot of potential in you, Dean. I’d hate to see that get shuttered away.”

Dean didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to say to that. Jody gave another of her tight smiles and walked away, crossing back to Donna to begin a round-up of the Girl Scouts. He had a chorus of thank-yous from the scouts, and the StarLight girl ran forward at the last minute to hug his waist tight, then turned and ran back to her giggling friends. As the kids piled back into the minivans, Donna thanked Dean and handed over an envelope as they said goodbye. He shoved it into his back pocket before joining Jo to finish up with the horses.

When their work was done, he poured lemonade into two tall glasses stacked with ice. Jo leaned against the fence in a shady part of the yard near the house, fanning herself with her hat while condensation rapidly formed on the glass.

“I was never that annoying at their age, for the record,” said Jo.

“No, you were worse,” said Dean.

Jo swatted him with her hat.

“They weren’t annoying, though,” said Dean. “They were kinda sweet. It’s… I dunno, it’s fun to see them so excited about everything. Like seeing the whole farm again with new eyes.” As if he needed another reminder of why he wanted so badly to stay here. To live and grow old and die here. To haunt this familiar house for years to come.

“Well as long as there are some cookies left over, I won’t complain,” said Jo.

“Who says I’m sharing?” Dean asked, giving her a look. But it broke into a smile quickly. “There’s extras inside,” he said. “Ever eat them with ice cream in between?”

“You’ve got ice cream?” said Jo. She peeled away from the fence. “What’re we doing out here?”

Dean nodded his head towards the house. “I’m right behind you,” he said.

Jo dashed ahead and Dean took the envelope from his back pocket. It was a thank you card, the front of it decorated with colourful hand-made stamps.

He deflated at the sight of a cheque inside. They’d agreed on a fair price, but he’d hoped for cash he could keep. A cheque would go into John’s bank account, and Dean wouldn’t see the money directly.

But Donna made a mistake. Instead of making it out to the Winchester Ranch, she made it out to Dean. That was his name in ‘Pay to the order of.’ Even without his own bank account, he could take it down to the branch in town and cash it out. Add that to his small store of savings kept in a vintage cigarillo tin in his chest of drawers. Meagre though it was, that tin was his failsafe. For the days John’s generosity wore out, for the little things Dean and Sam needed that John didn’t see the worth in. For the day he hoped would never come when John wouldn’t put up with Dean any longer, or, though less likely, the day Dean could no longer put up with John.

In the kitchen, Jo had the tub of ice cream down from the fridge freezer. She already massacred a cookie trying to spread the thick ice cream across it. Dean tucked the envelope back into his back pocket and shoved her down the counter with the bump of a hip.

“Not like that,” he said. “Hopeless.”

“Salvageable,” said Jo, scooping up the broken chunks of cookie. She ended up with ice cream all over her fingers and spoke through a mouthful of food as she said, “All tastes the same.”

Dean laughed. To be fair, his ice cream sandwiches, while structurally sound, were still messy. With anyone but a good friend it might’ve been a trial, but between them it was hilarious. With John out of the house and both Jo and Dean in good spirits, free from pressure and responsibility, this was what a summer day was supposed to feel like. As he left school behind, he feared he’d lose these moments. Watching summer re-runs on TV, rustling up more snacks, long afternoon light turning the house golden and chasing away the shadows.

Today Jo didn’t talk about leaving, about wanting more. For a moment Dean could believe things wouldn’t have to change.




Dean wasn’t kidding when he told the girls that most mares foaled at night. Go figure that this was the shortest night of the year. Dean made himself a coffee as he watched the sun go down and brought it out into the barn to keep an eye on Velvet.

It wasn’t till Jo left and he checked up on her again that he saw she’d finally started waxing, drops of colostrum forming at the ends of each teat. It was like she waited on the Scouts to go, finally finding the calm she needed. Waxing was a good sign, but it could mean half a day or it could mean a week, depending on the horse. As Velvet grew more restless, Dean became convinced it would be tonight.

He was on his own, but he’d seen so many births that he knew what to expect. He kept calm while Velvet grew agitated, laying herself down only to get up and pace again. Dean stayed out of the stall, still and unobtrusive, knowing this was just a waiting game.

Just after three a.m., her water broke. The next time she laid down, she stayed there. Half an hour passed. No foal. There was something about the way she whinnied, the way she bit at her own sides. She wasn’t an experienced mare like some of the others, but she hadn’t had this kind of trouble with her first birth. Dean ran to the phone.

The number for Doc Benton’s clinic was the first one scrawled into the paper behind the dusty cover on the barn’s wall-mounted phone. Dean hated having his eyes off of Velvet for even the length of time it took to ring.

He heard a tired, low, “Hello?” at the other end of the line.

“Cas,” he said. More relieved than ever to hear his voice. “Got a birthing mare. Think something’s wrong.”

Cas didn’t ask any further questions. He simply said, “I’m coming right there.”

The next ten minutes felt like a century. He did what he could for her. He wrapped her tail and got it out of the way, and he washed her hind end with warm water and disinfectant. Dean needed this foal to be okay. He needed Velvet to make it through. He hated to see her in distress.

He couldn’t imagine what his dad would say if he returned from his trip to two dead horses under Dean’s watch.

He felt scared and electric and on edge, dangerous like a livewire. He startled when the barn door opened to the night.

“Cas,” he said.

Cas had a singular focus on the mare in her stall, but as he passed Dean he placed a hand on his shoulder. A brief, solid touch. It slid away too soon, but it reached Dean like a promise. Cas was here, he wasn’t alone, and it was going to be okay.

“We need to get her standing up,” said Cas, pulling out a pair of OB gloves from his bag. “Can you do that, Dean?” Cas surveyed the mare as he rolled each glove up to his shoulder, then coated them with lubricant. Meanwhile, Dean managed to prompt Velvet back up to her feet. She went more readily than he expected. It was like she knew he wanted to help her out, the way she trusted him.

“I’ll need you to hold her steady, Dean.” said Cas. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah, yes,” said Dean, just glad to be told what to do. Velvet seemed the same. She didn’t resist, despite everything she must be going through. Dean stood at her shoulder, arms bracing her in place, one hand moving in calming strokes against her neck.

Dean was torn between wanting to watch and wanting to look away as Cas reached in to check on the foal’s position.

“Oh, you’re a very confused young thing,” Cas said aloud. He frowned a little deeper, then gave a decided nod of his head.

“Is it bad?” said Dean.

“Its head is turned,” said Cas. “And it has one foot turned back, but not far.” He caught Dean’s distressed expression and said, “We can do this. I’m going to push the foal further back and get it into position. The mare is going to be working against me. Do you have her steady?”

“I have her,” Dean said.

He wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to skip to the part where this was over. Instead he found he couldn’t look away from Cas, his own breath quick and shallow. Cas stayed so patient, self-assured, even when he had to use all his strength to push back the foal. All his finesse to straighten out its head, to pull forward its leg, without causing harm to the mare.

“There,” said Cas, with a sound of relief. “There. Ease her down. Let her birth from laying down. Come on.”

“Is it dead?” said Dean. He couldn’t stand the idea. “Will it come out dead?”

“Shh,” said Cas. Dean couldn’t tell if he was hushing him for the horse’s sake or Dean’s. Dean tried to calm himself down, tried not to give into the despair of a stillbirth. What if he hadn’t called Cas early enough? Velvet would be alright, since he was here, but what if it was too late for the foal?

After all the waiting and panic, the rest happened quickly. The front feet and the head came through, from where the rest would easily follow. Dean could breathe again when the foal did, the moment of truth as it took its first quick breaths, shaking and lifting its head.

So little about the process was pretty. Cas stripped away his messy gloves and pitched them aside. There were fluids and sacs and the mother’s afterbirth. But all Dean saw was the foal’s perfect head, the way that mare and foal lay together and formed that silent, unbreakable bond.

Dean couldn’t take his eyes away and he didn’t have words, so he just bumped his body into Cas’ as if to say, we did it.

There were particulars to watch for in that first hour; Cas stayed around without Dean asking him to. Mother and foal separated, the foal got up on its shaky legs and followed its innate instinct in learning to walk, then clumsily drank for the first time. Despite having gone on so long, he was a slightly smaller colt, but now that he was out he seemed perfectly healthy. The hardest part was over.

Cas sat down on a row of straw bales outside the stall, the top part of his coveralls stripped back and tied by the arms around his waist. Dean collapsed down next to him. They both smelled like the farm’s disinfectant soap. Dean leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

“Is John going to spot you off?” Cas asked. “You need some rest.”

Dean shook his head, still too tired to open his eyes. “He’s away.”

“You’re here alone?”

“I can keep checking up on them,” said Dean. “I’ll be fine.” He turned his head faintly against the wall and sank a little lower. He could feel the warmth of Cas beside him. The steadiness. He wanted to say he was too worked up about the events of the night to even contemplate sleep. Normally it would be true. If he were in his own bed, if Cas weren’t right beside him, he’d get anxious and toss and turn.

But now he was too tired to even suggest it out loud.

When he woke up his head was pillowed by a folded saddle blanket. Another one draped over his body, laying out, surprisingly comfortable, along the row of bales. Through the stable doors, cracked open enough for a person to pass through, he saw the first grey light of dawn.

Shortest night of the year.

Dean sat up, rubbing at his eyes with the back of a hand. He knelt up on the bales and peered over the stall to check on the mare and the new foal. The colt was nursing again. The stall had been cleaned around them, fresh straw underneath.

Cas came in from outside the barn, leaving the door open behind him.

“You’re awake,” he said.

“You let me sleep,” said Dean. He was still sleepy. He likely hadn’t got much more than an hour in, but it was enough to keep him from nodding off immediately again. “You didn’t need to stick around, Cas. You should’ve been in your own bed.”

“I was on-call,” said Cas. “And I had my pager with me if anything else came up.”

Dean narrowed his eyes to question Cas’ judgement, but Cas just laughed at the expression he wore. Dean was too tired for it to have any force in it.

“The colt’s alright?” Dean finally asked.

“He’s perfect,” said Cas. Dean rested his arm on the top of the stall, and his chin on top as he looked in. He loved seeing the little foals. This one had a mousy grey coat with a short, spiky black mane like a tiny mohawk. It had just discovered it could hop.

“He looks smart,” said Dean. “Look at the shape of his head. His eyes. Don’t you think?”

“You sound like a proud father,” said Cas.

Dean laughed, tired and unguarded. “Well at least he gets to have that.”

Cas studied Dean for a moment. Then he said, “I never had much experience of proud fathers either.”

Dean tipped his head to rest his cheek against his arm, looking up at Cas. He’d never learned the particulars of why Cas left home when he did. Dean might’ve once tried asking in his clumsy, twelve-year-old way. It wouldn’t have been a difficult thing for Cas to put him off of it.

Dean could ask now. Now, in this hour of the morning that didn’t even feel real. Exhausted and giddy from a whirlwind night. Drawn closer to each other by the intimacy of danger, of joint rescue, of something newborn between them. His heart beat faster at the thought that he could know Cas better, could reveal another layer of Cas in the same way that the coveralls peeled back to show his collarbones above his loose white t-shirt, the dark hair of his arms below his short sleeves.

Before Dean could speak Cas had looked back into the pen. “You’re right,” said Cas. “I bet he is smart.” He leaned forward to rest his elbows against the edge of the stall, his arms loosely crossed at the wrist. “Do you have a name for him?”

Dean looked back down at the colt. He’d been thinking of ‘Lou Reed,’ since his mother was Velvet Underground, but he wasn’t married to it. “Maybe you should have a say,” Dean said. “He wouldn’t be here without you. What would you call him?”

Cas narrowed his eyes at the ash-grey colt, tipping his head to one side. Finally he said, “Salt-N-Pepa.”

“Like… the seasonings?” said Dean.

“Like the music group,” said Cas. He looked mildly pleased with himself. “I’ve noticed your horses are usually named after popular musicians.”

Dean hid a smile against his shoulder. He doubted he’d ever sell John on a hip-hop girl group—even Dean wouldn’t have tended in that direction—but he liked Cas enough to try.

Notes:

skipping the foaling: you should be alright if you stop around Cas was here, he wasn’t alone, and it was going to be okay. the stuff up till then isn't rendered in much detail. join us again when we get here: Dean couldn’t take his eyes away ...

Chapter Text

There is a word I know. But I can’t say it. I can’t think it. I’ll just keep drawing horses.
— Emma Hunsinger, “How to Draw a Horse

Making the best choices for himself wasn’t Dean’s strength. Despite that, Dean followed the physio print-outs that Cas gave him and he iced his arm every day to help with the pain and healing. He knew that Cas would ask him about it, and the dread of disappointing Cas was powerful motivation.

The exercises helped, but Dean had to hide as much as he could that his arm wasn’t back to normal. He got sore easily. He couldn’t make a fist or keep the fingers of his right hand curled for any span of time. He didn’t like to scrawl down more than a few words or a phone number at a time, his handwriting barely legible. He blamed some of his pent-up energy these days on the fact that letting off steam with his left hand just wasn’t the same as with his right and pulled him out of the mood. It wasn’t his only concern, but it wasn’t any way to live either.

With the kind of heavy work that needed to be done around the farm, it was in Dean’s interest to bear through the pain. Even if the strain of certain tasks worked against what a therapist would advise, Dean knew better than to let on his misgivings. In a cast and sling, his injury could be grudgingly tolerated. Without that visual aid, inactivity looked like insolence.

John had put off gelding the two-year-olds this season until Dean was able to work them. The best way to prevent infection after the procedure was to make sure they were well-exercised, which was typically Dean’s job. John left gelding later than many other breeders, insisting that it gave his horses thicker necks, larger statures, and a more masculine look. It came at the risk of more stallion-like behaviours, but a dash of independence and spirit was alright in horses.

Dean never liked being around for the procedure and often wished that some unlikely thing would come up and interrupt the proceedings or pull Dean away by necessity. Although he understood the reasons for gelding, he’d been young the first time he’d witnessed it and had nightmares afterwards for months. John derided him for crying over it, for being so sensitive. He then ensured Dean was present every year, even when there were other workers on hand who could’ve been a better help. There was no call to be a sissy around the farm.

Dean built up walls around his pity for the colts. He still didn’t like it, but this time he wondered if Cas would come. He wasn’t sure if that would make things more bearable, or if it would tarnish the good feeling he usually had when Cas was around.

Dean pulled on his boots at the door and took down a straw cowboy hat to shade out the morning sun. He came out of the house rolling the sleeves of his green flannel only to find the veterinary truck already parked.

He was early.

Dean hastened towards the outdoor pen where they’d moved the colts, hidden from view by the barn. His boots churned the gravel of the lane, the savour of hope high in his chest. He rounded the corner and slowed at once. John stood in the middle of the grassy pen with Doc Benton. Old Doc looked about a hundred but prided himself on his steady hands and sharp mind. He had no reason to quit his practice and didn’t shirk even these rather thankless tasks.

Dean didn’t realise how set he was on seeing Cas until the disappointment overtook him that he wasn’t there. John called him over, his voice only halfway breaking apart Dean’s inattention. Dean didn’t think till it was too late that his slow approach looked like reluctance, his preoccupied silence taken for sissy squeamishness. He obeyed John’s orders to the word, twitching the horses to restrain them for the procedure, even though he hated doing it. This wasn’t the day to try for compromises with John. This was the day to say “Yessir” and “No, sir” and offer up no free word. These days heightened John’s attitude as much as they did Dean’s.

He went numbly through the rest of the day, checking up often on the horses after Doc left and helping out John with chores until he had to go inside and start making supper. Chili and cornbread, an easy enough meal to prepare, but Dean was distracted throughout. He couldn’t remember if he put in any salt, so he added more to compensate. John took two bites of the chili, then asked if Dean was trying to give him a heart attack. Said he wouldn’t give it to dogs. Got up and took his keys to go into town for something to eat.

Dean dragged his spoon around the chili while John went through his theatrics, not saying a word or taking a bite. When the truck drove off, he scraped his food out into the garbage, not particularly hungry. He leaned over the pot on the stove and sighed. He could get some more ingredients tomorrow. Double the recipe’s plain ingredients like tomatoes and beans, skipping the salt, and still save the thing for leftovers another day.

He rested his weight on his arms over the counter, shoulders slumping, head bowed. He turned his glance to look out the kitchen window, toward the empty driveway and the periwinkle blue of a quiet summer evening.

Times like this he wished his dad would leave and never come back.

It was mean-spirited of him. It made him a bad son. A bad person. To wish his father would vanish from the face of the earth and leave Dean be.

If you asked him on the wrong day, at the wrong time, what kind of devil deal he would make, that would be it.




Dean sat at the timeworn desk in his room with a tri-folded green brochure in his hands. The GED cost a hundred dollars to take. There were prep courses for adults run out of a church basement a few towns over. It would’ve been a cheaper and an easier thing to simply finish school properly, not miss so many classes and essay deadlines. If he only could’ve gone to his exams with time to study and a proper night’s sleep.

Dean dragged a hand over his face, slumping forward with his chin in his palm as he read over all the steps. Was it even worth it? He knew what John would say. Waste of money and time. What did Dean need it for anyway? He had work on the farm and that made him luckier than most because he didn’t have to look anywhere else. He didn’t need a diploma or fancy qualifications in life. He didn’t have to work for a stranger and meet some asshole employer’s arbitrary standards.

In one of his paranoid moods, John intimated that Dean’s fixation on his diploma smacked of disloyalty, of an intention to abandon John and this farm in the same way Sam had. It was in the first week following Dean’s broken arm, when he was in a haze of pain meds and worked up about missing his exams. Dean didn’t remember everything he said, just how hard he worked to fight back tears when everything was so close to the surface. He pacified John and said he didn’t care, would give up the notion.

Dean heard the creak of the staircase, someone coming up, and he shoved the brochure under a book before casting a glance over his shoulder. He didn’t expect John back till later.

He sat up straighter when Cas appeared in the door.

“Oh good, you are here,” said Cas.

Dean smiled, the tension in his chest easing to a flutter. His hand wrapped over the back of his chair. “Well I do live here,” he said.

“I went to the barn first. Jo wasn’t sure if you were inside,” he said, already looking past Dean and around the room. Cas entered without waiting to be invited, eyes drawn to Dean’s wall-mounted shelves. The taller one held books, but the lower one displayed trophies and photographs as well as prize ribbons he didn’t know what else to do with. Cas looked past the ribbons and picked up a picture of Dean with Zepp, the smile on Dean’s face light and open as the horse put its head over his shoulder.

Cas spoke entirely unhindered by his investigation: “I wanted to check on your arm. Anna asked about your progress.” He set down the picture and looked over his shoulder at Dean. “That’s the friend who gave me the exercise sheets. I don’t know if I said.”

Dean shook his head faintly. He supposed it was good to get the name of his distant benefactor. “Anna,” he said. “The angel on my shoulder.”

Cas frowned at the comment. Dean didn’t see why. It was a decent pun. His shoulder was still pretty fucked up, but her course of treatment was helping.

“You and Anna have a thing?” Dean asked. “I have a feeling she isn’t helping out ‘cause she’s so interested in some random charity-case farm kid.”

“No,” said Cas, and where anyone else might have elaborated, he simply moved on. He picked up a leather folder stuffed with pages from another shelf.

Dean’s drawings. Cas opened them to flip through, and Dean didn’t feel the need to put him off.

It was funny. Even Jo he would’ve stood up to steal the folder away from. She would’ve mocked him relentlessly for his single-minded obsession, no matter his technical skill, and they were a little too close to Dean’s heart for him to withstand mockery. But he trusted this in Cas’ hands.

Dean had been drawing horses since he was a kid. He started out tracing them from the illustrations in his favourite books, then from the encyclopaedia of horses that his dad kept next to their lineage book downstairs. Detailed horse faces appeared in the margins of his school notes, and for the longest time any birthday card he signed for somebody included a small, quickly sketched horse in the corner.

He was better at horse scenes than anything else, but he included more human figures these days, and he wasn’t bad at them. He avoided drawing hands, though, whenever he could.

One of Cas’ hands cradled the folder, the other paused over the pictures on mismatched sheets of paper, turning through them with a reverent touch.

Cas’ hands might make for a better study. They were very distinct. Dean would want to get them just right.

His hand twitched for a pencil, but he frowned down at it as he tried to touch his fingers together. He didn’t have the finesse back that he needed. His muscles still didn’t move right.

He hoped it wasn’t pushing himself that fucked them up so bad. Not if that meant he never drew Cas’ hands loosely wrapped around a bridle or stroking down a horse’s broad neck.

“I still have it, you know,” said Cas, not looking up from the book. “The picture you gave me.”

Dean’s lips parted. He hadn’t forgotten, precisely. But it had been a long time since he thought of it. He spent ages with that picture. Not just drawing it, but debating for days over whether it was good enough to give to Cas. When he finally passed it over he tried to act off-hand. Like he didn’t particularly care if Cas kept it or pitched it.

“Don’t know if I’d wanna see a picture I made when I was twelve again,” said Dean, looking down at his hands. What had been running through his head back then? The confidence he must have had to think Cas would even want a picture. Or did it just speak to how badly he wanted Cas’ attention? Wanting to share something with him, to be remembered by him even after he left.

“It’s very good,” said Cas, closing up the portfolio at last. “I put it in a frame.”

Dean put a hand over his eyes, unable to help smiling. “Jeez, Cas.”

Cas shifted back to sit against Dean’s window, hands wrapped around the ledge, body leaned forward. In the confines of Dean’s bedroom, he looked younger than he did all those other times together when he’d been in his role of vet. His eyes more earnest and even bluer when they weren’t squinting against the sun or thinking through some equine problem.

“It was very expressive,” said Cas. “The horse you drew. The more I worked with horses and learned to read their body language, the more I realised that you… You knew what they were saying all along. It wasn’t even one of the farm horses, it was one you made up, but I felt like I knew him. He was… curious and nervous. He wanted somebody to trust in, possibly for the first time. He wanted a friend. Even though no one had offered that to him before.”

Dean’s smile faded the longer Cas spoke. He couldn’t recall putting all of that into one simple picture. He couldn’t pick just one of the farm horses to draw for Cas, so he invented one. Only now, hearing Cas describe all these impressions, did Dean realise he’d put too much of himself into it.

And Cas was saying aloud that he saw right through all of that.

Dean wanted to run. He swallowed hard around the spur in his throat, about to interrupt.

“But then,” said Cas, gaze drifting down, head tipping to the side, “that may just be me.”

Dean bowed his head, hands still gripping the top rail of his ladderback chair, body twisted in it so that he faced Cas without having fully turned from his desk. Sun slanted through the window around Cas’ body, catching the slow rise of dust motes, turning them into gold. Stillness swelled between them.

They were so alike, Dean and Cas. They might be the only two people in the world who understood one another.

Dean’s face lifted again, and Cas’ gaze rose in mirror so that their eyes met.

“I never thought you’d still have it,” said Dean.

Cas shook his head mildly. “I always felt bad that I didn’t have something to give to you. Something that would mean the same.”

“Mean the same?”

“I don’t get a lot of gifts,” said Cas. “It seemed like a way of saying I was part of something.”

“You are,” said Dean. “I mean, I want you to be. I mean— You have a place, here. Y’know. In town. And around here at the ranch. I just mean… I’m glad you’re back around.”

Cas smiled faintly in response.

They’d said so much that Dean hardly dared to say more.

Cas pushed himself up from the window sill. “I came here to help with your physical therapy,” he said. “I should warn you one more time that you should be doing this with an actual therapist. I am, as you have pointed out, merely a horse vet.”

“If you weren’t putting me up to it, I wouldn’t be doing anything at all,” said Dean.

“Then I’ll keep it up.”

Cas had fresh sheets of diagrams for them to follow, and he continually wrote notes as he had Dean test out the different routines. If something hurt Dean too much or made his arm tremble, Cas efficiently said, “Don’t do that one, then,” and stroked an ‘X’ through it.

It was funny. Dean always believed the things that hurt most were the things he had to bear.

As before, there were assisted exercises. Cas’ hand, firm and solid, cradled Dean’s arm or pressed into his muscle. It felt like the relief of a massage, the kind of thing Dean wanted to drift asleep into. It was curious how when Cas’ fingers slipped into his palm, his other hand cupping Dean’s elbow, Dean couldn’t even think of how his muscles felt or where the pain had been. All he thought of was how Cas was so close and steady, perched on the edge of Dean’s desk and leaning into his space with that intense focus in his heavy-lidded eyes. Cas only touched his forearm and yet Dean felt surrounded by him, sheltered by him. As if Cas’ nearness and undivided attention stretched out like an invisible shield.

While Cas shifted the angle of his head and studied Dean’s arm, Dean couldn’t look away from his face. He could stand to be enfolded in this moment forever.

But all too soon Cas said they’d done enough for this week, surely as clinical with Dean as he’d be with any horse and farmer. He’d report to Anna on how Dean was doing. He’d come back with more as Dean built back his strength bit by bit.

Neither of them said anything about leaving or staying, but Dean found himself following Cas back downstairs. They stopped on the porch and did a poor job of saying goodbye. One stray thought from Dean, spoken aloud, and they immediately got distracted talking about horses. Other barn animals too—all Cas’ different clients. Dean wanted to invite him for supper again. Thinking how he’d pull out the table in the kitchen, raise the drop-leaf edges to seat more than just himself and John, how he had a decent table cloth buried in a kitchen drawer.

He never had the chance to make the invite in the easy way he’d have liked to. John pulled into the lane, returning from his business in town, and rolled to a stop by the porch.

His arrival brought a new tension to Dean’s chest. Cas had visited three times already, and this was the first time John was actually around. What would John think of him now? He tried to rapidly work out what Cas might look like to his dad. Standing on the porch in a vest made of suede patches in muted colours, his light blue jeans cuffed above a pair of black Doc Martens. He didn’t dress like a professional or a vet. He didn’t dress like anybody.

“Cas Novak,” said John, coming out of the truck. He pushed back his hat to scratch a hand through his hair, then righted it again. “I wouldn’t recognize you.”

That didn’t make sense to Dean either. It was years ago, but he’d have known Cas anywhere.

“John,” said Cas with a nod of his head. “I guess that means it’s been a long time.”

“You don’t say,” said John. His gaze flicked over to Dean. “Hope there’s not anything wrong with those geldings, Dean.”

“I’m not here about the geldings,” said Cas. “I was here to visit Dean.” He spoke with a plain and level tone that didn’t invite much curiosity. Dean didn’t know if it was wisdom or Cas’ laconic tendencies that kept him from stating the purpose of his visit. Dean didn’t intend to tell John about the therapy. He just knew John would find error in it.

“Look at this, city boy turned country vet,” said John with a shake of his head. “Who’d have thought?”

Dean looked up from the porch steps, realising for the first time that John might know more about Cas’ history than Cas had ever shared with him. John wasn’t one for personal small talk, of course. All he’d have cared about back then was whether Cas could do the job honestly, and how much he could scrimp him for his labour. But maybe Cas disclosed details and particulars before John hired him on. How had he stated his case, way back then?

“I wasn’t exactly—” Cas started to say, but John interrupted.

“Dean says you were a good hand with Velvet when she was in trouble,” he said. “I’ve been thinking how it wouldn’t be bad to have a vet cut us some deals for once, offer better rates. After giving you work way back and all.”

All farmers were cheap, but it was more painful than usual to watch his father put Cas in this situation. Stuck between them, Dean no longer knew what he ought to say. Cas looked troubled too, as if not knowing what to respond at first. “Back then. Right,” he said. He gathered himself and said, “The practice is Benton’s. It wouldn’t be my place to cut rates.”

“Any plans to take it over one day? Stick around here?” asked John. A question Dean suddenly thirsted to know the answer to as well.

“I haven’t heard that Benton has any plans to retire,” said Cas.

“Nah, Old Doc will never give it up,” said John. “He’s been around since I started, and he wasn’t young then.”

“He’s had three heart attacks,” Dean put in. “And he still keeps going.”

“My plans aren’t settled,” said Cas. “Where I end up? Well. I may have options. I should go, though. Good to see you, Dean.” He gave a nod of his head in farewell, then another. “John.”

Dean remained on the porch steps, but his eyes followed Cas. For the first time he saw that Cas had arrived not with the vet truck, which he’d driven every other time, but by motorcycle. He picked up the leather jacket he’d draped over the saddle and pulled it on, took a helmet from the seat compartment, then cut off down the lane.

“Nice bike,” John commented, and Dean couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or sincere. He hadn’t actually noticed the make of the bike at all.

“Yeah,” he said absently. He rubbed a hand over his right arm, which Cas had handled not so long ago.

“Weird guy,” said John, then turned to go inside.

Dean jerked his head over his shoulder as if by looking at John he’d be able to see what the hell he meant by that. John’s back gave away nothing.




On Thursday, John left for an out-of-state auction and rodeo. He departed after the morning chores were done and, in his absence, Dean had the freedom of the house. He opened up the windows. He did laundry and put it on the line to dry in the fresh, swift wind. Anything he didn’t like he could clear from sight. He filled the back of his truck with empty bottles and cans, the sour smell of old beer carried away by that same benevolent wind.

He made supper at Bobby’s that night and they ate it outside on his porch. Dean laughed through Bobby’s straight-faced and decidedly grumpy recounting of some ranch mishap involving John and an old bronco-buster.

With night falling and no rush to get home, Dean went inside and picked out a movie for them to watch. He’d seen City Slickers before, but it still cracked him up and he liked the familiarity. All of it tonight, really. The taste of buttery popcorn from Bobby’s age-yellowed air popper, the comforting scent of earth and motor oil on the night breeze, the rasp of Bobby’s chuckles through the movie. John thought Dean did it out of pity, these social visits an act of charity just to do some good for a lonely man like Bobby. But it did Dean a greater world of good. To know he had somewhere he was wanted and made a difference. Somewhere he wasn’t expected to act any different than what he was.

Chapter Text

Try tropic for your balm,
Try storm,
And after storm, calm.
— Genevieve Taggard, “Of the properties of Nature for Healing an Illness”

He wasn’t used to a quiet house. Jo was at the same rodeo as John this weekend, leaving basic caretaking around the farm to Dean. He didn’t mind this part—the horses made for good company—but their care was second nature to him, ingrained in his daily schedule. It was the rest of his time he had to choose how to fill.

After his morning chores, after a little more house-cleaning, Dean sat at the desk in his room and responded to letters he’d been meaning to answer. One for Lee, one for Benny. He filled a couple of lined pages for each of them, then folded the papers and stuffed them into envelopes. He checked his drawer for postage stamps but was clean out. Add that errand to the list.

The post office smelled like packing tape and paper, with bracingly cold air conditioning that felt like walking into a fridge compared with the heat outside. Dean picked out a set of stamps with different horses on them, then carefully selected which horses belonged to each friend. He handed over the letters to the mail lady feeling mildly upbeat, finding himself in a better mood just thinking about when the letters would reach his friends.

He turned to head out past rows of silver mailboxes when the door opened to Cas coming in.

Dean had wanted some excuse lately to reach out to Cas but didn’t know any phone number for him beyond the vet’s office. It didn’t seem right to call there about anything that wasn’t strictly business, and Cas wasn’t in the phone book.

“Cas,” he said.

Cas looked up from his preoccupied trek to the mailboxes. His posture eased. “Dean,” he said. “How’s the new foal?”

Dean smiled at the mention of it. “He’s good,” he said. “Asks about you.”

A smile chased across Cas’ mouth, paired with a huff of a laugh that felt more rewarding than any joke Dean had told in his life. His smile in turn was wide and bright with pride.

“Does he?” said Cas.

“You should come up and see him sometime. He owes you a lot.”

“I’d like that,” said Cas, going to his mailbox and sliding in the key.

“Hey,” said Dean. “You busy?”

“I’m not,” said Cas, flipping through the small stack of flyers and bills. He sounded disappointed, of all things. “I have a few days off and…” He stopped flipping through, looking up to Dean. “I’m not used to having days off.”

Dean lifted his brows. It didn’t surprise him, given all that Cas disclosed about his habits. Even while working on his degree, time that wasn’t spent studying was spent in the field, and very little of it paid. Now that he had work and no school, they paid him for his time on the job or on-call. He was no longer expected to volunteer away every spare hour.

“Sounds like you need a tutor,” said Dean. “Although I don’t know if I’m a good model for it. I couldn’t stop all my chores even with a broken arm.”

“There’s a chance we’re both hopeless cases,” said Cas.

“Hey, if you’re not busy… Do you want to come up for a trail ride?” said Dean. “I was planning to go out for a few hours today.”

Cas lowered the flyers and papers in his hands. “That would be—” he started to say. Then, “Yes.”

Dean smiled wide. “How soon could you be ready?”

“Soon,” said Cas. “Now.” He tossed the flyers into a blue bin and placed a recent bill back inside the mailbox and locked it shut again.

They didn’t need to stop at Cas’ place, but they crossed the street to pick up some sandwiches from the deli, wrapped up in wax paper. A good lunch before they took off riding. They ate the sandwiches together in Dean’s truck driving up to the ranch. Dean certainly didn’t mind driving back into town to bring Cas home later that night. If it meant longer with Cas, the extra trip wasn’t a trial.

Cas remembered where to find the tack in the barn, and together they got Ringo and Zeppelin ready to ride. Dean wore his favourite black cowboy hat and loaned Cas one in tan felt. Although Cas navigated the barn with old familiarity, looking at him now, Dean had a hard time seeing the teenager he’d once been. The dark and even stubble across his chin made him look like somebody’s dream of a cowboy. He swung himself up into the saddle and cast a glance down at Dean over his shoulder, then gave Ringo the go-ahead to walk.

Dean didn’t mean to stare, but Cas looked right on a horse. This was where they were both supposed to be.

Dean reached for Zeppelin and mounted with an easy movement, on the ground in one moment and on the horse’s back in the next. Cas was looking back at him as Dean caught up to him and led the way.

Cas had some memory of the horse paths and countryside around the ranch, and much of the time they rode side-by-side. Dean spoke chiefly to point out the seasonal changes he observed on this ride, or particularly good views of the farm and surrounding pastures. When they left the woods and the terrain turned into a flat grassy stretch, they let the horses try out their speed by mutual accord. It felt like flying. Ringo and Zepp galloped through the soft grass, legs stretching out far and fast, with more ambition for racing each other than their riders had.

Dean took more care with Zepp these days, but it spoke to how free the horse felt, how safe in this company, that he could run uninhibited, trusting the rider on his back, the ground under his feet, and the friend at his side.

After letting the horses run, Dean and Cas ground-tied them near the edge of a high lookout and sat to rest. A stony ravine descended below them, then rose again for stacks of hills that extended into the distance. To their backs, the field of grass swayed, familiar and gentle compared to the rugged vista.

Dean wrapped his arms around his knees, ignoring the twinge of pain he got from his right arm, still healing.

It felt like rain ahead. Wind blew through the pass and tugged at their clothes. A scent in the air both mineral and earthy. Iron grey clouds moved slowly around in the distance while sun lit up the meadows in green and gold. There was something dramatic about this kind of light. How the green of the trees looked deeper in contrast before rain.

They didn’t need to rush their time. You could see so far from here, the weather at that distance offered less a warning than a promise.

“I’ve never seen anyone ride like you,” said Cas. The first words either of them had spoken since sitting down. He looked out at the distance rather than at Dean. “You look natural in a way people could try for years to master, and still not get.”

Dean bowed his head, letting the brim of his hat shade his face for a moment. The comment pleased him too much. People didn’t just up and say that kind of thing. But Cas wasn’t like most people.

“I don’t know about that,” said Dean, picking at a small bit of thread from the stitching of his boot. “You’re a good rider yourself. Horses like you.”

“Hm,” said Cas. “I don’t ride as much as I’d like.”

“No?” said Dean, daring to look out from under his hat.

Cas shook his head, eyes squinting out at the horizon. “I don’t own a horse, for one.”

Dean hadn’t thought of that. He gave a small nod of his head. Cas spent so much time around horses and knew what to do with them so well, but he had been in school in the city. He’d been, no doubt, as broke as he was busy. He wouldn’t have had the spare cash for care and stabling.

“You want to buy a horse?” Dean asked. “‘Cause I know a guy…”

Cas twitched a smile, briefly looking at Dean, then ahead again. “Soon,” he said. “Perhaps. I have a lot to consider. Where I’d keep it. Whether I’ll be staying in one spot.”

“You don’t know if you’ll be staying here?” He’d implied it already, but Dean had been half-hoping he’d misunderstood.

“I don’t,” said Cas.

Dean chewed his lower lip, gazing sightlessly down from their perch.

“For six years, I’ve been following a very narrow course,” said Cas. “And suddenly I don’t know what’s expected of me. There’s nothing telling me what to do. Choosing my own course of action is…. Confusing. Terrifying.”

“You’ve done it before,” said Dean. “It’s not everybody who… who strikes out on their own like you did.”

Cas’ eyes turned distant, seeing something Dean couldn’t. “It’s strange,” he said. “I didn’t feel like I had much other choice there, either.” He stretched out his hand to brush through the top of the long grass around them.

Dean nearly asked again, but he had the sense Cas wouldn’t say. Not directly. So he said instead, “Did you have horses when you were little?”

Cas shook his head faintly. “I was—” He looked briefly uncomfortable, eyes darting. “I was sent to a horse therapy camp.” He plucked a blade of grass and rolled it rhythmically between his thumb and forefinger. “When I was young. Nobody thought I was quite… right.”

Dean wanted to argue with these people, these shadowy figures from Cas’ past. He knew nothing except for the present Cas before him and memories of the daring teenager who turned up all those years ago, but that was enough. “That’s bull,” he said.

Cas tipped his head, a complicated expression twitching across his face. “It was good for me,” he said. “So maybe they weren’t wrong.”

“Is that what got you interested in horses?” Dean asked.

Cas nodded. “They were easier to be around than people. I could talk to them. Tell them things.”

Dean just nodded, casting a glance over at Zepp. He understood.

He told Cas what he hadn’t told anyone before: “I didn’t talk at all for a year after my mom died,” said Dean. “I liked the horses because I didn’t have to say anything to them.”

“That’s why you read them so well,” said Cas.

Dean tried to shrug, unable to easily accept any words of praise. “Dad hated me for not talking. But according to him, I say too much now.”

Cas frowned. A man of few words himself, it said enough.

“It’s true, though,” said Dean. “I can’t shut myself up sometimes. I’ll pick the worst moments, too. Look at cowboys in movies, though. They don’t go on and on.”

“But it’s nice to hear you talk,” said Cas, looking steadily at Dean. He didn’t say it the way anyone else would, just to placate Dean. He didn’t say it as a way to exit an uncomfortable thread of conversation. “Everyone I’ve seen likes talking with you. I don’t think you’re doing anything wrong.”

Dean’s eyes flicked over Cas’ face, trying in vain to find the lie. A crack in the facade that would prove Cas was just being polite. Only the thing with Cas was that he didn’t seem to have a facade in the first place.

“You know,” said Dean, eyes following the wind that trailed through the grass and down the hill. “There’s talking and then there’s… really talking. Maybe I do say a lot, but… It’s also been a long time since I’ve really told anybody anything.” He pressed his lips together for a moment. “Or it had been,” he said. “Until you came back.”

That moment under the oak tree when he asked if he could tell Cas a secret and Cas said anything. Dean had no idea what compelled him to ask it in the first place. After six years of absence and changes, he laid eyes on Cas and wanted to pour out his soul. There was nothing he wouldn’t tell Cas if he asked it.

“If that means my opinion counts for anything,” said Cas, “then I don’t think you say too much.”

He spoke in a flat, direct way, purely informational. It was this that made Dean smile, this that brokered so much trust between them. Like the horses, Cas was never anything but honest. He didn’t say things just to mean something else.

Dean grew up with John’s advanced doublespeak. Tangled in verbal snares fashioned to trap Dean and skin him like a rabbit for something he might or might not have done.

In the distant grey clouds, lightning flickered.

“We should get back before it meets us here,” said Dean. “I’ve gotta get the horses in.”

“I’ll help,” said Cas, standing up. He offered a hand down to Dean. Pre-lightning static thickened the air. “The wind’s picking up. It won’t be long.”

They galloped back across the open plain, then wound back at a walk when they reached the trail with its trees and hills, Zeppelin following Ringo. They reached the ranch still ahead of the storm, but not by much. Although nightfall was hours away, the oncoming storm enclosed them in an early, extended evening. Clouds dimmed the sun and cast the yard into a slate-coloured light.

After looking after Zeppelin and Ringo, Cas helped Dean to bring in the horses. They worked quickly and efficiently together. Cas didn’t need more than a word from Dean to figure out where each horse belonged or where to find the directions for feeding, adapting for different diets.

Rainfall started after they got the last of the horses in and picked up as they fed, the sound of it magnified by the barn roof. The horses didn’t seem to care, cosy inside the barn and sufficiently distracted by their food. The yellow lights inside the stable seemed brighter in comparison with the dark blue clouds surrounding the ranch. Rain poured so heavily it obscured the sight of the house, dark with no one inside.

When they’d finished their work, they stood at the stable doors, just shy of where rain wet the floor. Turnip, the grey cat, joined them to rub against the leg of Cas’ jeans and wind her tail around his ankle.

“I’ll bring you back home,” said Dean. “We can make a dash for the truck.” He wouldn’t bother trying to get his coat from inside the house. All he had to do was drop Cas off and come home again.

On Dean’s word, they closed the door of the stable, then sprinted across the lane to the truck. When Dean slid into the driver’s seat and slammed his door closed on the heavy downpour, he crowed. Rain made his face wet and dampened his hair, but they hadn’t fared too badly. “That’s how we do it,” he said.

He started up the truck, its yellow lights catching rain that fell like diamonds. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw rain like this.

The windshield wipers couldn’t move fast enough as they drove, the dark road ahead of them obscured. The headlights cast a shallow radius, a feeble beam that only cut through a couple feet of rain ahead of them. Until they reached town, there would be no streetlights to guide their path, only Dean’s innate familiarity with this road, this landscape.

He didn’t drive fast, the water making the gravel mushy under his tires. He squinted out the window like he could see better if he just focused enough.

“Weather doesn’t get like this in the city,” Cas commented. “It looks apocalyptic.”

Dean smiled. “If this was my last day on earth,” he said, “I wouldn’t be sad with how we spent it. Whoa—”

The truck shifted out of his control, veering and dipping into the side of the road. He couldn’t steer out of it. They weren’t travelling fast enough to be in any danger, but the jarring jerk as they came to a stop startled Dean. The truck slanted sharply on Cas’ side.

“Shit,” said Dean, holding the wheel straight ahead and pressing down the gas. Nothing. He switched into reverse and looked over his shoulder, arm resting along the back of the bench seat. He stepped down hard on the gas again. If he could reverse them out, they could get around whatever well they’d sunk into.

Nothing.

He tried again. Forward. Reverse.

“I’ll get out and see,” said Cas.

Before Dean could stop him, Cas opened his door and hopped down with a splash into the water-logged road.

Dean needed to see for himself. He got out too, immediately pelted with rain and wind. He braced himself against it as much as he could as he came around to the front of the truck.

A thick stream rushed unevenly across the gravel road, carrying dirt and debris. At the side of the road, water pooled into something that seemed much too large to call a puddle. Here, the front passenger wheel sank into the water and the mud below. The rear corner wheel of the truck barely touched the road.

This part of the road was prone to run-off. It came from higher terrain, sometimes carrying rainfall from some distance that made rivulets snake across the road even when it was perfectly dry at the ranch. The storm they’d watched from their outlook point could’ve led directly to this.

“I’ll push at the front of the truck,” Cas shouted over the rain. “See if you can reverse.”

Dean nodded his head, arms tightly wrapped around himself. He retreated back into the truck, putting unwarranted faith in Cas’ strength and his own determination. He cranked it into reverse once more and pressed the gas pedal to the floor. The truck did nothing, then sank another inch.

Cas, soaked through with rain, gave up first. After more attempts than it was truly worth, he climbed back into the truck, water dripping from his hair and the end of his nose. “I don’t think we’re getting out of here,” he said.

Dean had to agree. He looked out the rear window of the truck. They weren’t terribly far from the ranch. He’d left the barn light on to guide him back home and he could only just see it, twinkling through the heavy rain.

If Dean had kept to the left-hand side of the road instead of the right, he might have been able to pass over the problem area without incident. John never would’ve made this mistake.

John never would’ve allowed Dean to get away with what he suggested next.

“Let’s leave the truck,” said Dean. “I can get Bobby to come by with a tractor tomorrow. Hitch us and pull it out.”

It was liberating to feel so careless for once. John would’ve reamed Dean out for getting into this situation to begin with. He would’ve made him fix his damn mistakes even amid a hurricane.

“There’s nobody coming out this way anyhow,” said Dean. “Come back for the night.”

Cas met Dean’s eyes, rivulets of rain tracking down his face from the ends of his hair. “Okay,” he said.

“It’s not far, but it’s gonna feel like a long hike back,” said Dean.

Cas nodded again, shivering out a chill from the dampness. Summer rain like this wasn’t all that cold, but it wasn’t comfortable either.

They opened their doors at the same time. Neither of them spoke it aloud, but both began running as soon as their feet touched the ground. It didn’t make a difference to how the rain soaked them. Before the time they were halfway there, Dean’s clothes were drenched down to his skin. It made his movements heavier and he panted in cool, fresh rain as he ran and blinked water out of his eyes.

He had it easier than Cas because he knew the markers. How far from this tree to the outer edge of the paddock. How far from there to the gatepost at the lane. Then past the corner of the barn, then the house at last in sight through the rain.

Dean dashed up to the screened-in porch at the back of the house, flinging open the door and getting under the cover of the roof. He flicked on the porchlight as Cas raced in behind him.

Cas caught himself on the opposite wall to make himself stop, panting deeply. The porch door swung shut after them. While outside it seemed as if someone had upended a water bucket, inside the porch it was dry and warm.

Dean wiped a hand down his wet face, catching his breath in the same short, fast rhythm as Cas. He couldn’t help a giddy smile touching his mouth. It was exciting and humbling to be bested by such a force of nature. Against all their fine mechanics and best-laid plans, they’d been shown their own powerlessness.

More than that, they were both just so soaked it was hilarious. He stumbled back to lean against the wall, tipping back his head, breathless. He could feel Cas’ eyes on him and laughed. He ran a hand through his damp, heavy hair to comb it back from his face, then turned his head to look at Cas.

The confines of the porch felt smaller when he shared it with Cas, when the rain just outside made them stay back from the screens. Water made Cas’ damp eyelashes blacker and that made his eyes bluer in turn. His shirt clung to his skin, so soaked Dean could see the tone of flesh through the light blue fabric. Droplets of water beaded over his tanned skin and the darkened hair of his chest visible above the buttons of his shirt.

Dean laughed again and swiftly looked forward, out toward the night.

He tasted lightning on his tongue.

“I can get you something dry to wear,” he said.

He risked looking over again. Cas shook his head to release some of the water from his hair, then combed a hand through it, which did nothing to make him tidier. Dean liked how wild it was, though. He didn’t think he could stand to see Cas too groomed and formal.

“I can wait out here,” said Cas. “Not drip through the house.” He began unfastening the buttons on his shirt. His hands lowered down his chest one by one, the shirt parting to reveal more of his body.

There was nothing wrong with Cas doing this. He was soaked. He needed to change. Guys did this all the time.

But it felt different. In this place. At this hour. They were the only two people here and the dark night swelled around them and Dean still didn’t have his breath back from that muddy sprint through the rain. It was warm and too close to nature; the rain shepherding them inside these walls made him more animal than human. He’d gone from rain-cold to body-warm too quickly and thought that if an outsider looked this way they’d see steam coming off of him.

The porch was too intimate for two male friends to undress together. Not like an impersonal gym change room or the broad outdoor expanse of a pool or riverside. Surely there was some unwritten rule about this kind of thing and Cas just didn’t know it because he was Cas.

Cas pulled the shirt down his arms to struggle out of it, meanwhile the fabric stuck to him like it never wanted to let go.

Dean turned quickly for the door, half-tripping himself at the last minute as he remembered to shed his muddy boots and leave them outside.

He went upstairs to the linen closet first, pulling down a couple of towels. In his room, he slipped out of his wet clothes and hastily dried off, then pulled on a pair of sweatpants. He had a t-shirt in hand but stopped short of pulling it on. For no reason, except perhaps it was warmer inside than it had been out. Instead, he carried it down and left it over the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. He circled the towel behind his neck and returned to the porch, its door left open.

Cas watched lightning flash across the horizon, followed after a few beats by thunder. Dean stopped in the door.

Cas stood with his back to Dean. The warm glow of the lone porch light cast shadows under his muscles, outlining the topography of his physique. He wore soaking wet boxer-briefs, black or possibly navy blue, clinging to him like a second skin. After the thunder growled itself out, Cas looked over his shoulder toward Dean.

“Thanks,” Cas said.

Dean wasn’t aware of having offered the towel out until Cas took it from him and began to scrub it over his hair.

They weren’t so different in age and height. Cas’ body looked different from Dean’s, though. He had more hair, dark and striking in an even pattern across his chest and in a line that travelled down his navel, obscured just where it began to thicken again near his low waistband. They had distinct builds: Dean tended toward a certain leanness. Cas had a more solid musculature. They were both decently athletic types, but Dean didn’t think his back had all those shifting lines he saw in Cas.

He wanted to know what he looked like to Cas.

It was just that Cas, who looked like what a guy should look like, would be someone he could trust on the matter. An expert. He’d have an objective view of these things.

“Here,” said Dean, and he dropped the clothes he brought on a nearby chair and went inside before he could say or see or think anything else.

Dean went into the kitchen, pacing back and forth once before he put together what he meant to do. He cleaned out the old coffee grounds in the machine, filled the carafe with water, and set about making a pot of coffee.

Cas came in while he was at this task. Dean took only one very brief look over his shoulder. Cas opted to wear only the plaid boxers and a t-shirt that Dean brought down. Dean had put a pair of pyjama pants in the pile, but the night was warm despite the wind and rain. Outside, heat lightning flashed.

“I’ll put your things through the wash,” said Dean. “Got pretty muddy out there.”

“You don’t have to go to any trouble,” said Cas.

“And I’ll rustle us up something for supper,” Dean continued.

Cas came to the counter next to where Dean measured out scoops of coffee, leaning back against it with his arms folded. Dean didn’t know why it made him feel so nervous.

He tried to rationalize it to himself. He wasn’t used to having friends over. He wanted to impress Cas and make sure he liked his visit, but he hadn’t had any time to prepare, mentally or otherwise. The unplanned and unresolved incident with the truck and the pressure of this raging storm had thrown him off. In light of all these factors, anyone would be a little nervy.

And it wasn’t like Cas gave him any reason to be. He was the best company Dean could ask for. Sedate and honest and easy to please. He stood there with no expectation, no demands.

Maybe that was the very thing messing Dean up. He was so used to being told his role, directly or through subtle cues that would be fatal to miss, and Cas didn’t give him those. Instead, Cas enabled the far more terrifying reality of Dean just being himself. Over and over in the past few weeks, Dean found himself saying more than he meant to, connecting so much deeper than he had to anyone else he’d met. Of course he was nervous to be alone for an entire night in the house with Cas. He had no idea of what might come out of him.

Dean looked away from the orange glow of the coffee maker’s power light and gave Cas a faint smile. “It’s cool you’re here,” he said, and he drummed his hands once against the counter before leaving to gather Cas’ things and put them through the wash with his own.

It was better now that Dean could categorize things. Reduce that rush in his head by giving everything a name. This was under his control.

Dean pulled on his t-shirt on the way back to the kitchen. If it had been cool enough, he would’ve layered on a flannel or a sweater as well.

Dean stuck to something simple for dinner, cooking up a tray of nachos in the oven and debating with Cas over the best possible combination of toppings. The night got easier as they shook off the last of the rain. Their hair dried in atypical patterns, with Dean’s falling softly across his forehead and Cas’ looking like the raw material for a bird’s nest. After they ate, they went out to the screened porch with their coffee to watch the storm. They sat next to one another on the bed Dean sometimes used on hot summer nights, backs leaned against the wall.

Now, the rain and thunder didn’t seem as intense. The downpour cocooned them, gave permission not to do anything else. Dean shook off his own strangeness and gave into banter, laughter, listening to whatever interesting stories Cas had to share from his school and vet practice. When it was late enough, the storm still rolling around them, Dean led the way through the quiet house, shutting off lights after himself, then showing Cas Sam’s room to stay in.

The next morning, as sun rose through the last of the grey clouds, they each woke up. Dean made them a simple, quiet breakfast, then phoned Bobby for a tow. He dropped Cas off at his home in town, an apartment above the laundromat, and waved goodbye.

The whole drive home he thought of Cas at his breakfast table. The way he buttered his toast, then offered Dean the same knife to use. The way morning sun came in through the window and made a long, slanted rectangle across the table, catching across Cas’ body. Those perpetual and endearing dark circles under Cas’ eyes, despite Cas’ assurance he had a good sleep.

He didn’t understand why Cas couldn’t be there for breakfast every morning. It was only moments since he dropped him off, but Dean already missed him.

Chapter Text

The span of her motherhood was a short one, just over a decade, only a moment, really, no time for evolution. I have noticed that a mother left eternally young through death comes to seem as remote as your own young self.
— Jane Smiley, A Thousand Acres

After morning chores were done and the young geldings worked, Dean went down to the Roadhouse for lunch. This was the last day he had without John around, and there were just a few things he had to convince himself to be brave enough to do.

He ate a club sandwich up at the bar; although he polished off the sandwich quickly enough, he took his time with the veggies on his plate. He prodded a stick of celery into the ranch dip a few times, eyes flicking over the restaurant. The lunch rush had subsided, and it meant that Cesar now came back into orbit. He cashed a family out at the register on the end of the counter, and when they left Dean finally spoke up.

“Hey, Cesar. How’s that mustang?”

“He’s come a long way,” Cesar said, sliding a damp cloth over the countertop, then coming to a stop in front of Dean. “Spirited fella. He won’t let me ride him yet, but he’s good with me and the other horses. You’d never think why someone would call him a ‘lost cause.’”

“Not just anyone can do what you do, I guess,” said Dean.

Cesar shrugged a bit but didn’t refute.

“There was something I wanted to ask you,” said Dean. Just that preface took all his courage. He had to stop himself from looking around to see if anyone was listening. The less obvious he was, the less weird it would be, surely.

“Sure,” said Cesar.

“I was thinking about those conchas Cas and I had at your place. They were really good. I wondered… would you give me the recipe?”

He’d never asked another man for a recipe. Or anyone, for that matter. If there was something he liked and wanted to learn he usually just browsed through Karen’s recipe books until he found it, but conchas weren’t in there. If he had a living mother, he’d have said it was for her. If he was asking anyone but Cesar, he might’ve tried to shift the request onto Ellen. Say that she was the one asking. As her business partner, Cesar would see right through that.

But they were speaking baker to baker. He wasn’t crossing a line. If they were guilty of breaking unwritten rules, then they were equally complicit.

Cesar studied Dean a moment, thumb tapping against the countertop. “It’s a family recipe, you know,” said Cesar at last.

“Oh,” said Dean. He didn’t have much in the way of family recipes. Unless Karen’s counted, but he would’ve shared any of her recipes at the first hint of an entreaty for them. He wanted there to be more of her in the world.

“But tell you what,” said Cesar. “I can’t just write it down for you. Come around the farm one morning and I’ll show you how to make them the same way I learned.”

“Really?” said Dean.

“Sure,” said Cesar. “How about Monday? I’m off on Mondays.”

“Yeah,” said Dean, lit up with a smile. He’d only hoped for a recipe card, discreetly handed over, but this was miles better. He’d get to go back to Cesar’s farm and see his horses again. Spend a little more time with him. Cas had said, hadn’t he, that if Cesar was a friend it would be a good thing? “That’ll be great. I want to bring some to Cas. I think he really liked them.”

Cesar made a considering sound, then gave a small nod of his head. “Well. Then I guess he’s got taste.”

He headed back for the kitchen with that, and Dean felt an undue rush of success. He’d been mulling over that question for more than a week. A seemingly simple thing now revealed to be less dangerous than he imagined.

 

This wasn’t all that Dean intended to face. After lunch, the farm was tranquil. The time for a siesta. In the high heat of the day, the horses found shelter and shade. Dean went into the quiet house. Tall trees kept the house cool, and as he opened the windows he created a refreshing cross-breeze that lifted the white curtains and passed through the halls.

He was alone—with all the contradictory feelings of liberation and melancholy that entailed—yet he felt as if someone was watching him open the ceiling’s attic door and pull down the ladder. Not a specific presence, but the oppressive sense that he was breaking rules, courting punishment. That even though what he wanted to do wasn’t forbidden, he was trespassing in his own house by being here.

He climbed the ladder up into the attic hand over hand. The air here was warm and stale, the floorboards dusty. Dean crossed to the small window under the attic’s peak and twisted the sash latches back, pushing the window wide open to the world outside. From here he looked down at the barn, at all the horses dotting the pasture. It was a better view of home than any he’d had in a while.

At this height, a fresh wind swept through and resurrected the attic room. The boxes and storage bins, neglected relics, once more joined the present moment with that touch of living air.

The bins Dean sought out weren’t labelled. As if to write the name ‘Mary’ would be to admit she was gone. As if her printed name would turn these boxes into gravemarkers, this attic into a tomb.

And yet, what good did that do? She was gone. Refusing to acknowledge her memory wouldn’t bring her back. Dean felt her absence every day.

He’d known for a long time that these bins were here. He’d gotten in bad trouble when he was ten for disturbing one of them, and he’d barely done more than open the lid.

She died when he was four. He remembered her, but it was different to be a little kid and think of ‘Mom,’ who lived only to comfort him and Sam, than it was to be an adult and wonder about ‘Mary,’ the person she was beyond that.

He had a few of John’s stories, sure. How they met, her favourite Led Zeppelin songs, her way with horses. But anything beyond a few general statements about what a good wife and mother she was and John would shut down. Meanwhile, Dean could never hear enough about her. He’d gleaned a little from Bobby, a little from Ellen. Chance anecdotes when Dean did or said something that reminded them of her. Dean hadn’t realised for the longest time that he was allowed to ask them questions about her, that their silence might be less to do with personal reluctance than with respect for Dean’s sensitivities. He worried that he waited too long, that now it was too late. More than a decade since she died; what if she faded from memory with every passing year?

This time when Dean opened the lid of an old chest, there was no one to whip around and ask what the hell he was doing. His right arm, where the bone broke, twinged as if someone had gripped it. He felt like a thief, swallowing around the heat that rose in his throat.

Around him the house was still and quiet.

He paused with his hands resting on the edges of the chest. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, not yet facing the long-shrouded memories. He allowed himself to imagine that for the past fourteen years he lived here with Mary instead of John. A profoundly different life. Downstairs, Sam lounged on his bed with a book or worked on a model at his desk because he was still here and had never left for a faraway school. Mary came in from the stables, smelling like horses and sweetgrass and suede. She hung up her hat, she smiled at the message on a notepad by the phone saying her friend Ellen had called, she fondly touched an old photograph of John, then moved on.

In this world, Mary kept boxes too. Dean’s final report card, a solid but successful B average. Beneath it: annual school photos, an old newspaper clipping from a 4-H show, a pencil-colour drawing of running horses Dean entered in the county fair that won second place, maybe even first.

These boxes were not forbidden or relegated to the past. They spared room for markers of future accomplishments, continued pride. Promises of the life to come as well as the everyday triumphs of the past.

Dean opened his eyes to stop himself from picturing Mary walking through the halls. From feeling like her ghost remained in this house, hidden in the walls. A spirit emerging only now that there was room for her again.

He didn’t know if he could make himself do this.

It was his only chance.

There wasn’t any world where he could stop himself.

He reached in to take out the first thing he saw, a large book that rested on top of everything. It was a scrapbook made by a friend of Mary’s. A relic of its time not only in the pictures’ vintage tint and rounded edges but in the patterns of ribbon, the flourishes in the tidy handwriting.

He flipped slowly through the pages, stopping over photographs of his mother that he’d never seen before. There she was at a rodeo wearing a Western shirt in red gingham. Long, feathered hair below her cowboy hat and a bright smile on her face as she stood between two friends. In another, she sat atop a horse with its mane artfully braided for a show. The comment underneath said the horse’s name was Marguerite. How strange was it not to know about his own mother’s horses?

John would know Marguerite but had never brought her up. Every horse had stories. What had happened to her? Had she been sold? Had she had an accident? Horses had long lives, and there was a chance that Marguerite still lived.

It wasn’t fair. He should know these things.

The last photograph in the scrapbook was taken in December 1978. Mary wore a mustard-yellow dress with tiny flowers that draped around her rounded belly. She rested her hand on her stomach and wore a private, self-sure smile. Knowing something that no one else did, a kind of joy that was hers alone.

Dean understood, without needing anyone to tell him, that she’d loved him even before she knew him.

He closed the scrapbook quickly. He couldn’t dwell on it. He couldn’t think how if Mary’s spirit were in this house, warm and full of love, her ghostly arms would wrap around him now.

Setting the scrapbook aside, he continued through the bin. A fringed suede jacket that gave away the shape and movement of the wearer who had lived in it. The shiny brochure from a tiny wedding chapel in Reno where John and Mary tied the knot. A lonely set of three keys of different sizes, unlabelled, their purpose lost to time. A silver championship buckle from 1977.

Most things Dean intended to return to the box, but he turned the belt buckle over in his hands a few times. She must’ve worked hard for it, been immensely proud of herself for earning it. If he put it in his room among his own trophies, John wouldn’t even notice. Something of his mother deserved to be out of this box, allowed in the rest of the house.

He set the buckle aside to keep. He wouldn’t leave Mary trapped in an attic.

He leafed through a stack of photographs next, learning his mother’s face all over again. Meeting her friends. Catching glimpses now and then of a younger Bobby, Karen, or Ellen. He carefully tucked these back into their paper packet, then picked up the book that had been underneath.

He didn’t immediately recognize the foreign alphabet, strokes of block script that filled the pages.

Hebrew, he realised. A prayer book.

His lips parted. His fingertips traced against the family names inscribed in the book’s cover. He recollected no mention of this in his upbringing. No reference to her history. His history. In wanting to understand more of his mother, the mysteries only increased.

More questions he could never ask his father.

He loosened his grip on the book and placed it back in the bin with a sweep of grief he couldn’t understand. His hand bumped against a small case of structured fabric to pull out next. A cosmetics bag. He unzipped around the lid and saw his own reflection in the small mirror sewn into the top. It nearly startled him. He’d been so deep in memories he felt like a ghost himself. To remember all at once that he was still here: corporeal, tanned and freckled from summer sun, from the life outside these walls.

He rooted through the bag with only minor curiosity. It smelled dusty with old brushes, a tube of dried-out mascara, crumbling pink blush that dusted its old plastic case. This was the foundation that once matched her skin. This was the pencil liner she’d never resharpened. Mary only wore makeup for special occasions. There weren’t many people to impress around the farm.

He picked up a tube of lipstick. The worn sticker on the bottom showed a hint of reddish pink and the name ‘Wildwood Rose.’ He frowned and took off the cap, twisting out the colour and lifting it to his nose for an uncertain sniff. Waxy and old-fashioned, but not unpleasant. Lisa always wore lip glosses that tasted like oversweet vanilla or berries.

He caught sight of his reflection in the case’s mirror again. He leaned closer to it. He watched his mirror image like it was someone else doing this. Someone else who dragged the lipstick across Dean’s lower lip then, after a small pause, carefully across the upper one.

He lowered his hand and just looked for a moment. At his reddened lips, dramatically drawing attention down to them. If anyone were to see him like this—

If anyone were to see him.

His heart thudded heavily in his chest. A sense of panic overwhelmed him, a rush of pressure filling his head. All he could smell was the lipstick. He needed to get it off. He lifted his shirt sleeve and rubbed the fabric roughly over his mouth. He wiped at his lips until the shirt could pick up nothing more and even then he slid his wrist across his mouth to make sure.

In the mirror, his lips looked flushed, his mouth red from the smeared lipstick, the friction of rubbing it away.

He could still smell it on his shirt and hastily took it off, tossing it towards the attic entrance. He packed away the makeup hastily. He put everything but the belt buckle back. He closed the lid and shoved it back into place.

Standing, he clutched the silver buckle in his hand and stared down at the chest.

This was what happened when you didn’t leave well enough alone.

He grabbed his t-shirt on the way back down from the attic so that he could toss it in the laundry and pray the lipstick wouldn’t stain.




John didn’t comment on the clean house or how Dean might’ve spent his days. An uneventful return was the best Dean could ever ask for. Lately, there were no real high moods or low moods. This, too, was part of a pattern. Following an explosion, John would become more moderate, even conciliatory. He’d talk more with neighbours, the same ones he’d been lambasting just weeks before. Dean never knew how long the peace would last, so he was always very careful not to upset the balance.

John could’ve come back from the auction hungover. He could’ve been pissed off at a financial loss or restless because he didn’t want to stop raising Cain with the other drunk cowboys. Or he could’ve come back in an elated humour, congratulating himself on good sales or gambling wins and inclined to offer Dean praise, spending money, attention. All the things Dean could ever ask for. But there couldn’t be high spirits without a crash afterwards, and so Dean preferred this. Back to the old habits and routines like John had never been gone.

Dean and John were eating a late supper when Ellen came by. Dean asked her if she wanted a plate, but she’d already eaten. She was an old enough friend that none of them minded that John and Dean continued their supper while she sat at the kitchen window, going over some business with Jo’s horse trailer.

“I can’t get it fixed in time for her competition on the weekend,” said Ellen. “And you can pretty well imagine how set she is on going.”

“We don’t need our small trailer for anything, right Dad?” said Dean.

John shrugged, taking a bite from his plate and sitting back as he chewed just to draw out the decision. “Yeah, that’s alright,” he said at last. “Since it’s Jo.” He flicked a glance towards the kitchen counter. “Guess you dropped off that pie to sweeten the deal?”

Ellen followed John’s gaze to the cherry pie sitting on the counter. Her eyes flicked back to meet Dean’s as she said, “Couldn’t hurt, could it?”

Dean and Ellen had an understanding, one that she played along to despite her better sense. For years now, for as long as Dean had been baking them, he told John the pies came from Ellen.

Of course he’d had to let her in on it or she’d contradict him by accident one day. He’d been young enough when he started the charade that he hadn’t second-guessed himself in asking her. Ellen laughed, asked why the hell she’d bring them so many pies in the first place, but she gave in to the desperate sincerity of Dean’s request. In the years that passed, it wasn’t questioned. Now it seemed an established thing.

Ellen’s eyes dragged away from Dean. “Thanks all the same for the trailer, John. That makes it easier on all of us,” she said. “Last time we borrowed Cesar’s, but he had plans to use it this weekend and I didn’t like to interfere.”

“Cesar?” John huffed a laugh. “Surprises me you’d even let Jo go up there.”

John shook his head and bent over his plate again, but Dean stopped eating. Jesse hadn’t held John in much esteem, but Dean didn’t realise that their farm was somehow off limits.

Ellen folded her arms and drew in her brow. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that it’s not hard to guess what goes on with those two,” said John.

“What?” Dean surprised himself with his own voice. One loose, hollow syllable.

John looked across at him. He smirked. “They’re not like you and me, Dean,” he said. “They ain’t breeders.”

Of course they weren’t horse breeders, Dean thought. The Winchesters had that market pretty well cornered.

It was Ellen’s reaction that clued him in. She stood up abruptly, a fierce look in her eyes. “You shouldn’t talk about what you don’t know, John,” she said. “Cesar’s a good man. That’s what counts with me.”

“I guess,” John mused as if Ellen hadn’t spoken, “Jo’s not in any danger. It’s not anyone’s daughter that needs to look out.”

Dean felt the back of his mouth water like he was going to throw up. He didn’t want them to keep talking about this. They had to stop. They ought to go back in time before Ellen ever uttered Cesar’s name under this roof.

“You can keep those kinds of comments to yourself, Winchester,” said Ellen. “Now I’m gonna take my leave before—”

“Don’t tell me this is news to you, Ellen,” said John, more self-satisfied every moment. He didn’t have any shame in him, looking at her directly with his eyes creased in the corners, well-pleased with tonight’s entertainment. “What, did you think you might be more than business partners one day? ‘Cause one thing’s for sure: he’s not the marrying kind.”

Ellen’s expression turned to one of acute anger and pain. It sent Dean’s heart out of rhythm. She was going to upset the balance. She was going to make John react in kind. Dean’s skin felt clammy and his stomach turned.

Ellen’s teeth bared in a grimace just shy of full rage. “The nerve of you!” she said. But her fury rolled off John’s shoulders. He sat there with a smirk, waiting to see what came next.

Ellen looked to bite back another remark, then she stood straight, refusing to play John’s game. She stormed out of the house. The front door slammed behind her.

Dean watched the window as her headlights came on, then drove away from sight. His focus slipped from the hills in the distance to the panes of glass that revealed his dark reflection. He wore too serious an expression. His mouth too straight a line. He looked back down at his plate and forked through his food, trying to convince himself to eat again.

He had to say something to show all of this meant nothing to him.

“She took that kind of personal,” he said.

It was unfair to Ellen. Of course she’d taken it all personally; John had calculated every word of it for that. But Ellen wasn’t here right now and Dean was. Dean needed to keep the peace.

“Menopausal,” John said sagely. He scooped his fork across his plate. “Bad enough in any woman, but that Ellen’s always had a temper.”

Dean made himself give a quiet laugh of acknowledgement, barely more than a hum. He took a bite of his food and couldn’t taste it at all.

 

It kept Dean up half the night. He just hadn’t known. No one ever told him. Did other people know? Should Dean have been able to pick up on it all on his own?

Sure, both Jesse and Cesar were at an age where it was normal to be married and they weren’t. They were also at a normal age to be bachelors. And as far as Dean understood the human heart, people only fell in love once. He was surrounded by people who’d lost a spouse and never remarried. John, Ellen, Bobby. Even Bobby’s reclusive neighbour Rufus fit the mould.

So Dean thought: if you only got to fall in love once and they were gone now or you just hadn’t met them yet, why not settle in with a friend and stave off the loneliness?

He tossed again beneath his quilt, his chest aching from all of it. He couldn’t even keep his eyes closed, his mind too alert for the pretense of sleep.

Maybe John was wrong about Cesar and Jesse. How would he know? But then Ellen hadn’t actually denied anything.

And what about Cas? He was on good terms with Cesar. Did Cas know? Socially, he often missed cues that other people got. If Dean hadn’t picked up on it, surely Cas wouldn’t have. He didn’t even know if someone was his friend unless they told him directly.

Dean wouldn’t tell him. It didn’t affect Cas. He’d still go up and look after Cesar’s horses whenever a vet was required.

But how could Dean go back there on his own, knowing what he did now? What if John discovered he’d visited Cesar? The time with the mustang he could explain away, possibly. It was before Dean had any notion that Cesar was gay. Tomorrow he was supposed to visit on his own and learn how to make conchas, but he could no longer plead ignorance. If John found out about any of it, he’d suspect there was something very wrong with Dean.

The next morning, while John was out in the barn, Dean looked up Cesar’s number in the phonebook. He only had a few moments before John started missing him. He looked over his shoulder while the call rang through until finally Cesar picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Cesar? It’s Dean.”

“Hey, Dean. How are you?”

He sounded the same as he had the last time Dean spoke with him. The same manner as always: direct and polite and manly. How was Dean ever supposed to have known?

“Oh, uh, I’m okay,” said Dean. He stammered his way through his words. “Uh, actually though. I called to say I can’t make it today. Uh. Something came up.”

“Oh?” said Cesar. “That’s too bad. You want to take a rain check?”

“No, uh.” Dean swallowed. He’d never felt like such a coward. “I don’t know when I’ll be free, actually. I gotta go. Bye, Cesar.”

He heard Cesar’s voice indistinctly over the line as he hung up the phone. He didn’t know if it was a goodbye or another question.

Dean crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes, trying to take in a deep breath. He had sweat at the back of his neck and under the arms of his t-shirt. He was ill-slept and overtired. He felt dizzy. But he’d done the right thing. Surely.

Chapter Text

Nothing can ever happen twice.
In consequence, the sorry fact is
that we arrive here improvised
and leave without the chance to practice.
— Wislawa Szymborska, “Nothing Twice”

Nothing sat right with Dean in the days that followed. He couldn’t stop thinking of what John said about Cesar and Jesse and had the unaccountable wish to talk to somebody about it. He crossed paths with Jo multiple times in the course of doing chores, but he doubted she’d have anything to say about it that would be a help. He wanted to call Cas and ask, but it was such a strange thing to bring up on purpose and out of nowhere. He didn’t dare speak with John about it. He couldn’t even say why it bothered him so much, why he had to comb over everything he recollected of his past conversations with Cesar, trying to figure out what he missed.

It wasn’t even that he disliked Cesar now. While John’s derision and disgust were clear, Dean’s estimation of a person couldn’t change overnight. All he knew was that he could not let himself be aligned with Jesse or Cesar by any accident.

The recent revelations weren’t his only present agitations. There were also mere days before Sam came home on the third, just in time for the Independence Day cookout at Missouri Moseley’s. Dean couldn’t wait for his brother to be back and that impatience didn’t help his mood at all.

More than anything, he missed the weekend that had just passed with his father far away. Having the house to himself, feeling the freedom and independence, being able to act as he chose without concern that some choice or behaviour would warrant a comment or create displeasure. He wished he’d used the time better and done more. He wished he’d had Cas over more often. He should’ve invited him to watch a movie and just hang out.

It was almost a week since he last saw Cas, the night of the storm. It felt like years.

Even the book he read annoyed him, and it annoyed him that he couldn’t put it down either.

The cowboy romances he bought from the library book sale weren’t really for Jo. She’d never have gone near them. She liked paranormal books with kickass heroines in leather. Gruesome horror books with claw marks across the cover or titles that dripped blood.

Even books like those would’ve been better for Dean to sneak around with than these. He always told himself he was done with reading them… After he finished this one. Then the next.

The story beats rarely varied and sometimes they got things wrong about farming or country life. He knew he shouldn’t have any interest in them to begin with. But they were so easy to read he could fly through one in a couple of hours. The men were always rough and ready types who knew exactly what to say to a woman, could be exactly what she wanted them to be. He thought of it as research. He’d never felt for someone what the characters in the book did, but when he found the right girl one day, he’d know just how to sweep her off her feet.

The heroine in Rugged Heat was fiercely independent and had sworn off men, even as her deep attraction to Royce Montgomery built inside her. Royce, the ruggedly handsome love interest, knew there was something powerful sizzling between them but wasn’t doing anything about it. He was so decided in everything else; he’d swoop in to save her from danger when she lost control of a startled horse or to protect her from the advances of some creep. But whenever they got close, when she denied her own passions and insisted she didn’t want anything to do with him, he let the tension simmer between them, then backed away.

It bothered Dean that she wouldn’t see for herself what she wanted, and what everyone else could see. She kept wanting him to kiss her—and more than that, too—but she wouldn’t invite it because she didn’t want to have to own up to what she felt. To the powerful feelings that made her vulnerable and put her heart at risk. She feared that to give in and admit she needed someone would mean giving up who she thought she was, and from which she could never go back.

She knew she was lying to herself but she wouldn’t stop clinging to that lie.

It was a dumb book by a dumb writer and he couldn’t stand it. He liked a bit of will-they-or-won’t-they tension, but she was getting in her own way. If she just let those barriers burst once, it would all be resolved. Rhett Butler took up a refrain in Dean’s head the longer he read, saying, “You need kissing, badly. That’s what’s wrong with you. You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.”

And yet, he couldn’t stop reading; and just when it seemed like the story was starting to turn, the phone rang inside.

He wondered, for no reason, if it would be Cas.

He as quickly quashed the thought as he got up to answer. It would be about farm business or for John or a telemarketer.

Dean couldn’t risk leaving the book on the hammock, even if John was currently out picking up feed in town, so he stuffed it into the back pocket of his jeans. He was still thinking about the book when he picked up the phone and gave a half-distracted, “Hello?”

“Hi, Dean.” It wasn’t a voice he expected.

Sam. Concern unfolded across Dean’s face. Sam better just be confirming details of tomorrow’s flight, because Dean couldn’t take another hit right now.

“Sam, hey. How’re you?”

Sam gave a nervous laugh. “Uh. Okay? I’m in Canada.”

Dean narrowed his eyes and tried to work out if that was supposed to mean something to him. He hadn’t had the particulars of where Sam was going on this school ‘Wilderness Experience.’ From Sam’s voice, it didn’t sound like Canada had been on the agenda.

“Cold up there?” Dean asked.

“It’s summer, Dean. Actually, it’s sweltering.”

“You can’t fool me,” said Dean. “I know you’re calling from inside an igloo.”

“You got me,” Sam said, and Dean could hear him roll his eyes. He counted that as a big-brother win.

“So what’s up?” Dean said.

“Well, my wilderness trip sort of went crazy,” said Sam. “Our trip leader almost died.”

“What?”

“He’s okay now!” said Sam. “He’s in the hospital. But uh. He ate something toxic and went sort of delirious, and then because he couldn’t see straight he fell and broke his leg and probably his wrist, and then he got an infection from the injuries. We had to try and keep him alive and fend for ourselves in the wild and find help. Except we had no communication out. And we got a little lost.”

“Holy shit,” said Dean. “And you ended up in Canada.”

“Yeah. The school didn’t even know about it till yesterday.”

“You’re okay, though, right?” said Dean.

“Yeah, we’re back in civilization and the whole thing feels a little unreal,” said Sam. “It was really just the last leg of the trip that things went haywire. Barely even a week.”

“Wasn’t this some kind of credit for you?” Dean asked. “What’s this mean, you all fail the course?”

“We saved our teacher and lived to tell. I think we pass with flying colours.”

“And tomorrow. Are you still coming home tomorrow?” Dean asked.

“Not quite,” said Sam.

Dean, of course, should’ve seen this coming.

“But it will only be a couple more days!” Sam tacked on. “We have to get back to school first—we’re leaving here really soon, actually—and I’ll fly out from there. There weren’t any seats left on the fourth, but I got one on the fifth. I don’t know if you can still—”

“I’ll pick you up,” said Dean. It wasn’t a question. “Just let me know what time your plane lands.”

“Thanks, Dean,” said Sam. “I really am excited to see you again.”

Dean rolled in his lips, hoping Sam meant it. “Okay,” he said. “No more disasters, alright? I’m gonna be at that airport on Saturday and I better see your dumb face there.”

“Your face is dumb,” said Sam.

“My face is gorgeous and everyone thinks so.”

“Wouldn’t you know, the bus is here. I gotta go, Dean.”

“Whatever,” said Dean, smiling now. “We’ll see you Saturday. I mean it now.”

“See you Saturday.”




John didn’t take it as evenly this time as last.

“It’s not a big difference,” said Dean. “I can get him Saturday as easily as Thursday. It’s a later flight, so I’ll get chores done and everything.”

“It’s disrespectful,” said John. “To the both of us.”

“It was an accident,” said Dean. A teacher nearly died. They’d illegally crossed a national border. None of it had been intentional. “Because of his trip.”

“If he got me on the phone, I’d have told him to stay in San Francisco.” John picked up his keys from the hall table by the door and stuffed his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans.

“Dad…” said Dean, wanting to hear that John didn’t mean it. He couldn’t, surely. It wasn’t easy to tell when John was joking.

“Whatever pleases His Highness, though,” said John. He didn’t look over his shoulder as he opened the door and stepped out, only saying, “I’ll be back late.”

There was a horse race on TV as well as a baseball game. John would be at Lloyd’s Bar a few towns over, where they had the biggest screens and a more varied clientele than the Roadhouse. The horse race started early and the baseball game ended late, and John would have no trouble swallowing down the time in between.

The door closing after John left Dean alone again, but it didn’t feel like the weekend had. His recent disappointments cast a long shadow and he didn’t feel hopeful, free.

He didn’t feel like he had when Cas slept over by accident.

He tapped his fingertips against the doorframe in the hall, eyeing the empty gaps on the boot mat. He didn’t want to be stuck alone. It was nice when Cas was over, sitting with him on the porch. He didn’t need a thunderstorm just to experience that sensation over again. Before he could think about it too hard, he crossed over to the phone table and picked up the receiver, holding it to his ear and punching in Cas’ number. He rolled his lips as he waited.

“Hello?”

“Hey Cas,” said Dean, his smile carrying in his voice. “It’s Dean.”

“Hello Dean,” said Cas, and his voice took on a different warmth. Dean dragged his fingers over the surface of the table, forgetting what he was going to ask. Had he planned to ask anything in the first place?

“It’s nice to hear from you,” said Cas. “Or. I think it is. Are your horses alright?”

“Yeah,” Dean said quickly. “Yeah, everyone here’s fine. I’m not calling to put you to work, I promise.”

“Right,” said Cas. “Sorry, I’m on-call again. I keep expecting an emergency.”

“Oh,” said Dean. “I was gonna ask if you wanted to see a movie.”

“At a theatre? I should stay near town…”

“Doesn’t have to be a theatre,” said Dean. “We could rent something. You got a TV, right?”

“Uh,” said Cas. “No.”

Dean laughed at that. “Okay,” he said. “Well, I do. Why don’t you come over here? Would that be too far?”

“No,” said Cas. “It wouldn’t.”

“Do you want to pick the movie out?” Dean asked.

“Dean, that is a very terrible idea,” said Cas, voice flat. “It’s better if you do. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Dean laughed again, fingers trailing down the curly cord of the telephone. “Alright, alright,” he said. “I’ll come into town. Meet me at the Video & Variety in about ten minutes, okay? I’m gonna make you help me pick, at least.”

“Okay,” said Cas. “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

There was silence on the other end of the phone for a moment. Then Cas said, “I’ll see you soon.”

It was a strange way to end their conversation. When Dean hung up he looked at the phone for a moment longer, like he could understand what he missed in between.

He parked his truck by the sidewalk outside the town’s variety store. Most of the other businesses on the main street were closed by now, darkened windows reflecting back the sky’s lingering blue twilight. Bells over the door jingled above his head as he stepped into the fluorescent lights of the store. Videos packed in clear cases lined the wall behind the long counter. Further down, the store’s lone employee reached into the freezer as she scooped out ice cream cones for a family who smelled like chlorine from the public pool’s evening swim. Bright boxes of penny candies filled the aisle behind them. Dean passed through a row of potato chips and two-litre soda bottles to get to the back of the store, where Cas stood in front of the videos on display.

“Hey stranger,” said Dean, bumping his arm against Cas’ as he reached him.

Cas turned his intense focus away from the movie covers to look at Dean. His wide gaze transformed at the corners with the hint of a smile. “Hello Dean,” he said. Just like he’d said it over the phone—low and deep. It always surprised Dean; how low his voice was. The way he said Dean’s name like it was longer than just four simple letters.

“See anything you like?” Dean asked, turning his head to eye up the movie selection.

“You— I need your help,” said Cas, finally joining Dean in looking at the movies. “I can’t tell which are any good.”

“What kinds of movies do you like?” Dean asked.

Cas didn’t say anything, but his wide-eyed expression gave away how helpless he was. He hadn’t been very caught up on TV or movies when he first came to the ranch as a teenager, to an extent Dean found both strange and refreshing. Apparently, Cas hadn’t spent any of his time in university getting acquainted with current media.

“Let’s try this again,” said Dean. “What was the last movie you watched?”

Cas studied the shelf again. Finally he pulled down a title and handed it to Dean. Like Water for Chocolate. Dean lifted his eyebrows as he read the summary on the back. Spanish. Mushy.

“You watch this with a girl?” Dean asked.

“Yes,” said Cas.

“And?”

“She thought it was very romantic,” said Cas. He looked back at the movie selection and sighed. “She cried. I didn’t.”

Dean knew the script here. He was supposed to ask if Cas and this chick hooked up. He was supposed to ask if this was a girlfriend or some one-night-stand. He was supposed to press for details in a voyeuristic, horndog sort of way and let Cas boast or play coy about it.

But he didn’t actually want to hear the details. If Cas and this girl had something… Whatever. She wasn’t here right now. It was in the past.

It helped that Cas never cared for following scripts and wouldn’t feel disappointed that Dean didn’t press the matter.

“Okay,” he said, setting the movie back. And, like he didn’t read way more soapy stories on the regular, added, “Well I’m not some smart college girl, so I might want a little more action.”

Forget watching anything, it was fun just picking out movies with Cas. He had virtually no experience and no defined taste. Rather than looking for whatever was newest, Dean got to pick up the cases for movies he’d seen before or heard about, trying to conjure up summaries that would hook Cas’ interest. Or just saying anything that might get Cas to crack that rare, amused smile.

It was, of all movies, Thelma & Louise. Dean could tell from the moment he picked it up that Cas wanted to see this one, rather than just humouring Dean as he’d done with all the others. Dean hadn’t seen it in a few years himself, and only once.

They’d settled on the movie, but it turned out Cas wasn’t good at picking out snacks either. Dean snagged a bag of licorice, a package of microwavable popcorn. At Dean’s urging, Cas finally took a bag of pork rinds down from a hanging clip. Dean counted it as a win.

Because Cas was on-call, they travelled separately. Dean had time to start the popcorn and fast-forward through the previews before Cas came up the lane on his motorcycle. Dean kept reminding himself he had to take a closer look at it one of these days. He liked cars and motorbikes. He took Auto Shop through all four years of high school and always did well in it. By now it was too dark to make anything out. Cas disappeared when he turned out the headlamp, and in the next moment he was letting himself in the front door.

Dean told him to grab a seat on the old tweed couch, then joined him when the popcorn was ready by climbing over the back and settling in, leaving just enough room for the popcorn bowl between them.

Cas appeared to enjoy the movie, though with him it wasn’t a casual, lazy activity. He paid rapt attention as if he expected to write an essay on it afterwards, leaving little room for talking. Dean paid more attention in turn. It was a good little movie. Louise and Thelma were great friends. The way they looked out for each other hit more deeply when he watched it with Cas. Louise had this past she wouldn’t talk about, yet it was implied over and over that she and Thelma were bonded by this particular threat. This shared tragedy.

As the action rose, Dean sank deeper into the couch. Sure, it was fun to watch these women driving a sweet car and turning into total badasses. Fun to think of the open road and embracing the life of an outsider running from the law. It was a bit of a fantasy, really. That they could shoot a demon in the face for acting like the monster he was and it felt like justice. Anyone who watched it could only be on their side. And even if after everything they couldn’t live, they could choose their own ending.

He wanted to ride through the desert at night in an old car with Cas and watch the eerie shapes of the land around them. He wanted an adventure that would take him far out of his own life. If Dean was Thelma and Cas was Louise, maybe there was a way to be free. Maybe when the car sailed over the edge, it wouldn’t have to hit the ground.

He forgot they kissed just before the end. But they were good friends who’d been through a lot together and they were women. Women were allowed to get a little closer to one another like that. Still, Dean’s chest felt tight, even as the credits rolled.

Beside him, Cas sat very still, eyes on the screen.

Then he said, “They died?”

“Uh,” said Dean, glance flicking to the TV, then back to Cas. “Uh-huh.”

Cas continued to stare at the screen for another long moment. Finally he swiped his hand across his face, finishing by pinching his fingers at the bridge of his nose.

“Are you crying?” Dean asked.

“No,” said Cas. He looked over at Dean, and he seemed clear-eyed enough but he looked faintly wretched. “I wanted them to get to Mexico,” he said.

Dean didn’t know what he was supposed to tell Cas. He couldn’t change the ending of the movie. He could say their fate was a foregone conclusion, that early on they’d passed an event horizon from which they knew, even at the time, that they’d never return. He could say that they chose how they wanted to go and that was, in itself, liberating.

But Cas wanted them to live and have a happy ending and Dean liked him for that so much that he wouldn’t say anything to diminish it. He bit his lower lip, letting a smile edge across his mouth at the same time. He loved Cas for wanting better.

He eyed the credits rolling across the screen and said, “Maybe the car made it to the other side of the canyon. Maybe it hit the water and turned into a boat. Maybe it flew. Like at the end of Grease.”

Grease,” said Cas. “The one with the pink jackets and the car song.”

“You’ve actually seen it?” said Dean.

“No,” said Cas.

Dean smiled only because he always expected an elaboration and never got it. Cas wasn’t even being funny on purpose, but it charmed Dean. Dean said too much sometimes and Cas said too little, but it worked for them remarkably.

Cas kept his eyes on the screen, not reading the credits but still processing the movie’s ending. In profile he was a really handsome guy. It wasn’t the first time Dean noticed it, of course. And he was handsome at any angle you picked, obviously. But for a minute Dean got to just look at him, trying to figure out what it was that worked so well. The strong jaw, naturally. The dark hair making such a contrast with his blue eyes, that was something too. Cas could be a real lady-killer with looks like those.

Those blue eyes flicked over to Dean, holding his gaze now. Dean gave a faint smile. Here it was. That feeling he had when they sat together on the porch during the storm. Like even with a foot of space between them, the sense of proximity he felt around Cas was different than with anybody else. He wanted to while away another night with him, drinking coffee and staying awake just so it wouldn’t have to end.

The tape in the VCR chirred to a halt, then began to rewind itself. Still they just looked at each other. Dean thought he should say something or thought Cas was about to, but there weren’t words. He didn’t need them anyway.

At Cas’ waist, a set of sharp beeps cut through the thick of quiet between them.

Cas turned, unclipping his pager to look at the number. “It’s the clinic,” he said. “Can I use your phone?”

“‘Course,” Dean said with a small nod, his voice quieter than he anticipated.

His eyes followed Cas as he got up from the couch to the phone table and punched in the number from the pager. Dean only heard half the conversation, but he didn’t need more. The night was over. When Cas hung up, Dean said for him, “You gotta go.”

“Yeah,” said Cas. “Dean?”

Dean looked up. Cas said it the same way he had over the phone. Before he lost his train of thought or decided against saying what was on his mind. Dean didn’t know if he’d learn it now or be met with another strange ellipsis.

“I wish I was staying,” Cas said, and he turned on his heel and made for the door.

Dean didn’t chase him, precisely, but he did follow a few steps behind: all the way to the last stair of the front porch. Cas swung a leg over his motorcycle, fixed on his helmet, then took off into the night.

Dean sat down on the porch steps, resting his chin in one hand. Around him, crickets chirped in a rising and falling swell, joined by the heavy-winged fusillade of a June bug flinging itself repeatedly towards the porch light. A half-hearted breeze rose across the fields and carried the smell of horse and farm and the heavy texture of night. He remained long after Cas’ headlight vanished from the distance.

Chapter 11

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

But the song didn’t mean anything, just a call
to the field, something to get through before
the pummeling of youth.
— Ada Limón, “A New National Anthem”

Dean and John didn’t talk on the drive down to Missouri’s for the party. The only thing Dean wanted to talk about was Sam, and it was better not to broach it. John might say something harsher than he already had, or make a decision in a fit of temper that they couldn’t walk back from. Dean only travelled with him at all because he had to stop John from killing himself driving home piss-drunk.

Missouri lived in one of the bigger, older properties with a Victorian house set far back from the road, surrounded by rolling fields. The corn coming in was closer to waist- than knee-high by the fourth of July, and the wheat was turning brown ahead of schedule. Dean had the same urge as anybody who grew up in these parts to mark these things, understanding how personal fates were wrapped up in the unpredictable whims of nature. Missouri, however, always had a sixth sense about what to plant and when to harvest. She was better than any Farmer’s Almanac.

They parked among the other trucks and cars on a stretch of bright green lawn beside the lane. John wasted no time in plopping down a camp chair and his cooler, reaching in for a can, opening the tab with a finger before he’d even closed the cooler lid.

Dean carried a heavy crockpot of pork ribs to one of the tables, directed by Missouri as to where to set it down. She put a hand on his shoulder, spoke to him in such a nice way about how popular the dish had been last year. It effected a fast smile out of Dean, but in the way Missouri always had of making him feel shy. She always acted sympathetic towards him when he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve it.

Or maybe it was just so, when she said something about moving a couple of the borrowed picnic tables, he offered to help without being asked.

He preferred working, truth be told. He would’ve rather been assigned a laundry list of chores to keep things running than to try and fit in today. He woke up feeling out of sorts, muddled by life’s recent series of unclosed brackets. Dizzy nights and unfocused days, like there was something lingering in the corner of his eyes that disappeared every time he tried to turn his head to face it. If he could only have been useful, he wouldn’t have to live with himself.

He tried to relax into the party like he was supposed to. He set up his chair near Bobby, who’d somehow managed to convince Rufus to come. Rufus sat back in his lawn chair with a stern expression, betraying a twitch of distaste now and then as the circle of guests around them drank and bantered. There were games for the kids, badminton and horseshoes, but they were well below Dean’s age to join in. Jo was away at her competition for the weekend, travelling with a friend’s family while Ellen stayed here in town. Everyone in this crowd was at least ten years older than Dean. He had no place in their conversations and didn’t do much to invite himself in.

The sun dragged above their heads, drying everyone out and making the alcohol hit faster. Someone brought a six-disc CD player hooked up to speakers to keep the music going, playing one tracklist of high-energy rock and country Americana after another. Sweat trickled down the back of Dean’s neck and whenever he moved he felt his skin unsticking to every surface it came in contact with. Chatter and laughter and drunken boasting rose around him. He was surrounded by people but had never felt so intensely lonely.

Dean got up without bothering to excuse himself, heading in to see if he could get a glass of ice water or sweet tea. There were soft drinks in the coolers, but he wanted to get away from the din outside.

The house was mercifully cool, the brisk air conditioning working against the sweat on his skin. His shirt stuck to him and he pulled it away from his neck by the collar, searching for a reprieve.

Dean knew his way around just a little from previous years of celebrations. He helped out, too, when Missouri needed extra workers for the harvest, and she always served a good dinner inside at the end of those long days. The kitchen lay at the end of a narrow hallway panelled in dark wood, past a couple of sitting rooms. The other rooms were old-fashioned and Victorian, but the kitchen had bright countertops and new appliances, standing out against the original cupboards. He would’ve loved to make food in here with all the space it had.

He allowed himself to daydream about it a little as he filled a glass with water and ice. He leaned against the counter and tried to make the water last, prepared to stretch out this sojourn as long as possible.

He wasn’t the only one stealing a respite from the heat. He heard a set of familiar voices from another room that winged off the kitchen. Muttering about the temperature, how “Everything sticks...”

He shifted enough to glance into the living room, unseen by the pair within. Jody and Ellen sat on the couches, Ellen tugging at the front of her blouse to get air the same way Dean had, and Jody with a loose posture, limbs stretched out. She looked like she’d rather be in a bathing suit than a dress.

As far as company went, it was a toss-up. He didn’t know whether he was prepared to be social or not. They certainly didn’t need him and, while he didn’t intend to eavesdrop, in this rare urge for solitude he wasn’t inclined to interrupt. He’d finish his water shortly and go.

“And I’m not sure if it’s me or all the sun,” said Jody, “but Missouri’s lemonade and gin is—”

“Ohh, there’s danger for you,” said Ellen with a low laugh, She carded her fingers through her hair, letting the heat out of it. “Now you’re really one of us.”

“Hey now. I’ve lived here for five years and everyone acts like I’m still the… the Johnny-come-lately. Do you know how hard it is to do my job when I’m up against this… this deep-country code of silence? There’s all this town history. All these characters. Old bitterness. Family secrets. And nobody talks about it.”

While he didn’t mean to listen, Dean found himself a little curious. Jody had a point. The older he grew, the more he glimpsed the edges of buried feuds and sorrows. Complicated networks of family marriages and personal scandals. People who wouldn’t speak to each other over something that happened forty years ago. People you couldn’t buy livestock or property from on principle, because your friends and kin had been wronged by theirs.

In the past week alone, he’d seen more. Family secrets and hidden doings and things that never came to light: unmentionable histories.

“Isn’t that the case everywhere?” Ellen asked. “The past is the past. Sounds like you want clairvoyance. You should try Missouri. She used to dabble a little.”

“No,” said Jody emphatically. She took another sip of her drink, then rested her head heavily against her fist. “I just wish people wouldn’t zip right up when I’m trying to help them. There’s so much pride in people around here, but it’s not doing them any good.”

“Like what?” said Ellen, opening her eyes and looking over. She seemed at least mildly entertained by Jody’s complaints. “Pride’s not always a bad thing. Give me an example.”

Jody groaned, turning her forehead towards her fist and shaking her head, squeezing her eyes tight. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Because no one will tell me.” She looked across at Ellen, squinting as if to keep from seeing double. “You know John Winchester pretty well?”

Dean froze. He curled the glass in his hand towards his chest, wanting to keep himself contained, keep from making a sound. He should really intervene. He should let them know he was here. He couldn’t move.

Ellen spoke carefully, not as drunk as Jody. “Sure,” she said. “I’ve known him a long time.”

“What do you think of him?”

“Good at his business,” said Ellen. “Keeps my daughter employed.”

“Nice man?” Jody asked.

“Not particularly,” said Ellen.

“And his boys,” said Jody. “Dean and Sam?”

“Nice boys,” said Ellen.

“Not what I was asking,” said Jody. “As a parent, what do you think of him?”

“I don’t see what goes on,” said Ellen. “I wouldn’t know.”

“But you think something goes on,” said Jody.

Dean didn’t want to hear this. He ought to leave this room and go back outside and pretend none of this was happening.

Ellen’s gaze turned a little distant. “There were times when I—” She stopped herself. “But if I really knew then I’d— Are you investigating something, Jody?”

“I’m not even sure,” said Jody. “If I was, I really shouldn’t be talking about it.” She tried to pull herself to sit up straighter. “I shouldn’t be talking about it anyway.”

Ellen still looked distant, tapping her fingers on her glass.

“Just the thing is,” said Jody, rallying, “I can put one and one and one together. Alright? War vet—”

“Volunteer,” Ellen said. “Joined when he was still underage.”

“Previous assault charges. You’d know about that.”

“Happened outside my bar,” said Ellen.

“Settled both times. But: a history of aggression.”

“Mean drunk,” said Ellen. She lifted her glass but paused before she took a sip. “And he’s often drunk.”

“One kid has gotten the hell out of this state, hundreds of miles from his family and home, while the other walks in his shadow.”

As much as anything before it, this socked Dean in the throat. It was unfair to him. Dean didn’t walk in John’s shadow. It was only that John was so good at blocking out the sun.

“I just don’t trust it,” Jody concluded with a sigh.

Ellen chewed on her lower lip. “I don’t know anything,” she said at last, speaking slowly. “I’ve never been able to tell. Dean gets injured sometimes. But he does rough work and a few scrapes and bruises around the farm aren’t unusual. Lord knows I see how careless Jo can be. And getting two black eyes being thrown from a horse, well. It’s not impossible. It’s a long way to fall and a lucky thing to break his arm instead of his neck. But there was something that didn’t sit right with me about this last instance.”

“Go on.”

Ellen looked up from the middle distance to meet Jody’s eye. “Who breaks in a young horse at that time of night?”

“I had the same question,” said Jody.

“And Dean wouldn’t talk?”

“I can’t make him,” said Jody, shaking her head. “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there’s nothing going on. Or maybe there is. He’s an adult, though. Unless he were to reach out about it, there just aren’t the same supports for intervention. And if he doesn’t want to leave, or doesn’t think he can leave, no one but him can change that.” She drank the last of her lemonade, the ice clinking in the glass as she lowered it, a finger raised. “But if that’s what’s happening—if, mind—and all he does is shove it down and hide it away? I’ll tell you what’ll happen. It’ll just cycle on through, handing down that damage. I’ve seen it before, Ellen. Ten or fifteen years from now, when he’s got kids of his own, I’ll be right back here searching for proof.”

At the other end of the house, the front door opened. Jody and Ellen glanced over to it idly, sightlines never crossing his way, still unaware of Dean’s presence.

He had to leave now. He set down the glass of water on the counter and made for the kitchen’s sliding door, quick and quiet through years of practice. He exited out onto the small back deck. Everyone else lingered at the front of the house where the barbeques and tables full of food and drinks were to be found. Here he faced the long, horizontal rows of vegetables that grew on a small hill, the equipment shed with tall grass growing around it, the rows of polystyrene beehives underneath the pear trees.

He didn’t want to be seen by anyone. He couldn’t run, he couldn’t leave. Instead he descended the wooden staircase and saw a hollow place next to the steps that spoke to his instinct to curl up and hide away. No one would think to look for him there. There was just enough room for him to set his back against the latticework around the deck, to wrap his arms around his knees, shadowed by the angle of the high house and the raspberry-rose blooms of a flowering spirea next to him. He bowed his head against his forearms.

His thoughts moved too quickly for him to make sense of. He felt like he was supposed to be in physical pain, like every beat of that conversation hit him harder than actual blows ever could. Far around the other side of the house, music carried quietly in the breeze, bursts of laughter breaking out. They were putting the food out, with the scent of charcoal and grilled meat flavouring the air.

He couldn’t make himself get up. He just needed another moment. Another moment.

He froze when he heard the sliding of the patio door. He couldn’t say how long he’d been here, but it shouldn’t matter. No one would be looking for him. No one would check this shadowed corner for him.

The door slid shut again and footsteps paced across the deck and Dean prayed not to be noticed. He heard a soft sigh, then, after another moment, someone started down the steps.

As in the kitchen, Dean could see more than be seen. And he knew the angled slope of those shoulders, the dark hair that stirred in the breeze. Cas didn’t look back, making in the direction of the hives.

“Cas,” said Dean.

He didn’t mean to speak at all. He didn’t intend to announce himself.

Perhaps it was better to call his attention than wait on the risk that Cas would finish his tour and spot him in hiding.

Cas turned at the sound of his name, expression changing when he saw Dean. “There you are,” he said.

He didn’t ask what Dean was doing in somebody else’s flowerbeds. Instead, he stepped in among the leafy shrubs and flowers and settled himself next to Dean on the red cedar mulch.

“Bobby said you might’ve gone inside,” said Cas.

“Was anybody looking for me?” said Dean.

“I was,” said Cas. “I was hoping you were here. Here at the party, not here—” he looked around himself now, “—in the garden, exactly.”

Dean couldn’t say how good it was that if someone was looking for him, it was simply Cas, who wanted nothing Dean didn’t already have in him to give.

“You’re not having fun at the party?” Cas asked.

Dean shifted a little, adjusting his hold around his knees then once more lowering his chin to his arms. His knees poked out from the frayed holes in his jeans. He gave a faint shake of his head. “I’m just in a kind of weird mood,” he said, and it felt painful to even say that much. He pressed his eyes shut tight.

At his side, Cas’ arm lined up with his own, a casual and careless meeting of bodies. Summer-heat and skin, the firm and lean muscles of labour in each of them. There was something grounding in how physically present Cas’ body was next to his, not just an idea but an absolute. Grounding and somehow more overwhelming. Dean wasn’t ready to open his eyes.

“Well, I like this spot,” said Cas, picking up a few of the red woodchips to examine, then shifting them between his fingers to let them fall to the ground again.

It was strange that Cas’ presence didn’t disturb the solitude Dean so badly craved. He wanted to escape reality, but he could do it with Cas. If anything, Cas provided another means of burying himself deeper. He wanted to rest his head on Cas’ shoulder and turn his face further from the real world by hiding against Cas.

He strained against the impulse, trembling with how much it took from him to not do that. He squeezed his arms tighter around his knees.

If he didn’t say something or do something, he would come apart entirely. He tipped his head back against the boards behind him. He swallowed hard and said, “Cas? You think you’ll have kids one day?”

Cas’ childhood remained a mystery to Dean. One of those deep-country silences that Jody spoke of. He’d had a fractured upbringing. He pulled himself out of it. If there was anyone who could give Dean hope, surely it was Cas.

Cas didn’t look at Dean, going still beside him. “No,” he said after a moment. “Probably not.”

“You don’t want a family?” Dean asked. It wasn’t an instinct he could understand. All he wanted was family.

Cas frowned faintly and passed his hand over one of the fronds of the shrub to his left. “Those are two different questions,” he said.

Dean opened his eyes, studying Cas’ profile. He wanted a family but didn’t know about kids. Dean didn’t know what to ask next, trying to puzzle it out on his own.

“Why do you ask, Dean?” Cas said, turning his head to look at him now. His gaze, always arresting, had never been quite this near. The space between them was nearly nothing. In the shade of this makeshift bower, Cas’ eyes became such a deep, oceanic blue that Dean felt like he’d been pushed underwater.

He looked away, drawing his arms in, trying to keep his hands and posture loose but he could feel the trembling in his fingertips. He was too sensitive today, already done in by the hot sun and the tension of the day and that eavesdropped conversation. He felt like an exposed nerve. Even the touch of air would sting and make him shudder.

“I just— Do you ever worry you’ll turn out like your parents?” said Dean.

Cas dropped his gaze, his head bowing as well. “Oh,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” said Dean, tripping over his words. “You don’t want to talk about it. I’m not asking you to tell me anything. I get it. It’s none of my business. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not that it’s none of your business,” said Cas. “I’ve— I’ve tried very hard to leave it behind.”

“Has it worked?” Dean asked. He didn’t mean it as a challenge. His eyes wide with sincerity, a lighter and clearer green than the leaves of the plants around them. He wanted to know if he stood a chance.

Cas didn’t rush to an answer. Finally he said, “Less than I’d like. But more than I’d hoped.” He tilted his head to one side. “Families can be complicated. I think you know that.”

Dean gave a faint nod of his head. He didn’t speak. He always had a keen sense when Cas would say more, and an even keener longing to hear it.

“If I had a family, I hope I wouldn’t turn out like my parents. I would want to spend time with my children and be patient with them. To let them grow in whatever direction they needed. Help them to, even. I would want to love my spouse. I would want…” He turned his head away from Dean and looked out towards the distance. Vegetable rows ahead of fields with golden wheat. The sun took on its first shade of orange, hitting the evening atmosphere.

“I would want country air and animals to look after and for us, all of us, to know we belong there. Are wanted there.”

Dean ached too much to stop himself. He turned his face and bowed his head to rest on Cas’ shoulder, eyes pressing hard-shut again. He let his weight lean against Cas. It was this or tears, this or crumbling to dust because he’d held everything together too tightly. Cas startled only a little, then his body shifted, loosening in an inviting way.

“Dean?” he said.

Dean couldn’t speak. He didn’t know what he’d say if he opened his mouth, but he knew it would be dangerous. It was just that, what Cas described— it was everything Dean wanted. He wanted to be there with Cas in that imagined paradise. He wanted to belong and be loved. He wanted to give his love to someone and not just hand down the strife he’d been raised with.

“Dean,” Cas said again, more quietly. He lifted his hand and slowly he stroked his fingers through Dean’s hair from his temple to the back of his head. Dean turned his nose towards Cas’ shoulder and Cas did it again. Then again.

Dean wouldn’t dare to move and break this apart. His chest rose and fell. He could feel his heavy heartbeat. Could hear the thud of Cas’ too. He felt dizzy, like he was losing his grip on the world. He didn’t want to ever return to it. To gossip, to consequences, to confusion.

Cas’ fingers combed back Dean’s hair again, but this time they trailed further, down to the fine, sweat-soft hairs on his neck. Cas’ hand briefly cupped around the back of Dean’s neck, holding him. Dean’s posture slackened and he turned towards Cas all at once, girding an arm around his body. Cas’ other arm encircled Dean’s waist, shaping to him.

He hadn’t known how much he needed this. Even as it answered something in him, his heart tensed in apprehension, then released. Tightened with the whirl of his thoughts, unwound at the genuine solace. He should be ashamed that it took so little with him. One embrace and he came undone with the approval, the relief.

Cas smelled fresh, sharp, masculine. His body so solid, his hold so strong. Stubble grazed against the ridge of Dean’s cheek.

Holding Lisa never felt like this. She was soft where she wasn’t bony, she was tiny in his arms and he always had to condition himself accordingly. She didn’t light him up with security, with salvation.

He wanted to burrow deeper into Cas. To be chest to chest, to carve a space for himself within Cas’ ribs. When he took in a breath, his nose in Cas’ collar, he met the scent of vetiver and sage. He wanted to fill his lungs with Cas. He wanted to turn his face up and press his lips and tongue to the column of Cas’ throat and taste the salt of his skin.

Dean ripped out of the embrace gracelessly, tearing apart something that had been delicate and unsayable. Something strangely mortal. Cas’ face betrayed some surprise, his arms parted as if unprepared to concede that Dean left them.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said quickly, anxious to fill the gap between them. “I’ve just been all kinds of messed up today. I shouldn’t’ve—” He pressed his lips tight and shook his head, then dragged his hand through the hair Cas had so recently carded his fingers through. He shouldn’t have been thinking the things he did. He was just confused, had just been thinking about Lisa, and wasn’t used to any touch that took the shape of affection. Cas couldn’t know all that. Cas hadn’t done anything wrong.

“Are you… okay?” Cas asked, one hand reaching for him, then halting again.

“I’m fine,” Dean said. He twisted himself around to kneel, then stand, pushing off the ground. Cedar chips stuck to his palm, then fell away. “We should get back to the party. I’ve been gone too long.”

“You don’t have to be at the party,” said Cas, reaching for the boards of the deck above him as he stood. “You don’t sound like you want to be.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” said Dean.

Cas angled his head, eyes narrowing. “You’re allowed to leave,” he said. “I could take you— I could go with you. I’d drive you anywhere. Anywhere you wanted.”

Dean shook his head. He didn’t know how he was supposed to explain something so essential to somebody who didn’t automatically understand it. He’d already pushed too far against the confines of what bound him as guest, as neighbour, and most especially as son. As everything Dean Winchester was expected to be. He had a role, and he’d lose everything if he didn’t play it.

“Not this time,” Dean said. He turned to leave, heading back around the side of the house. After a moment, Cas caught up with him. They walked side-by-side, but with more distance between them. Dean could still have reached out to touch Cas, but only just.

Cas didn’t meet Dean’s eye again. He wore a troubled expression, didn’t seem particularly interested in food and had to be talked into picking up a plate by Dean. Beyond coercing him to eat, Dean didn’t know what to say to Cas anymore. He sat with Bobby again, balancing his full plate and trying to play off that he didn’t know the food was up already.

Cas joined but said little. Before long he stood to cross paths with Missouri, talked with her a while, then returned to where Dean sat to say he was going.

After all that had passed between them, Dean had the odd sensation he was supposed to stand and hug Cas goodbye or walk him over to the motorcycle parked in the lane. Something to signify their connection. But he was under the eyes of others at the party. Bobby, Rufus. Down the lawn, John was drinking a beer and watching some of the men set up a bonfire, offering advice but doing nothing to actually help.

So he just said, “Yeah, see ya,” and prayed his summer tan hid the flush of heat that rose to his cheeks. Cas departed and all Dean could think was yeah, see ya on repeat in his head.




Dean slept poorly that night, sucked into a dream where he lay in his bed with a fever. Sheets damp, skin hot, insides twisting. It was an antiquated kind of sickness and someone sent for the doctor, and the doctor who came with his black medicine bag was Cas, as Dean knew it must be.

Cas sat on the edge of the bed at Dean’s hip and placed a hand on Dean’s forehead to feel his temperature. His touch eased Dean so that he caught his first breath again, although it didn’t treat the underlying fire in his veins. Still, it was enough that he looked outwardly calmer, that he ceased quivering with his ailment. Cas calmly decided that his condition was improving and he could be trusted to make a full recovery from here.

When he stood and took his hands off of Dean, Dean felt terrible once more. His body shook so badly his teeth chattered and Cas quickly swept to his side again. He placed his hands on Dean’s bare collarbones, then flat against his sweat-damp chest that glistened under the candlelight. Dean’s body eased back into his mattress. Cas assessed him with steady, half-lidded eyes and moved his hands to Dean’s sore shoulder. He traced touches down his arm, then tangled with his fingers, splaying them out as he’d once done in playfulness in the stables of the barn.

Cas let go and stood up once again, and this time Dean wasn’t really sick, not terribly, but he couldn’t stand not to have Cas’ hands on him. He pretended to shiver, to moan in pain, to reach out in desperation. Cas would come back, then leave, and Dean would pretend all over again with this see-through routine. Only so that he could let his head hang back limply when Cas’ firm hand clasped the back of his neck. So that Cas’ hand would slide against his ribs and his arm curl around Dean’s body to soothe him with touch. Like he could heal everything wrong with Dean if he just never stopped touching him.

It became a hotter, heavier dream when it was no longer sickness in his veins but a thick ache that made his body harden. He wouldn’t be well again unless he broke the heat. And Cas, his physician, might’ve half suggested Dean could care for it on his own, an unspoken dream-murmur that permeated the air. But Dean insisted no, offering thin excuses in the same way he faked sick: that it wouldn’t be enough. That things may be fatal if not correctly ministered, and with death on the line, it could only be an expert that saw to it, an impartial handler.

Dean’s face hid once more against Cas’ collar, his breaths short and fast against Cas’ throat, while Cas rubbed the palm of his hand over the front of Dean’s boxers. He knew the rhythm Dean needed, the build-up. Knew better than Dean ever would what his body required. Cas wrapped his hand around him and said into his ear, voice low and gravel-rough, “Dean.”

Dean woke gasping, shuddering, feeling sated and blasphemous all at once. He swore he heard his name spoken aloud in this room. Too real, too familiar.

He sank back still trembling, left with the vivid awareness of the dream’s every moment.

He covered both hands over his face. It was only a dream. It was only a dream.

Notes:

» let's be real the other epigraph for this was that dril tweet: "This Whole Thing Smacks Of Gender," i holler as i overturn my uncle's barbeque grill and turn the 4th of July into the 4th of Shit
» for real for real, do read the full poem above by Ada Limón because: that song that’s our birthright, / that’s sung in silence when it’s too hard to go on, / that sounds like someone’s rough fingers weaving / into another’s, that sounds like a match being lit / in an endless cave, the song that says my bones / are your bones, and your bones are my bones, / and isn’t that enough?

Chapter Text

I remember, growing up, at night, and my dad would sit in the kitchen with all the lights out and he waited for me to come in, and he’d sit there and drink, and I’d stand in the driveway and I’d look into his screen door, and I could see the light of a cigarette, and then I’d rush up on the porch and try to get by him but he’d always call me back. And it was like he was always… always angry. Always mad. He’d be sitting there thinking about everything that he was never gonna have, until… until he’d get me thinking like that too. And I’d lay up in my bed, at night, and be staring at the ceiling, and I’d feel like if something didn’t happen, if something didn’t happen soon, it felt like I was just gonna… like some day, like I was just gonna…
— Bruce Springsteen, concert introduction to “I’m On Fire” in Paris, 1985

On Saturday morning Dean kept checking the time, wondering how early he could leave for the airport. Whether there would be bad traffic, whether Sam’s plane would come in ahead of schedule. He didn’t want to leave Sam waiting at the airport.

It was good to have something to focus on. To shove all of yesterday into a dark corner of his mind.

Passing through the hallway to grab his wallet from his room, John’s door cracked open.

“Dean?” said John. Hungover from the Independence Day party, possibly still drunk, and looking foul: unshaven and in his underwear.

“What?” Dean kept his voice quiet, not about to make a problem worse.

“You going somewhere?”

“Picking Sammy up from the airport,” said Dean. “He’s flying in soon.”

“Let that fucker take the bus,” said John. “You stay here.” And he shut the door firmly. Dean heard him stumble back to his bed and fall into it.

It had been a direct order.

It had been issued in a haze of leftover alcohol and ill-temper.

John was already back in bed. There was some small chance he might forget.

And this was Sammy.

Dean went into his room, grabbed his wallet, and headed back downstairs. He cleaned out the coffee grounds and set up a fresh batch to brew so that all John would need to do when he woke up was flick the power button on. A small environmental consideration that might adjust John’s mood when he came to properly. John got crabby about cleaning out the coffee. It was worth trying, at least.

John was in bed so there would be no immediate consequence. Even if he heard the truck starting, Dean would be at the end of the lane before John made it to the front door. Out of reach.

When Dean came back with Sam in tow, John would need to be on good behaviour.

He had a meagre foundation on which to build these hopes but when it came to calculating risk, Sam always threw off the equations.

Dean didn’t mind driving to the city, even as the highways became heavier than the country roads he was used to, but approaching the airport made him antsy. His grip tightened around the wheel as an enormous plane descended over his head. How did anyone trust those things to stay in the sky? Sam had flown multiple times in his short life; Dean, never. It was a fine thing that Sam was brave enough to face it, but Dean spent the length of Sam’s flight worrying.

He made it to the airport with time to spare. He brought a horse magazine in from the truck with him and sat in a waiting area, sometimes glancing up at all the different people going by. It was easy to get caught up in the small world of the town he lived in, but there was more to the world. People who looked to him like characters out of books, living lives he couldn’t imagine taking part in.

“Dean!”

Dean was on his feet before he knew it, meeting Sam halfway across the tacky airport carpet and greeting him with a tight hug. He hadn’t seen him since Christmas, and six months was too long to be without his little brother.

“You grew,” Dean said, stepping back enough to ruffle Sam’s hair. Sam had always been on the short side, but now, just a month after turning fifteen, was starting to come into his own. His clothes were too small for him. They’d have to take care of that before the end of the summer.

“Shut up,” said Sam, pushing Dean off of him. “Help me with my bags.”

Dean shoved him back on principle, but they were both in good humour. At the baggage carousel, Dean and Sam waited around until Sam pointed out the two heaviest possible bags for Dean to heave off the belt. They staggered out and threw them without ceremony into the back of the truck.

Sam hopped in after Dean and no sooner fastened his seatbelt than he sneezed.

“Ah,” he said thickly. “Home sweet home.”

“Sorry,” said Dean. He barely noticed the smell of hay and horse ground into the carpet and the seams of the seat. He reached over to pop open the glove compartment. “Should be some of your allergy stuff in there.”

Sam was picky about allergy medications. Given that they’d been his constant companions around the farm, Dean knew as well as Sam did which ones were most effective, which gave him the least drowsiness.

“Thanks,” said Sam, taking out the box, popping a small pill out of its blister packaging. Dean passed him a warm bottle of Coke, half-drunk, to wash it down, and started navigating his way out of the airport, following a snaking route of exits.

“So, what’s new since I left?” Sam asked. Usually they had a weekly phone call and spent most of it bitching about school and homework. Dean always avoided personal topics, for himself. Since Sam was on the wilderness trip, it had been over a month since they properly caught up.

“New?” said Dean. He was still thinking of Sam’s clothes. He could spare some of his own for hand-me-downs, but Sam should have something store-bought before he went back to California. And if he kept growing at this rate, he’d get too tall for Dean’s things before long. “Nothing new.”

He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, wanting something better to say. He didn’t want Sam to think it was boring back home, but it was probably too late to convince him of that. There were things Dean didn’t want to mention: prom, failing his final term, the broken arm. He couldn’t talk about his aborted friendship with Cesar or the things he found in the attic. Instead, he clung to the one positive thing he could think of: “Hey, though, you remember Cas Novak?”

Sam frowned for a moment, squinting out at the bright sun off the blacktop. He’d only been nine that summer. “The seasonal help?” he said. “A little, I guess. Why?”

“He’s back,” said Dean, looking over with a broad smile. He found it easy to say. Yesterday he shoved into the distant past, but that summer six years ago, gilded with nostalgia, had only been good. Safe to talk about, easy to think of.

He expected to get some of that same excited reaction back. Sam just looked bemused.

“Okay… Does Dad have a new project or something he’s hiring for?”

“No. No, Cas is here on his own. He’s a vet now,” said Dean.

“Okay,” said Sam. “I guess that’s pretty cool.”

He said it so neutrally. It triggered something desperate: Dean was losing him, and he didn’t know why it was so hard to express what was so clear. Before he knew it, he said, “He’s my best friend, actually.” He focused more intensely on the road, trying to ignore the heat in his cheeks. “You probably never got to know him that well. But he’s a really— he’s a great guy. He’s smart—so smart—and you’d like him. He’s not like people in town.”

Dean took in a breath, not prepared to look at Sam and see what he thought. “Anyway, tell me about this wilderness near-death experience.”

Sam took him up on the redirection without giving away any oddness, eager to delve into the dramatic adventure. He’d been waiting to be asked, confident in having objectively more interesting stories than Dean to share. He was right to believe it, wasn’t he? Dean made a friend. Big deal. As relieved as Dean was that Sam didn’t grant it closer attention, he knew that it wasn’t as simple as it sounded. The stakes felt so much higher than Dean could put into words. It was life-or-death to him, too. He’d been deadened by life’s blows this year, a hollow man. Then Cas came back.

It was easier to listen than dwell. Easier to let Sam’s story-telling fill the way home than for Dean to search himself for explanations. Dean’s mood brightened the more Sam said, asking questions or replying with quips that made Sam snort with unchecked laughter. That pleased Dean best. He still had it: the older-brother wit.

Sam sat back as they rolled past the sign on the edge of town. Fields that bordered the town limits. One street of small businesses with no corporate logos. One bank, one post office. No stoplights. All familiar, all taken in with a look of contemplation. Comfort, Dean would dare to say. For all his adventures and time away, for all that he sought brighter horizons, this was the place Sam spent his childhood. No amount of travel could change that. This was still home.

“Hey, can you pull over?” Sam asked. “Just up there’s good.”

Curious, Dean pulled up to the curb, stopping just outside the pharmacy.

“What is it?” he asked.

Sam pulled up his backpack from beside his feet and unzipped it. He took out a paper folder with some loose sheets tucked in the front. Sam’s name in a nice type across the top, and under that a heading for ‘Experience,’ another for ‘Education.’ Résumés.

“I thought I should try to get a job while I’m here,” said Sam. “I can’t work in the barn. And it would be nice to start saving some money.”

“Oh,” said Dean with a nod, eyes flicking across the dusty dash. It made sense that Sam would want to work. It was just unexpected. “That— That’s a good idea. What’re you saving for? Save for college, I guess?”

“Mostly that, yeah,” said Sam. “I mean, I’m gonna keep trying for scholarships, obviously, but if for some reason that didn’t work out… I wouldn’t wanna be stuck.”

Dean nodded his head quickly. His thumb traced over the hard plastic ridges on the steering wheel. He cleared his throat and said, “Dad should pay for that shit. For you.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t wanna count on him either,” said Sam.

Dean looked out his driver’s-side window.

Sam went on, “If Dad wanted to help with school, he should’ve started a college fund when we were born.” Sam’s old fierceness was back. Dean didn’t have to look at him to know what was in his eyes—the self-righteous outrage, the bitterness. “For each of us. You should’ve had the option too.”

“Yeah, well,” said Dean. He shook his head. “There are other things than college. Besides, it would be wasted on me. You’re the one with brains. I never woulda made it in.”

“You could, though, Dean, I know you could,” said Sam. “You aren’t dumb. You read more than almost anybody I know.”

More than ever, Dean didn’t want to tell him about his disgraceful final term. “Drop it, Sam,” he said. “You save up for college and let me worry about me.” He took the keys out of the ignition and unfastened his seatbelt. “Come on. Where do you wanna hand these things out anyway?”

Sam brought his résumés around to the small hardware store, the pharmacy, the grocery store. Dean didn’t get in his way, letting Sam introduce himself and shake hands with a manager or hand over his résumé before Dean exchanged a brief greeting with the staff that knew him on sight. Already Dean was thinking about who would drive Sam into town for his shifts, how this would pull him away from chores, what John might have to say about it all. Yet another example of Sam’s untenable independent streak.

As they drove up to the ranch, Dean hoped it would be taken as a sign of industriousness rather than a second act of desertion.

He had no idea of what to expect from his father on their arrival. He didn’t know if the coffee this morning was enough. Didn’t know if John would be pleased or angry to have Sam back in the house. Something—or nothing—had set him off. The weeks and weeks of calm that followed Dean’s broken arm had snapped in turn, and the old unpredictability was back.

This was another change in the routine, with new factors affecting the outcomes. John’s attitude could go either way from here.

John stood at the top of the steps on the porch, arm leaned on one of the posts, tipping back a brown bottle of beer. Expression unreadable. Beer could soothe him into a good mood. Beer could set him stewing on all the ways he’d been wronged.

Dean almost forgot to put the truck in park before turning it off. A fumble he corrected sightlessly, not looking away from the porch.

After so much time spent travelling, Sam was eager to stretch his legs. He got out of the truck as soon as it stopped, before Dean could step out and get in the way.

John left the emptied bottle on the porch railing and stepped down to welcome Sam with a manful squeeze of his shoulder. Dean took the suitcases from the back of the truck without looking, barely aware of his own movements, gaze fixed on his dad’s hearty smile as John led the way inside.

John had picked up food from the Roadhouse, a gesture of bounty, and the three of them sat down around the table to eat. John had come out the other side of his hangover—although not without some hair of the dog, from the smell of whiskey on him.

Whatever. If that was what it took.

He was good-humoured with Sam, asking him questions all about his school and his courses and this hare-brained nature adventure that only city-bred yuppies could’ve come up with. Dean laughed along, feeling good about John’s good spirits, thinking this morning’s transgression might be forgiven or, better yet, forgotten.

Until he realised that John hadn’t looked in Dean’s direction once since Sam got back.

John made his light remarks, let laugh lines crease up his eyes, commended Sam on bringing a little academic glory to the family name while still making it clear he found Sam’s fancy school a bit of a joke. When Dean laughed or put in a comment, John carried on as if nothing had been said.

Mouth dry, breath stopped, blood cold: Dean lost his ability to laugh. John ignored that, too. Sam picked up on the shift, casting a curious glance at Dean for the first time. A greater panic—that Sam might suspect something was wrong—spurred Dean. So that he wouldn’t think about it too deeply, Dean forced a few more smiles, tried to fake some spirit he didn’t have.

John was pissed and playing up his amiability with Sam was part of the punishment. It was worse to see him carrying on like this when Dean knew what darkness simmered underneath.

Dean would stay out of the way and not bring anything on himself. He’d do what he was told and not make smart remarks, even in playfulness. He cleaned up their take-out containers. He slid out of the way when John got up to grab himself a fresh beer. When Sam said he was going to unpack his things in his room, Dean as quickly said it was time for him to do the evening chores and slipped out the door.

He’d give John space. Take refuge in the barn. Extend the work for as long as he could.

He mixed food into buckets, a kinesthetic task that typically grounded him. The sound of the scoop digging into the oats, the smell of alfalfa cubes soaking in water, the innate familiarity of each motion as he carried out his circuit of the feed room.

Today his focus was shot.

John was pissed, but that didn’t have to mean anything. Sam was back. John usually stayed in an elevated mood during these periods, up until about a week before Sam had to leave again. Was often at his worst the week after. That was when Dean ought to be most careful not to set him off. That left a month till he needed to start worrying about that and, by then, today’s grievances would be forgotten. Today, with Sam just back, ignoring Dean was punishment enough.

He was distracted as he worked, having to double-check which of the colour-coded buckets he was bringing to which horse. Jo would’ve teased him for something so basic. When Dean got himself worked up like this, he could’ve put his own boots on backwards.

He kept telling himself it was fine. It was fine. He’d spend extra time out here, sweeping out the barn till it shone. John would be pleased with the state of the barn come morning. Maybe he would drink himself into a stupor in the meantime.

Dean carried a feed bucket to Zeppelin’s stall, one of the last in the row. Time ticked on and routine edged away some worry, the rest of the horses deep in their food and contentment. The horses surrounding him, tranquil and familiar, lulled his sense of unease, so he laughed when Zeppelin extended his dark head out and started lipping at Dean’s shoulder. He nudged his large head against Dean fondly, nostrils widening a few times as he sniffed in Dean’s familiar scent.

“Hey big fella,” Dean said, reaching up to stroke the white blaze down his nose. The action soothed both of them: today, Dean needed it more. He brushed his fingers through the horse’s mane, wearing a faint smile. “You’re just being nice because I brought supper, aren’t ya?” He swivelled the bucket in his hand so that the grain shuffled and Zepp’s ears gave an alert twitch.

At the other end of the stables, where the doors opened out towards the lane, footsteps disturbed the gravel hardly a moment before John rounded the corner.

For no good reason, Dean thought he was safe out here. He thought John wouldn’t trouble himself to come down, and that as long as he could sneak past him on the way back inside, they’d avoid a blow-up. Wake up with a fresh slate in the morning.

Dean froze. John didn’t say a word, stalking up the aisle without taking his eyes away from Dean. His shadow enlarged around him in shifting permutations as he passed the yellow stable lights.

There was nowhere for Dean to go. Even if there had been, there wasn’t anything to gain by running.

“Dad,” he said. One last, begging syllable that asked to be spared.

Dean dropped the bucket of feed at the same moment John gripped his shirt. Grain spilled across the floor. Dean struggled, instinctively but uselessly, but John just shoved him back a few steps. Caught him up again and pushed him against one of the pillars between the stalls. His hand closed around Dean’s throat to force his head against the post, cutting off air as he shoved him back.

“Didn’t I give you an order this morning?”

Dean didn’t have enough breath to answer. He tried to nod. He tried to pull back on his dad’s wrist. John loosened his grip enough for Dean to wheeze out the expected reply: “Yes, sir.” Then the pressure was right back.

“Was there something in it you didn’t understand?”

Dean tried to twist out of John’s hold. He needed air. Again, the press of John’s hand left off enough for Dean to quickly say, “No, sir.”

As soon as the answer was given, John’s hand returned and squeezed harder. Dean closed his eyes, needed to cough, to retch. He thrashed again, hands scrabbling at John’s, blunt fingernails scraping, even though he knew better than to fight. He kicked a boot back against the post behind him, an involuntary spasm. Beside him in the stall Zeppelin whinnied, snorted, jolted around.

“So I’m to take it you disobeyed me deliberately,” said John.

It was another question that demanded an answer. Dean had black in the corner of his eyes. He whispered his answer twice before John gave him enough air to rasp, “Yes, sir.” His lungs burned.

“When I tell you to stay, you stay,” said John. “You understand?”

This time John settled for a nod. He held Dean’s neck, fingers pressing hard into the sides, as he pulled him forward once just to shove him back. Dean’s head jerked back against the pillar with a sharp and solid thud. The next moment, John’s hands were off him, his back retreating down the aisle between the stalls.

Dean didn’t process him going. He sank down the pillar to sit on the floor, one leg extended out, his hand holding the base of his neck.

His breath came in shaky wheezes and his body shook uncontrollably. He wanted to make it stop, to talk himself down. Convince himself the worst was over now and he’d be fine. The suspense was broken. But somehow in the aftermath his panic only rose, and it was harder to catch the breath he so badly needed.

Zeppelin whinnied again behind him. He was distressed, calling for Dean. It gave Dean enough presence of mind to scramble up, open the stall door, and let himself in. He wrapped his arms around the neck of his horse. Zepp leaned into him and Dean rested all his weight on Zepp in return. He pressed his eyes tightly shut, staving off the tremble in his body so that it wouldn’t trouble Zepp. Other people underestimated how much horses could sense fear, scent emotions, but they were social creatures at heart. Dean knew what it was like not to speak; how a thousand other cues took the place of language.

Slowly his breath returned. He dragged his head up and looked at Zeppelin, combing his fingers through the horse’s black mane.

He imagined hopping onto Zepp bareback and riding him far away.

Another night, he might have done it.

Tonight, he had Sam inside the house, folding away his clothes in his bedroom and unaware of having played a bit part in this evening’s pageant. It wasn’t Sam’s fault, though. It wasn’t anybody but Dean’s. Dean could’ve taken his dad’s instruction and let Sam take the bus. He could’ve booked the ticket for Sam over the phone, could’ve picked him up in town and never courted John’s ill-will. He’d known what he was doing when he ignored the order.

Dean stroked Zepp’s coat, lost in the action. What did it matter? What was the point in thinking about it? It was over now. Nothing broken, nothing bloodied. Dean would tread carefully from here. It wasn’t only about punishment tonight. The event had been a warning: Sam’s presence didn’t give Dean free rein. Disobedience wouldn’t get a pass just because the prodigal son returned.

Dean kissed Zepp’s forehead and pet down his nose a few more times then let himself out of the stall. He scooped up what grain he could before returning to the feed room to measure out a proper supper for Zeppelin. He coughed a few times into his shoulder, his throat feeling tight. He didn’t want to try to talk yet in case he found himself hoarse.

The zeal for working left him, but he couldn’t face returning inside. He let himself go at it slowly, filling time. He swept every corner of the stable as night fell. He tidied the haymow above the horse stalls. He opened the upper window, sitting on the low sill, back leaned against the frame.

The house made a pale shape against the darkness. In the shining patch of Sam’s bedroom light, Dean could see him moving back and forth as he set up his belongings or took down old tokens of childhood. The window frame had time to make a stiff groove in Dean’s back before the trail of lights shutting out followed John from kitchen to bathroom to bedroom. When John’s bedroom light was off, Dean stood and stretched out his cramped limbs. He climbed down from the haymow, stroked Zeppelin’s nose once more, and bid a throaty goodnight to the horses.

He moved slowly and quietly inside. When he went upstairs, Sam’s door was still cracked, a lamp on. He went to his door and knocked a knuckle against it, then pushed it open.

“Hey,” he whispered. The nighttime quiet made a good excuse for his low voice. He stood in the generous darkness of the hallway, the lamplight casting forgiving shadows. “Settled in?”

Sam looked up from an old comic book he’d unearthed, sitting on the side of his bed. He gave a one-sided smile and nodded his head. “Yeah,” he said. “You just coming in?”

“Needed to catch up on some stuff,” said Dean. “Heading to bed now.”

“Is it that time?” said Sam, craning to look over his shoulder at the ancient flip clock on the bedside table. It had to be an adjustment for Sam, not just for being on San Francisco time. Morning came early on the farm and nobody stayed up late.

“Guess so,” said Dean, voice kept low. “You got everything you need?”

“I think,” said Sam. “But I’ve got some laundry…”

Dean nodded. “Leave it on top of the washing machine,” he said. “I’ll get it in the morning.”

Sam smiled up at him. “Thanks, Dean.”

Dean gave a faint smile in return. “It’s good to have you home, Sam,” he said and turned back down the hall.

He couldn’t offer Sam the excitement of the city or the challenges of his competitive school. He couldn’t offer a wide social circle or ambitious prospects. But he could do this. Give Sam the kind of home he might want to come back to. Let him know the people here wanted him.




Farm work typically wore Dean out enough to sleep well, but that night he wasn’t so blessed. He kept thinking that if he fell asleep he would stop breathing. He kept choking on nothing just as he started to nod off and would jerk back into wakefulness. As he dipped in and out of full awareness he found himself overcome with tremors, with sweats. In his lucid moments, he knew he was fine, but then he’d drift too near to unconsciousness like he was skimming the surface of a pond, sure to drown if he didn’t pay attention. He remained lost between, stirring up the surface with disturbing patterns of ripples.

He thought himself between wakefulness and sleep when he blearily opened his eyes. Someone was on the edge of his bed, but he couldn’t make himself panic. He propped up on one arm to look at her.

His mother in her red gingham shirt, seated at the foot of his bed, her face in profile to him.

She was beautiful. She was distant. She wore sorrow in the slope of her shoulders, in the downturn of her mouth. She hadn’t worn that expression in any photograph.

Dean felt the tears that filled his eyes, but she didn’t blur.

“Did you know?” Dean asked, his voice a rasp, each word raked over shattered glass. “Did you know what he was like?”

“I married him.” Her voice came like a whisper too. He didn’t know the sound of it. It disappeared like a wisp of smoke before he could grasp it. He wanted to know it so badly. Trying to hear it, even now, the timbre and music of it eluded him. “I married a steady man.”

“Then he’s like this ‘cause you left us,” said Dean.

Mary bowed her head, long waves of blonde hair draping over from her shoulders, covering her face.

“How could you?” said Dean. And he sank back, turning his face towards his pillow, tears soaking the pillowcase. “How could you?” He let his sorrow rage through him, shaking his body down to his bones.

He jerked awake. He had tears in his eyes. He had to wipe them away to see to the end of his bed, where squares of moonlight slanted across his pale quilt. No one sat there or ever had.

Chapter Text

Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
— Robert Frost, “Mending Wall”

Dawn rose the same as always. Indifferently golden; just another day.

Sam would sleep late. It was alright for some.

Dean rubbed a tired hand over his face as he descended the stairs, grey under the eyes from sleeplessness.

In the kitchen, he started coffee and set out breakfast. He ate quickly, listening for sounds of the house creaking above, and set his dishes in the sink by the time John came into the kitchen. John poured a coffee and sat in at the table to start his food. Dean waited for him to be seated before moving over to fill a mug, intending to take it out to the porch to avoid another minute in the same room as John.

He stopped halfway to the door when John spoke up: “They say there’s hot weather headed in tomorrow,” John said. “Next few days will be some kind of a heat wave. We’re better to look after those fences today.”

Sundays were often lighter days for farm chores, out of habit. Beyond the daily care for the horses, they could be used to catch up on accounting or dragging the horse pen. But farmers work according to the weather, making hay while the sun shines and all. When the sun came in a little too hot, that affected things too. No one wanted to start heavy work amid blistering summer temperatures.

The proposal didn’t disrupt Dean’s plans as he didn’t have any, besides the notion he’d spend much of the day with Sam. It had never been in his nature to shirk useful work and the fence posts had been on his mind long enough that he liked the thought of getting this task done with. If it weren’t impossible, he’d have suggested doing it on his own. He’d intended to avoid John.

He dropped his gaze to the surface of his coffee, which quivered from one brief tremble of his hand. It still hurt to swallow.

“Yes, sir,” he said without looking back. He went out to the porch with his coffee.

In the lower pasture, a line of older fence posts were giving in to moisture and wood rot. New ones had been purchased and treated, stacked in a tow trailer. When Dean finished his coffee he went from the porch to the shed, bringing around a four-wheeler to hitch the trailer behind. He loaded the post hole auger into the back of the pick-up truck and checked the toolbox to make sure nothing they’d need had wandered from inside it. The last thing he wanted when they made it down to the fences was to find something missing.

They needed to move the horses over to another paddock while he worked in this one with John. Dean hopped a gate into the pasture, scanning out the scattered horses chewing on green grass or standing in the shade.

He called out to the horses with a long whistle that turned up at the end. Just once, then wait. Sure enough, the horses made their way over to Dean. They knew the sound that belonged to Dean, but all it really took was for one horse to answer, then the pasture mates followed. Even those that had been too far to hear Dean’s call joined with their curiosity piqued. In a moment, Dean was surrounded by horses who were curious if he had something good for them to eat, something fun for them to do. He reached out to pat the withers, flank, or neck of the horses that comfortably mingled around him.

John made it out by then, opening up the gate into an adjoining paddock. He whistled and clicked his tongue in turn, beckoning them forward. Dean nudged Springsteen, the lead horse; once Springsteen started on, the other horses followed. Dean moved with them, making sure none of them got their own ideas, keeping an eye on Zeppelin who trusted Ringo beyond the rest.

Ahead, John held the gate and waved the horses in with his hat. “Go on. Get!”

Zeppelin, moving at the same slow trot as the others, came to a stop. While the other horses went ahead, he snorted, shook his head, then doubled back around Dean.

It was strange for him to part from Ringo, who he trusted to lead. A pulse of panic rose in Dean and he reached out for Zeppelin. “Hey,” he said, voice low and even-keeled. They were a few yards away from John, but Dean didn’t want to be heard. He needed Zepp to fly under the radar with John. If he thought he’d seen something or freaked out because of something he couldn’t see, it wouldn’t be easy to cover for him.

“You’re alright,” Dean said. “Let’s go into the other paddock. Nothing wrong there. Look, Ringo’s already ahead.” He rambled, hoping his voice would do something to calm Zeppelin. Cas said it would be up to Dean, when Zepp didn’t have the confidence in himself.

“Come on, buddy,” Dean whispered. Zeppelin huffed and stepped back again. “Don’t do this.”

“What’s wrong with your horse, Dean?” said John, striding over from the gate. “Get him on in.”

Zeppelin reacted again to that, rearing up by just a foot in warning. Dean shifted to Zepp’s side to be out of the way of his front hooves. Even if Zeppelin never meant harm to Dean, he was only a scared animal.

“What’s got into him?”

Zeppelin snorted again, then whinnied. It was a different whinny than the one he used with his pasture mates. It was the call Zepp used for Dean. Asking for him, trying to speak to him. Dean followed the line of Zepp’s attention only to find himself looking at John.

“Stop there, Dad,” said Dean.

John stopped, but he wore an expression like Dean better have a damn good explanation for giving orders.

Dean came closer to Zeppelin again, stroking his neck. Zeppelin huffed, still on alert, but he didn’t mind Dean’s touch. He didn’t panic at Dean’s voice.

“He’s scared of you,” said Dean.

“That’s ridiculous—”

As soon as John spoke, Zeppelin recoiled again, turning himself away from John, pacing a few steps away, but then magnetically drawn back to Dean. Like he couldn’t leave Dean behind. Dean hushed Zeppelin and tried to pet his neck again. Zeppelin’s skin shivered like he was shaking off flies.

“It isn’t,” said Dean, voice throaty. Zeppelin overlapped with him, nearly cheek to cheek with Zepp’s head over his shoulder, staying as close as possible to Dean.

Dean brought a hand under Zepp’s chin to stroke his cheek, knowing John couldn’t get closer to him when he said, “He thinks you’ll hurt us.”

John turned from them, shoving his hat back on his head and pacing away. “Oh for the love of…”

Zeppelin stomped his feet again, but he didn’t leave Dean. That was something else Cas said. When a horse lost one sense, it would depend more on others. The sound of John’s voice was enough to make Zeppelin anxious.

It was galvanizing to have someone on his side.

“I’ll bring him into the paddock,” said Dean. “Just stay there and don’t say anything.”

John kept his back to them, hands on his hips, but he bit his tongue. For all his faults, John didn’t fool around where horses were concerned.

Zeppelin, who wanted nothing to do with the original plan, wouldn’t easily be coaxed into the paddock without a rope, and Dean didn’t want to take the time to get his halter. So he did the best thing he could think of. He hopped onto Zeppelin bareback, pressed his knees against his sides and said, “Get along,” in a low voice. Zeppelin walked at a slow, proud pace past John’s turned back and into the paddock. From his seat, Dean pet the horse a few more times, then slid down from his back.

He closed the gate after himself and rejoined John.

“Zepp might not let you get close for a while,” said Dean. It was an effort to keep the pleasure from his voice, ironically aided by the subdued soreness in his throat. The less Zepp and John had to do with each other, the less likely John would catch onto Zeppelin’s failing sight. And there was a vicious feeling of victory in it, too. Dean couldn’t spurn John; John wouldn’t put up with Dean bearing him a grudge or acting petulant. But the horse was beyond his control, and if Zeppelin didn’t trust John, John wasn’t the person who could force him to.

“Only your horse would get notions,” said John, already walking away to the truck.

He didn’t need to give Dean further orders. Dean followed ten paces behind.

John drove the truck along the edge of the pasture while Dean followed on the four-wheeler, trailer rattling behind him as he drove down the field to reach the fence.

It was wise to do the work today. They’d had dry weather lately, which was good for putting in new posts. That forecasted heat wave seemed like a far-away idea when today a breeze kept things comfortable.

These external conditions didn’t improve Dean’s mood. The last place he wanted to be today was out here mending fences with John. It was close work and demanded cooperation. He knew the job and spoke barely at all: only the bare minimum of communication when they heaved an old post out of the ground and into the back of the truck or measured out where to place a new post hole.

Dean’s diffidence telegraphed clearly, even as they worked in concert. He obediently followed every order, careful to do everything properly and take no shortcuts. He gave John nothing to rail at, but wouldn’t look him in the eye or say more than he had to.

John caught his breath again after setting a pole, using a level to check that it was straight. Although it wasn’t sweltering today, the sun was climbing and the tough work left them both sweating. Dean took off his work gloves to get some air on his skin again and turned toward the truck in search of water.

“Come on, Dean,” said John, exhaling the words wearily. “Enough of this. You aren’t scared of me too, are you?”

Dean lifted his chin and looked ahead towards the house, tiny in the distance, his back still turned to John. There was a right and a wrong answer to that question.

“Dunno,” he said at last. “Are you still mad at me?”

“Gettin’ a little tired of this act,” said John. “But I said all I needed to yesterday.”

Dean swallowed around the pressure that lingered in his throat. He woke up that morning with bruises from where John’s thumb and fingers pressed into his skin. He didn’t always bruise. He rubbed a cream onto the dark spots in the hopes they’d disappear quickly.

John wasn’t angry though. That was something to hold onto. If what he said was true, if it had all come out yesterday, then today there would be some latitude. Perhaps he could try to explain himself now.

Dean’s voice caught as he said, “I’m sorry about picking up Sam. I was just— I didn’t want him to be disappointed. I told him I’d be there.”

“Yeah? Well,” said John, “he told us he’d be home three different times. Changing plans on a dime didn’t bother him any.”

Dean’s head bowed because it was true and he didn’t want it to be. That John might be right, that John might be able to provide a reason for what seemed like a petty, last-minute notion, weakened Dean’s certainty in acting against orders.

Dean could’ve booked him a bus ticket. The end result would be the same: Sam home. Just later.

Just lonelier. That was the part Dean hadn’t been able to stand.

“I love Sam, but that boy’s spoiled himself,” said John. “He thinks he gets to have his cake and eat it too. I was never raised like that. I didn’t intend to raise you boys that way.”

Dean didn’t hear half of what John said. He was too caught up in the first piece. He looked over his shoulder to be sure this was real and not another dream.

John said he loved Sam. Dean couldn’t remember the last time John said those words about anyone but his dead wife.

He wished he’d been paying better attention, the last time John said it to Dean, because Dean no longer knew when it was. He wished someone would’ve told him then that he’d never hear it again. He’d have held onto the moment as tightly as he could.

Maybe John would never say that word so easily to Sam’s face. Maybe when he talked with other people he said, ‘I love my sons.’ Maybe he even said, ‘I love Dean’ to somebody in the same casual way, followed by a damning caveat.

It pulled Dean apart. The muscles of his neck throbbed and he tasted something raw, just shy of blood or tears, at the back of his throat. Despite the bruises on his skin he wanted to do something so that John would love him again.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said again, his eyes meeting John’s this time.

John looked at him for a heavy moment, then came around the post and closed the distance between them. His energy shifted down into that fatherly, sage tone that Dean always wished would last. His gait was as calm as someone approaching a spooked horse.

“I know I’m hard on you sometimes, Dean,” he said. “And sometimes it seems like I’m asking a lot. But you’re a man now. One day you might even manage this farm. You’re not just my kid anymore, you’re like a business partner. And I’ve gotta be able to trust you. You understand that?”

Dean nodded his head. He didn’t feel much like a business partner. He felt younger than his age, like he was five again and being spanked for having done something dangerous. Dean didn’t remember what the crime was—nearly falling through a feed hole or getting too close to some machinery or underfoot of a horse—only that John had an explanation then, too. He’d been so scared for Dean, scared he’d lose him, and that was what Dean had to understand.

He’d loved Dean then. Dean was sure of that, at least. And this trust John spoke of now, it wasn’t a word he used lightly. He wouldn’t say it if it didn’t signify.

“I understand,” he said, even if his voice wasn’t as strong as he wanted. “You can count on me.”

“You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, most of the time,” said John. “And your sense about horses is something else. I want us to be a good team. Alright?”

Dean nodded once more. “Yes, sir,” he said.

John flashed a smile and clapped his hand down on Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s body gave an involuntary jerk before he could check his reaction.

John’s hand tightened on Dean’s shoulder. There was no chance he hadn’t noticed. “Don’t flinch from me, Dean,” he said evenly.

“I didn’t,” Dean said, too fast. He closed his eyes and gave a faint shake of his head, ignoring the memory of cracking bone. “I won’t,” he corrected.

Another split-second smile, this time counterfeited, and John patted Dean’s shoulder twice. “Glad we talked,” he said.

Chapter Text

The dream of my life
Is to lie down by a slow river
And stare at the light in the trees—
To learn something by being nothing
— Mary Oliver, “Entering the Kingdom”

Monday morning Sam got calls from the grocery store and the hardware store, both offering a job with no interview needed. Dean wished Sam would take the hardware store because John would kick up less of a fuss at that one: it would spare Sam the jokes about using his fancy education to be a bag boy. As far as jobs off the farm ranked, the hardware store was respectable and a useful learning experience. That was to say, it was more masculine and therefore less shameful to work at.

Dean didn’t dispirit Sam by spelling this out for him. When Sam opted for the grocery store on the basis of offering more hours, Dean only asked once, “You sure?” But Sam was decided.

The grocery store would be welcomely cool, though, which was a bonus as the day set in hot and thick. Dean kept the truck’s windows open for some air as he brought Sam into town for his first training shift. He wouldn’t have minded stepping in for some of that A/C, but Sam begged Dean to “stay in the truck” and not do his “Mr. Popularity routine.”

Dean snorted a laugh. Sam had no idea. Dean was no Prom King among his peers or any kind of local hero. Of course Dean was friendly with people at the grocery store. He saw them every week and they were the custodians of food. They were allies who gave Dean a heads-up on what was coming on sale or the day’s best bread from the bakery.

He’d be back for Sam in five hours. In the meantime, he’d drive himself over to Bobby’s and see if he couldn’t earn a few bucks himself.

Dean wasn’t jealous of Sam for making money, that wasn’t the right word, but it made him think about things. Bobby always told Dean he’d have work for him if he wanted it, and Dean took him up on the occasional afternoon. Over the years, just as Karen had with cooking, Bobby taught Dean more than a few things about working on cars and big machinery. When it came to things that he could do with his hands, Dean was a quick study.

Bobby had no trouble passing off a job to Dean. He gave Dean the vehicle he’d been working on, a Pontiac Sunbird with a few major parts to install, reclaimed from another car on the expansive lot. Trusting the work in Dean’s hands, Bobby took himself off to the big equipment shed for a thornier tractor issue.

Dean worked under the metal shades of the open-air lean-to. Even in the cross-breeze of two fans, sweat dripped from his forehead and down the bridge of his nose. His hair darkened with it, and more than once he dragged his forearm across his forehead. The ground smelled as much of motor oil and dirt as he did. When he finished up with the car he went inside to rehydrate and came back out with a glass of water for Bobby in hand. In this heat, it was good to check up on one another.

“Take a break, old man,” Dean hollered into the shed, voice echoing.

Bobby swore at something, cranked at the tractor, then swore again. He ducked out from below, rubbing his hands over his coveralls, and took the cup of water from Dean.

“I don’t need minding,” he said. He took a first sip of water, then drank back the rest in one go. Dean lifted his eyebrows.

“Someone thirsty?” he said. “You’ve been in here a while. I finished with the car.”

“Already?” Bobby glanced up at the dusty clock in the shed and made a considering sound. “Well, if you’ve still got time before picking up Sam, there’s something I wanted to show you.”

“What is it?” Dean asked.

“That would ruin the surprise, wouldn’t it?” said Bobby, setting down his cup and leading the way out.

Dean followed him into the lot, sun baking down on them and reflecting off the dirt. It might as well have been a desert out here. Already he wanted another glass of water to drink. Heat expanded the distance between rows of cars, until they came to a long disused shed. In the grassy shade beside it sat a dusty car, once black. Its front end was a mess, having collided with something pretty serious.

“Had this dropped off like an unwanted cat,” said Bobby. “A ‘67 Chevy Impala. I didn’t want any trouble so I tracked down the vehicle registration and got the owner, Sal. He didn’t want money for it or nothing and had no interest in repairs, even though it’s got a lot of good left in there. What do you think?”

Dean studied the car a little, not sure why Bobby asked his opinion. He came closer to lift the hood on a stiff hinge, looking underneath. There was a good amount to replace or repair, but these cars were way more solid than modern ones. He’d always admired classic cars.

“The front bumper bar is in a bad way,” said Dean, “but if that’s the only part of the frame that needs replaced… You gonna repair it or keep it for parts?” The original owner didn’t want it back, but maybe Bobby intended to make it driveable again and sell it. Only question being whether it was worth the labour in the first place.

“Well, I had this idea,” said Bobby. “That maybe if you wanted to fix it up and find the parts it needs, you could keep it when you’re done.”

Dean straightened up from looking under the hood, alert. “You’d give me a car?”

“It’s barely mine to begin with,” said Bobby. “Don’t get worked up. You might be cursing me out if repairs are worse than they look. And they don’t look that good to start.”

Dean studied the car again. He might be able to straighten out that hood. He could get a new radiator pretty easily. But not everything that needed replaced would come cheap.

She was a beautiful car. He walked around the side, looking through the cracked driver’s side window. He wiped a hand over the roof to look at the gleaming black underneath.

It was funny. When he picked Zeppelin out from the foals to be his horse, he’d deliberated over the choice for a solid week. He’d agonised over the decision until he almost came to the conclusion he shouldn’t have a horse at all, because he was too worked up and it meant too much to him. But in some ways, he’d known all along which foal he was going to choose. And when he said out loud that Zeppelin would be his, the certainty he’d resisted overwhelmed him. From the moment it was spoken out to the world, he was Zepp’s and Zepp was his. Nothing had been more right or true.

The same thing happened now when Dean said, “Yeah, I want it. I’ll do the repairs.” He’d get her up and running again, gorgeous and powerful and at peak performance.




Dean took his shirt off to work in the heat, investigating under the Impala’s hood and making a list of the parts he’d need to replace and the ones he could repair. He rubbed his hands on his jeans again before picking up the pen and making another note in his dusty spiral notebook. He’d sent Bobby back inside to cool off and take a break from work. It was no good to be out for long in this heat.

The sound of a heavy motor wove through the air, first at some distance, then gradually increasing. At first Dean thought Bobby slipped past him and got to working on something out in the shed, until a motorbike pulled up at the lean-to where Dean worked.

Dean glanced over his shoulder, still hunched forward over the Impala’s engine with his arms braced on the hood.

He knew who the rider was before he even cut his engine, one black boot on the ground bracing the stopped bike.

Cas.

Dean straightened up slowly.

Cas removed his helmet, flecks of sweat flung from his hair and catching in the sun. It was no kind of day to be decked out in extra gear, and Cas had forgone the leather jacket for a denim vest with torn sleeves instead. Even then, the armpits of the pale t-shirt underneath were marked with sweat.

Cas set his helmet on his lap, one arm resting over it, still straddling his bike. “Dean,” he said. He wet his lips, eyes flicking over Dean once. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Dean picked up a rag to clean his hands as he moved away from the car, closer to Cas. “I help Bobby out sometimes,” he said. “Didn’t expect to see you either.”

“I need to replace my exhaust,” said Cas. “Bobby told me the part came in.”

“Yeah, I could sorta tell,” said Dean. The bike hadn’t been that loud the last few times Cas drove it.

The last time he’d seen Cas had been the Fourth of July party. Sometimes Dean thought about him so much he was convinced there had been something in between. Like Cas had actually visited in at least one of those times Dean was thinking about him since the party.

It was just three days ago. A century since he’d seen Cas. And no time at all.

Dean had been weird then, acting without explanation. He still didn’t know how to explain himself to Cas. Nor, looking at him now, could he entirely forget the strange dream he had.

It was just a dream and it hadn’t meant anything, but he held the irrational worry that Cas would see it just by looking at him. He might have the power of mind-reading, and Dean didn’t know how to go about explaining how his imagination simply got the wires crossed.

Bobby’s front door creaked open, then swung sharply closed.

“Heard you coming in,” said Bobby. “I can get that bike done in a jiff. All checked-in at the reception desk?” He gave a nod at Dean.

Cas finally stood and propped his bike up on its kickstand. “Thanks,” he said. “It’s not a bad time?”

“Could use the change of scene anyhow,” said Bobby. “I don’t have much for a lobby, but there’s a lawn chair in the shade over there.”

“I was gonna go down to the river,” said Dean, looking between Cas and Bobby. “Get out of the heat for a bit. You want to come?”

“Sure,” said Cas. He looked at Bobby. “If that’s not a problem.”

“Hell, I don’t mind,” said Bobby. “Gets both of you out of my hair.”

A ripple of pleasure passed through Dean. He’d get to go to the river with Cas. It came with such ease, the informal spontaneity of it. Frictionless. It was such a relief after all the recent days to get something he wanted with no resistance, no apology.

“We’ll be back before long, Bobby,” Dean said. He started them off, turning around to behind the house, away from the car lot. “It’s this way, through the bush,” he said.

He started out ahead by a few steps, but Cas caught up quickly to match his stride. They didn’t speak as they crossed the dirt and burnt-out grass, the heat of the sun magnifying every moment. Dean stepped just ahead of Cas into the shade of the trees, but today even the forest didn’t provide much relief. The air remained thick and hot. The trees clicked with insects, and far in the distance the rising sweep of cicadas sounded like humming powerlines.

Cas didn’t say much, and neither did Dean beyond his directional cues. “Down here,” and “Watch for that root.”

Still, Dean felt Cas’ eyes on him, precipitating something. They were halfway down the path before it broke over.

“The last time we talked,” said Cas, voice deep and uncertain as he found the words, “you seemed upset.”

“We don’t have to talk about that, Cas,” said Dean, trying to remain more invested in picking his way down the path towards the river.

Cas frowned, following for a few more steps, then stopping. “Why?” he asked.

Dean looked over his shoulder, hoping Cas wasn’t serious. He slowed to a stop as well and turned. “Because it’s not important,” said Dean.

“But you were—” Cas shook his head, looking away for a moment and seemingly at a loss. He said again, “Upset.”

“I was in a weird mood,” said Dean. “Can we just drop it? There won’t be any repeat performances, okay?”

The furrow in Cas’ frown deepened, and for a moment Dean feared that he would decide he’d had enough of Dean and would turn around and walk away.

Finally, still frowning, Cas looked down at the trail and took another step forward, ready to resume. Dean thought he was going to leave the conversation behind, until Cas said, “I’m not very good at talking about these things. Emotions. Personal problems.” He passed Dean, following the dirt trail on his own. “I didn’t like seeing you upset.”

Dean stared in wonder. He could’ve remained there for minutes, hours, trying to think of what that meant. He only started walking again so he wouldn’t lose sight of Cas or mishear if he spoke again.

“Sounds like I made you upset,” said Dean.

Cas shook his head. He stopped again and Dean had to catch himself before he got too close. This start-and-stop routine was leaving him unsteady and breathless, like he couldn’t get the ground under him. Cas turned to face him, his eyes making a careful study of Dean, but turning inscrutable as they landed on his face once more.

“There are things I want to tell you,” said Cas, “and questions I want to ask. But I’m never sure if I can.”

“What do you mean?” asked Dean.

“Sometimes I want to tell you about my family because I think you understand,” said Cas. “Other times… I’m just not sure.”

“You could tell me if you wanted,” said Dean. He wished Cas would say. He wanted so badly for Cas to trust him. “It wouldn’t change anything. You’d still be my friend, no matter what you said.”

Cas slowly nodded his head. “Right,” he said. He turned again. Started walking. “I don’t want to burden you. And like I said, talking isn’t my strength.”

There had been a test and Dean failed it. He was sure of it. He just didn’t know what he’d done wrong. Had he come on too strong? Had he seemed insincere?

Maybe he was supposed to offer something first. Maybe he needed to be the one to break open that levee, the one that would never close again. To find out if they shared anything, perhaps it was on Dean to say, my dad beats the shit out of me and has since I can remember.

Dean couldn’t make the words rise to his bruised throat. Here was the difference between them: Cas had left all that behind, while Dean still lived with John. If Dean said something aloud and had guessed wrong about Cas’ private history, the consequences could be severe. Cas might overreact. He might want to do something about it. Dean wasn’t ready for someone to know if they didn’t already understand.

He wished Cas would just say something first. His family were strangers to Dean. Cas split ways with them long ago. Who would he harm by confiding in Dean?

Cas stopped at a rise above the river. It flowed wide here, deep enough at its centre that Dean had never reached the bottom. It wasn’t water you’d drink, but it was clean and refreshing all the same. Sun glittered off the surface, a layer that looked like rippled glass before the water darkened to a hazy green-brown.

“Come on,” said Dean, bumping Cas with his elbow as he took a smaller trail down to a patch of green clover by the riverside. “Let’s swim.”

Dean swam in this river often, either here where it wove through the shade or at home near the open pastures. Sometimes he wore a proper bathing suit, but often he stripped down to his boxers. Sometimes less, when he knew he was on his own. Today he kicked off his shoes and socks and left his jeans with his t-shirt in a haphazard pile. His grey boxers stayed on.

He wouldn’t think about swimming in less than this or how the water caressed him differently without clothes.

He moved fast, like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve. He didn’t look back to see if Cas was following suit. He raced a few steps to take off at a jump and see how far he could launch himself into the river.

The water enveloped him, cool and green. It swept the heat from his body, washed away the grease and sweat. The freshness of the water took away all the tension and apprehension of just moments before. Dean surfaced feeling weightless and wondering why he hadn’t done this before.

He turned to face the river bank, dipping low so that the water covered his chin, his mouth. His eyes, nose, and freckles remained above. At the river’s edge, Cas pulled his loose t-shirt by the back of the neck and left it heaped on top of his denim vest. He took off his black jeans, left in wine-purple boxer-briefs. Dean dipped lower and turned away, glimpsing Cas’ jump from the corner of his eye. His body cut into the water several feet away from Dean and Dean stopped up short, treading in his spot. He smiled when Cas came up from under the water.

“Great, isn’t it?” said Dean.

Cas shook wet hair out of his face. He opened his eyes as he started to lean backwards, arms out to drift through the water on his back. “It’s perfect,” he said. He manoeuvred himself nearer to Dean, then arced around him. Dean rotated in his spot, not letting Cas out of his sight.

“Day like this one, the river’s better here than at home,” said Dean. “There’s no shade there.”

“The privacy’s nice,” said Cas, eyes flicking around treetops that edged the river. A swathe of sky cut in the same pattern as the river was a high, pale blue. Only songbirds for company beyond themselves.

Dean ducked under the water again only so that he could swim under Cas’ body and resurface on the other side of him, water slicking the hair back from his face. Rounded droplets scattered with his freckles across Dean’s face, across his shoulders and collarbones. Cas shifted upright again, head tipping.

“Does the water feel good for your arm?” he asked, gaze flicking down to it.

Dean gave a small nod of his head. “Really good, actually,” he said. “Takes some of the pressure off.” It was true, but he also wanted to quell any further conversation about it. He worried Cas would glide closer through the water and slide his hands over Dean’s arm, renewing that guided physical therapy. Dean wasn’t in a state of mind that could handle that.

It didn’t feel safe to do it anymore anyway. Dean was stronger and could follow exercises on his own. If anyone witnessed it, they might think it looked peculiar. They might read it the wrong way. Besides that, Dean couldn’t stand to be reminded of that unwarranted dream he had.

Cas, careless of Dean’s wish for distance, came closer. “You have motor oil on you,” he said. He gestured to his own forehead. “Up here,” he said.

Where Dean had been rubbing sweat away with his arm. He lifted a hand to swipe against the spot, feeling it smear more.

“And here,” said Cas, pointing to a place on his own throat, in the shadow of his jaw.

A smudge of black, yellow at the edges. All that hadn’t faded. Dean barely noticed it this morning.

“I’m covered in it, I bet,” said Dean. Discovering only as he spoke that he would lie and lie and lie again. The opportunity to give a real answer rose and passed away like a wave that didn’t break. “Need some grit to get it away.”

Dean sank a little lower in the water, letting it once more cover his chin, his lips. He looked at Cas for a moment, then swam away from him.

It turned quickly into a game. Cas caught up, splashed water at Dean, and Dean splashed back. They stayed in the river like that until their fingers pruned, then retreated to the bank to dry off. Dean climbed out of the water inelegantly through the soupy mud at the edge, water dripping from his body and the fabric of his boxers.

He turned and offered a hand down to Cas, helping to pull him up the steep part of the bank. Reaching like this, their bodies pulling close together as Cas made it up to the grass, he was aware of Cas being stronger than he looked with clothes on. Dean quickly let his grip fall from Cas.

He collapsed next to his clothes on the bed of clover, then turned over to lay on his stomach. He folded his arms and closed his eyes, cheek pillowed on his arms. He heard Cas stretch out beside him. He kept his eyes shut and tried to guess how close they were. The breadth of a single head of clover? Just one thin, green line snaking between their bodies? No. He heard the sound of Cas’ breath, the sound of Cas stretching up an arm to rustle out his wet hair. A foot of space. Was that too little? A body’s worth of space. That would be correct. The acceptable minimum.

Dean cracked open one eye, brief enough to say he didn’t. Cas lay on his back, one arm still raised up with his hand lost in his wet hair. The dark patch of his armpit was as black and damp. Lines of muscle ran up from it, the elegant conjunction of limber arm and torso, the origin of one sinuous pattern.

A foot of space. That was all.

He shifted further into his arms, body realigning against the ground.

He didn’t know he nodded off until Cas reached out a hand to his elbow and stirred him awake.

“You looked so peaceful,” Cas said, damp hair tousled above his forehead, still clustered with water and faintly curled. “I hate to wake you. But I need to get back.”

Dean heard this while still catching up to reality, a waking dreamer who’d come to in a world far apart from the one he typically resided in. Waking up to such tender words was a first for him.

He made a sighing sound, stretching out his body against the ground. Cas, already dressed, had turned away by the time Dean looked up at him again.

Chapter Text

I must change my life so that I can live it, not wait for it.
— Susan Sontag, Reborn: Journals and Notebooks, 1947-1963

Dean settled into a new routine of taking Sam to work and picking him up again between chores. It wasn’t so bad—there was always something he could use in town. He’d pick up feed after dropping Sam off or sandwich in a grocery shop before the end of Sam’s shift and kill two birds with one stone that way. There was entertainment to be had as well: Dean always checked out at Sam’s till five minutes before his shift ended and gave him unsolicited pointers about bagging groceries until Sam turned red from biting his tongue at work.

It was the third day of the heatwave, although the radio said it would break overnight. Most of Dean’s work consisted of keeping the horses cool, any heavy labour or hard training for the horses paused for the moment. Dean dropped Sam off at work, then stopped in at the public library. The sweat on his forehead cooled in the merciful air conditioning.

Instead of browsing, he went straight to the desk. He’d requested a particular book, and it had come in quickly. A week ago, he’d called the toll-free number for his state’s GED testing information. After explaining his situation, he’d been told he likely wouldn’t need evening classes, but that it wouldn’t hurt him to make his way through a workbook and do some free practice tests.

The book the librarian ordered in for him was bigger and heavier than any of his school textbooks. The corners of its shiny green cover curled back with use.

There was something reassuring in knowing that he wasn’t the first person who needed this and wouldn’t be the last. He swept his thumb across the edge of the pages, flipping rapidly past an overwhelming number of subjects and test headings.

“Dean?”

Footsteps creaked the floor as Cas came down from a row of tall, wooden shelves.

Dean ran into people he knew all the time in town. He couldn’t run an errand without crossing paths with a neighbour or acquaintance. But usually he was safe at the library.

It was always different with Cas.

“Cas.” He sounded breathless when he said it, his heart in his throat. He cradled the heavy workbook in his left arm and now held it a little closer to himself, trying to hide the cover against his body. “Hey. Not working today?”

“Started early,” said Cas. He set his books down on the librarian’s desk, his card on top, giving her a faint nod of his head in greeting before looking back at Dean. “Finished an hour ago.”

Dean nodded. He could almost tell. Cas had that freshly-showered look, a little sharper and fresher than Dean was in the middle of a deadly hot day. He must’ve cleaned up after work.

“I get started early too,” Dean said. A fact Cas already knew. Dean licked his lips, glancing at the books Cas was getting. He only saw the cover of the top one. Giovanni’s Room. He hadn’t heard of it.

He couldn’t ask about it. Couldn’t risk Cas asking what Dean was checking out in turn. He already felt caught. He quickly added, “I was dropping Sam off at work.”

“Are you going anywhere now?” Cas asked.

Dean wanted to get out of the library. He just wanted to shove this book under a pile of junk in his truck and come back and restart this conversation. The librarian efficiently stamped Cas’ books and offered them back to a mild, “Thank you” from Cas.

“Uh,” said Dean. If he was wise, he’d just turn Cas down this time, stowing away with his workbook. Make a plan for another day. Somehow, he didn’t have it in him to say no to Cas. “Not really, I guess,” he said. “I didn’t have any plans.”

From the edge of his vision the librarian stood up to leave the desk, taking up a few items from a book cart in the crook of her arm to shelve. Dean wouldn’t be surprised if his abounding awkwardness repelled her from her place at the desk.

“Me neither,” said Cas, not particularly helpfully. “Besides, well, reading.” He picked up his small stack of books. “It feels like a long time since I read something for fun.”

“I’ve got lots of books I could give you,” said Dean. “If you’re looking for something. I swear they’re not all about horses.” He smiled, head bowing bashfully as he admitted, “Just most of ‘em.”

Cas’ smile was a rare, faint thing, but there was that look in his eyes that Dean sometimes won. That pensive and warm look of pleasure that made his eyes narrower. It looked like a hard-to-read expression, not something that could be neatly categorized, but actually Dean wondered if it was quite simple. Cas liked him.

“That would be nice,” Cas said. “What’s this book? It doesn’t look like fun.” He reached over with the same flagrant disregard for privacy he exhibited when exploring Dean’s bedroom. He put his hand on the cover to move it away from Dean’s body, and it was too late for Dean to pull back or resist.

Cas stopped when he saw the front of the book. They couldn’t have made the title’s font any larger: Complete GED Preparation. Dean sucked the inside of his bottom lip between his teeth. Finally said, “Yeah, not really a barrel of laughs.”

Cas’ gaze returned to explore Dean’s face, his expression intense and curious. Understanding now, too late, that Dean had not intended for Cas to know this.

It was just that Cas was the smartest guy Dean ever met. He graduated high school two years ahead of his peers. He was a goddam doctor. And sure, Dean never pretended to be as smart as him, but he’d been keeping up the ruse that he wasn’t a total bonehead. He couldn’t properly finish at eighteen what Cas had done so easily two years before.

“Do you want help studying?” Cas asked.

“What?”

“I could go through it with you. I’m sure there are practice questions. And it helps. To have someone to compare ideas and notes with.”

The feeling in Dean’s chest shifted from his fear of being rejected to something far more complicated. He looked away, trying to picture how it would even work. “I dunno,” he said. “I haven’t told anybody I’m taking the test. I don’t want to draw attention to it, you know? Dad and Sam would notice if you started coming over all the time to study.”

Cas nodded his head once. If that was the only barrier, he could eliminate it: “Then come to my place,” he said.

“Cas, no,” said Dean. “It would be so boring for you.”

“Dean, I want to help.”

Dean shook his head, unable to look at Cas, but Cas didn’t let it go this time. He tipped his head and narrowed his eyes at Dean. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “You don’t think you deserve to be—”

“You don’t know when to stop, do you?” said Dean.

“Not really, no,” said Cas.

Dean laughed, even though he didn’t want to. He tried to train away his smile, but it was too late. Cas won this round. “What am I supposed to do with you?” he asked. “Fine. If it’ll get you off my case. We can give it a try. But when you get sick of it, I’m gonna remind you I tried to put my foot down.”

“If that makes you happy,” said Cas. “Should we go?”

Dean felt a rush of surprise at that. “Now? Like, we’re starting now?”

Cas gave a shrug and a nod. Simple as that. He was very decisive about these things.

“Well. Okay,” said Dean. “Lead on.”

As they hit the heat on the sidewalk again Dean said, “Tell me you have air conditioning.”

“Yeah,” said Cas. “But it’s broken.”

“So, no.”

Cas shrugged and looked self-amused. “No, then,” he said.

Dean had dropped Cas off before, but he hadn’t done more than pull up to the curb outside the laundromat. Now he followed him down the alley beside the building to reach the back. It was strange to feel he knew this small town so well—one street of shops with no stoplights—and yet here was a spot he hadn’t even known to look for. They rounded the building to reach a metal staircase affixed to the back. Cas’ motorbike leaned in an alcove underneath the stairs against the back of the building.

There were a few potted plants around the landing at the top—all green things, nothing flowering—and a tiny round table with a rickety folding chair indicated Cas spent at least some time out here, but spent it alone. Cas opened the screen door first, but paused as he started unlocking the door. (A locked door. He really had been city-bred.)

“Would you like some iced tea?” he asked.

Dean shrugged, unsure about why the question warranted stopping at the door. “Uh, sure,” he said.

Cas reached over to a plant that climbed out of its pot and up the surrounding railing and pulled away a few leafy stems. Dean caught the scent of fresh mint.

Cas opened the door to a tiny apartment. The room they entered had a lumpy futon along one wall, set in its upright position as a couch. There was enough room to walk around the coffee table in front of it to reach the world’s tiniest dining table, half-cluttered with newspapers and mail. At the back was the kitchen, where Dean suspected you could only just open the oven door without hitting the wall. He saw only two rooms opening off—a bathroom and a bedroom—as well as a small storage closet with an overly-lacquered bi-fold door.

“Cozy,” said Dean, looking around. He didn’t mind it, really. It wasn’t much, but it worked for one person. It had good natural light. There was a comfy armchair in the corner under the window nearest the door, the end table marked with a few coffee rings. That was probably where Cas would sit and read his library books. It was easy to imagine the life that Cas had here.

“You mean small,” said Cas, like he was offering a correction. He looked around himself. “Maybe. It’s bigger than any of my old dorms.”

“I wasn’t saying it was bad,” said Dean, moving further inside with slow steps. Cas made for the kitchen, rinsing off his freshly plucked mint. “It’s kind of cool. You’re on your own.”

Cas looked over, stopping with the mint still dripping over the sink. The daylight in that narrow space—surrounded by the white cupboards, white fixtures—lit him up so much Dean could see the blue of his iris from across the room. He became abundantly clear, vividly framed, and Dean felt like he was seeing him for the first time all over again. He was only twenty-two with the still-ripening build of a young man, but his eyes held infinities.

“I’ve been on my own a long time, Dean,” he said.

Dean set down the GED workbook on the futon and came closer, stopping at the edge of the kitchen just before carpet became tile. He rested his hands on the side of the oven, his shoulder leaning against the upper cupboards. He bit his lower lip, then set it free.

“Me, never,” said Dean. He said it with the same gravity, wanting Cas to understand. That whatever Dean said it wasn’t to shame Cas or to pigeonhole him. It was only ever envy, admiration.

“I don’t know how I’d handle it,” Dean went on. “You’re pretty much the most impressive person I know.”

Cas couldn’t hold Dean’s gaze. His eyes dropped to the mint in his hands. His mouth parted, the first breath of something about to be said, then caught before it could pass his tongue. He closed his lips tightly again and turned his face upwards, giving Dean a perfect profile of his sharply cut jaw, the delineation of his Adam’s apple under the crosshatch of stubble patterned partway down his throat.

“Well,” he said, and he opened a cupboard. “Don’t prepare to be impressed by my iced tea.” He pulled down a cardboard canister. “It’s a powder. The mint almost makes it taste real.”

Dean smiled wide and tipped his forehead against the cupboard beside him. “I’m not complaining about anything if it comes with ice,” he said. It was warm in here. Warmer than out on the street, surely.

Cas stirred together water and powder in two tall glasses, added the mint leaves with their stalks, cracked ice out of a tray in the freezer. Dean dragged his eyes away from Cas to look around the apartment. It was furnished, but not decorated.

“Thought I’d see that picture I drew you hanging,” said Dean. “Way you went on about it.”

Cas hummed. “It’s still in a box. I haven’t really unpacked everything.”

“Why not?”

Cas looked up from the iced tea only to raise his eyes sightlessly to his cupboards, doing mental math. “I suppose it’s been longer than I think,” he said. “It feels like I got here yesterday. I guess I don’t feel… settled.”

“You’re staying, aren’t you?” said Dean. It was an important question. Cas had to know how important.

“Honestly, I don’t know,” said Cas. He lowered his gaze to Dean again. “Right now, there’s extra work. Benton’s practice needs a second vet. But people ask me if he’s scaling back or getting ready to retire, and he really isn’t. I may need…” He glanced away. “I may need to keep my options open.”

Dean heard it like a condemnation. Like he’d done something wrong that was keeping Cas from staying. He wanted to say something, preferably to reassure Cas that there’d be plenty of work and that he should unpack and decorate and nest in this place for good.

“Do you even want to stay?” Dean asked. He didn’t intend to be mean, but it came from him like an accusation.

Cas eyed Dean carefully. “I didn’t know what to expect when I came back here. But,” he said, “I bought a bed. It’s a step up. I used to sleep on that thing.” He gave a nod of his head to the green futon. “Which feels more… settled than not.” He passed a glass of iced tea to Dean. “More than anything I’m used to, at any rate,” he said.

It was as much of an answer as Dean was going to get. He knew better than to try to ask again. He’d only sound pushy. He’d start a useless fight in search of the one answer he wanted. Still, it bubbled under him; the urge to say something just to get a reaction.

“Should we get to work?” said Cas.

“Yeah,” said Dean. Cas was doing him a favour. He deserved better than what might come out of the miserable spiral in Dean’s mind. “Let’s do that.”

They set up kitty-corner to each other. Cas sat on the floor next to the coffee table, bent over a notebook, while Dean sat cross-legged on the futon with the GED workbook open in his lap. A table fan oscillated between them, stirring up Cas’ hair, then rustling the pages of the workbook under Dean’s hands.

They didn’t even go further than the index to start; Cas had a methodical strategy of identifying and starting with the subjects Dean was least confident in.

It was a good practice, really. Just laying it out in stages made the 900-page book less overwhelming. There were more concepts he had a basic level of competence at than he’d given himself credit for. When the woman on the hotline said that he’d only need to brush up, he hadn’t quite believed her. He wouldn’t have known where to start from. But Cas cut away the excess quickly.

Cas shook his head as he wrote out their plan of attack in a spiral-bound notebook. “Dean, you were so close to getting there. You only need a few weeks, just to learn what’s on the tests. You could probably write them today and pass.”

“Easy for someone like you to say,” said Dean.

“I don’t understand,” said Cas. “What got in your way?”

Dean leaned further back into the futon, slumping into its lumpy cushion. Cas asked a simple question. Dean had answers at hand that were perfectly true. He broke his arm. He missed his exams.

But that wasn’t the whole picture. He could’ve asked for extensions, accommodations. He could’ve turned up despite the pain medications. But John said there was no point. And Dean had been doing poorly in school long before he broke his arm.

If he was needed for something on the farm, he’d miss class. If John was too drunk or hungover to do his work, Dean would stay up later or get up earlier to cover for him, then show up to school too tired to learn. If he had visible bruises he couldn’t explain away, he’d skip school until he looked better so that no one asked questions. Let them think he simply didn’t care.

He couldn’t say any of this in so many words.

He said, “I don’t think I was very happy.”

He swallowed hard around the heat that rose in his throat.

“Are you now?” Cas asked.

Dean didn’t want a repeat of that moment in Missouri’s garden. He’d lost too much control of himself. He had to shed this maudlin attitude. No one wanted him around if he was a wearisome sad sack. He had to pull himself up by his bootstraps.

His eyes darted and he forced a wisp of a smile. “I’ll be happy if I get this diploma,” he said, nodding at the book. “How’s that?”

Cas tipped his head, unsure if that answer suited him.

“I had a lot going on all at once in May,” said Dean. “And then. I dunno. Around the time you came back, I started wondering about what I wanted. What I could change.” There was truth in that. There was a reason he phoned the hotline, ordered the book in. Getting caught up in misery could be easy sometimes—tempting, even. But that wasn’t all there was to him. “I’m doing this, you know? So that’s something.”

“It is,” said Cas. “It’s a big thing. And you’ll get the diploma, Dean.”

“Well, I’ve got the smartest guy on the planet helping me,” said Dean.

“Not the planet,” said Cas, taking a sip from his iced tea, paler with the melted ice than it had been to start.

“In the town?”

“I test well,” said Cas, dismissing the compliment. “I didn’t always. It’s a skill.”

“Then it sounds like you’re the guy I need,” said Dean.

Cas spilled some of the iced tea he sipped onto his shirt. The ice must’ve shifted unexpectedly in his glass. Cas dragged his palm across his chin to wipe it away.

“Sure,” he said, briskly wiping a hand over the damp spots on his shirt. “I could be that.”

Chapter Text

And if love is, what thing and which is he?
If love be good, from whennes cometh my woo?
If it be wikke, a wonder thynketh me,
When every torment and adversite
That cometh of hym, may to me savory thinke,
For ay thurst I, the more that ich it drynke.
— Petrarch, “If no love is, O God, what fele I so?” (trans. Geoffrey Chaucer)

The Hearts & Spurs Stampede launched with fireworks and fanfare on Friday night. It was one of the state’s biggest rodeo events, taking place in a small city just an hour’s drive from the ranch. Before his injury, Dean might’ve found himself registering for the rodeo, participating in the first rounds of slack events on Thursday and Friday to compete for his own championship buckle. Instead, Jo and Dean set out first thing Saturday morning to catch as many of the big day’s events as they could.

Parking spots were already lean, and as they drove in they eyed up horses being walked out of trailers, looking for animals or riders they knew. In the line-up for day admissions, Dean flipped over a copy of the programme, conferring with Jo on what they wanted to see, what they might split up for. Jo didn’t care for the vintage tractor pull, and Dean didn’t need to see any of the musical acts when there were other exhibitions to visit.

Wristbands paid for, they entered into a large arena hall filled with vendors. Dean smelled food from more than one stall. John had granted him spending money for the day and the first thing Dean did was buy a paper bag of sugary, greasy mini-doughnuts to share with Jo. They had half an hour until the first event, but it wasn’t a hard place to kill time. They weaved through stands full of cowboy hats and Western apparel, overpriced knick-knacks and souvenirs. Dean recognised numerous faces from school and even more from past competitions and 4-H shows.

“You actually gonna buy anything or just eat your way through the food stands?” Jo asked, popping another doughnut in her mouth.

Dean only half-caught what she said, head craning around. “Hm?” he said. “Oh. Yeah. Probably just eat.” His eyes flicked past her again, trailing over the crowd.

“You looking for someone?” she asked.

“Nah,” Dean said quickly. Then, “Well, Cas said he’d be here. He’s an on-site vet all day.”

“He’s probably already at the arena,” said Jo. “With the animals.”

Dean nodded like he already knew that and was indifferent to it. It made sense, of course.

He just wanted to see Cas and maybe offer him a doughnut. There were two left in the bag.

“Wish I was there,” said Dean. “I mean, wouldn’t it be cool to see everything behind the scenes at something as big as this?”

“You can see them if you’re competing,” said Jo.

“Well that’s not gonna be me,” said Dean.

“Why not? Your arm seems better. You should’ve entered.”

Dean shook his head. He shoved the bag of doughnuts towards her so that they could finish them off. “I know it was two months ago, but it seems like everyone but me’s forgotten.” He and Cas, at least. For the past week and a half he’d been visiting Cas regularly to study from his GED prep book, a meeting he always looked forward to. The last time, Cas had an update for Dean’s regime of exercises from that physiotherapist friend. These were all independent, and for a few days Dean hadn’t bothered, until the stiffness in his arm became too much of an ache to ignore.

“I can’t even think of cattle roping or anything like that,” said Dean. “But honestly, Jo, I don’t mind. I was gonna quit anyway.”

“You were gonna quit?” said Jo. “You’re— I hate that you’re making me say this, but you’re the best rider I know.”

Dean smiled, head bowing, knowing what it cost her. “It’s not like I’m quitting horses,” he said. “Just audiences. Someone needs me for a round-up? I’m there. Training a horse for somebody else? Sure, I’d take some pride in it. But the rest of it… The idea of it… Just makes me want to run away.”

Jo didn’t say anything, looking at him as they walked and really taking him in. He didn’t know what made him so confessional with her today. He hadn’t said this much in so many words before. He hadn’t thought she’d care to listen, thinking she’d roll her eyes at him for these notions he couldn’t even fully put to words.

“What changed?” she asked.

Dean crumpled up the greasy paper bag to throw away as they neared a trash bin. He didn’t know if he could tell her about Zeppelin yet. She’d help him keep John from knowing, but now that Zepp was antsy around John the chances of flying under the radar about his vision had already improved.

“I made up my mind a while ago, actually,” said Dean. “Before the break. I guess I just feel better about saying it out loud, now. I don’t miss it.”

“That’s where we’re opposites,” said Jo, sighing. “If I was going to run away, it would be to actually do this for a living. Show up at rodeos and beat everyone’s asses.”

Dean laughed, looping an arm over her shoulders and giving them a jostle as they walked. “Atta girl,” he said.

Dean and Jo found good seats in the stands to watch from. Hearts & Spurs drew a bigger crowd than many of the other local rodeos. This wasn’t some small competition where they could just perch up on a fence and watch from nearby, cheering for or heckling people they knew.

Dean said he wasn’t interested in taking part in events anymore, but he couldn’t help the bitter feeling that rose in him seeing Eldon Styne take the tie-down roping prize. Eldon was the only guy that came close to Dean in their years of competition, whether in racing, jumping, or rodeo events. Even though he was now competing with adults instead of the under-18 crowd, with Dean out of the way, Eldon had a shot at a rodeo buckle.

He rode a 3-year-old thoroughbred named Percy, a fast and fiery young horse with a beautiful grey coat. Quarter horses were more common for rodeo, but Dean hadn’t seen Eldon use any horse but Percy all year. They were well-bonded and Percy was a first-rate horse, which was why something seemed off in the horse’s agitation as Eldon rode him out of the ring. Percy kept tossing his head, resisting Eldon’s lead, requiring tougher reactions from Eldon in turn. Just before they disappeared from sight, Percy tried to bite out at another horse. Dean didn’t know if anyone saw it but him.


Dean split ways with Jo around noon. He wanted to rustle up some lunch, she wanted to hear some country singer perform. Her loss.

He joined a long line for tacos, casting his gaze around again. Still no sign of Cas. With the day drawing on, the crowds increased with more casual rodeo visitors than the early arrivals. They were people from town, from school, some of whom caught Dean’s eye and waved in passing. Dean always gave a brief but friendly smile in return but stopped short of inviting a conversation. He didn’t want to talk to them. He couldn’t be asked to keep up some polite chit-chat when they weren’t who he was looking for.

Every familiar face that wasn’t Cas’ deepened his disappointment.

It was a strange thing. He didn’t know why he was so fixed on it. He saw Cas three times in the space of a week to study. It had barely been two days since they met up last. Dean didn’t think he’d done anything to offend him or make Cas tire of him. He just expected Cas to be here, to want to come and find Dean, but so far, nothing. Dean might as well have not existed.

Cas had a job here. He was likely busy and it wasn’t personal. But the more Dean thought about it the less he felt like staying at the rodeo.

He didn’t want to wait in line for food, barely hungry anymore. He felt suddenly exhausted, like he’d seen as much as he could bear to.

He wasn’t cut out for this. Too much expectation, too much stimulus. He’d reached his limit. The rest of his day he would be merely counting down the hours till he could leave, putting on a brave face for Jo so that he didn’t spoil it for her.

Maybe he could simply drive home and come back when the dance was over to pick her up.

Or, not home. Maybe he could drive somewhere far away instead.

“Dean?”

The sound of his name came with a touch to his shoulder.

Dean turned at once and there was Cas, standing close like he always did. He wore a brown cowboy hat and a striped blue button-up tucked into his dark jeans. He looked good.

Dean smiled at once, eyes brightening. “Cas, hey,” he said. His smile wouldn’t go away, relief keeping it in place. “I’d been wondering if I’d see you.”

“It’s been a busy morning,” said Cas. “I could see you and Jo in the stands today, but I don’t think you’d have been able to see me. Do you mind if I have lunch with you?”

“Mind?” said Dean. “No, you gotta. You want tacos?”

“Tacos work,” said Cas, which was just as well, as he’d informally joined the line for them by latching onto Dean. They moved forward another few steps together.

“Awesome,” said Dean. “I’m starving.”

The picnic tables near the food area were crowded, so Dean and Cas went up to the largely empty bleachers surrounding the dirt arena with their tacos and ice-cold cans of soda. They sat with their food between them, facing one another. Dean had a leg folded under himself, while Cas straddled the bench, one knee angled further to accommodate the higher riser. There was something about that pose: in his boots and close-fitting jeans, he looked all the more like a cowboy for it.

“These aren’t bad,” said Cas, tipping his head as he looked at his half-eaten taco. “That’s one thing I miss about the city. Good ethnic food.”

“Like what kinds?” Dean asked. He didn’t know much about food that hadn’t been through a few levels of American transmutation. He doubted his approximation of Italian food at the ranch counted as ‘ethnic.’

“Thai,” said Cas. “Indian food.”

“I’ve never had Indian food,” said Dean. He suddenly felt like he’d said the wrong thing. Sounding ignorant and inexperienced and embarrassingly provincial. “I’d probably like it,” he tacked on. He made an awkward last-ditch attempt to save himself: “I mean, I like to eat.”

Cas looked at him for a moment, then smiled faintly, head bowing a shade. He held out his half-eaten taco. “Here, try this,” he said.

There was a rule being broken, a line being crossed, if Dean accepted. But because he wouldn’t place his finger on why, because there was no one else with them who might know it and care, Dean reached out and took the food from Cas, hands brushing as he tried to keep the taco from falling apart. He angled his head to take a bite. He had a mouthful of warm, tender meat, pulled apart and saucy.

He hummed around the food in his mouth, managing a muffled ‘Mmhmygoff’ before he finished chewing and swallowed. “Spicy,” he said. “That’s good. What is it?”

“It’s lamb,” said Cas. “It reminds me of the biryani I used to get.”

“Hm,” said Dean. Maybe he would like to get food with Cas in the city one day.

It wasn’t hard to picture. Some shop-lined city street with Cas. A hole-in-the-wall Indian restaurant frequented by ragtag students like him. Dean would be out of his element, but he wouldn’t be uncomfortable with Cas there to guide him.

“By the way,” said Dean, “you’re not getting this back.” He took another bite.

Cas gave him a flat look, then took a taco from Dean’s tray in retaliation.

“No,” said Dean, reaching out a hand as Cas bit into it. That was the pork and pineapple taco. “It’s my favourite, I was saving that.”

Cas looked pointedly at the last few bites of his taco in Dean’s other hand and continued to hold the pork taco hostage. Dean, struggling with the choice, had to watch Cas take another bite before he sighed and offered to trade back.

“You’re very bad at sharing,” Cas said, finishing off his original taco.

“Says you,” said Dean. “Taco thief. Maybe we should just get more.”

He liked the idea. He wanted to pull that routine all over again, like the teasing and sharing of food was a game. Between the two of them, they could get a whole variety of food and swap it back and forth. He wanted to try everything with Cas.

“I won’t have time,” Cas said, looking back down towards the arena. “I don’t have very long for lunch.”

Dean nodded his head. A ripple of that earlier despondence passed through him, making his chest feel full and aflutter. He looked away and tapped his fist over his heart like he ate something funny. He had to let go of that feeling.

“Are you coming to the dance tonight?” he asked.

“I drove here with Doc,” said Cas. “We’ll go back to town after the events are done. I don’t imagine the dance is his ‘scene.’” He managed to make half-hearted scare quotes around the taco in his hand.

“I could drive you home,” said Dean. “Jo and I are staying. You can come with us.”

“You and Jo,” Cas said, eyes flicking over Dean’s face. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt…”

“Please stay, Cas,” said Dean. “It’s fun. And if you don’t like it, we can leave, no sweat.”

“Okay,” said Cas. “I’ll stay.”




One of the last features of the day was a showy exhibition from the Dauntless Dames, an all-female trick-riding group. Jo was on the edge of her seat as set-up took place down in the ring, drumming her fingertips restlessly against the bench. If she could’ve gone to only one event, it would be this.

The announcer settled into his box above the arena. The impatience radiating from Jo increased while the announcer welcomed the audience, reminded them of prizes and draws still available to enter, and promoted tomorrow’s derby. By the time he was lavishing praise on the winner of Rodeo Queen, a long-time fellow eventer named Carmen, Dean swore Jo was going to march up to the box and snap the microphone out of his hands.

Finally, tone swelling, he asked the crowd to welcome the Dauntless Dames.

Even Dean couldn’t pretend to be too cool when the opening notes of Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir” blasted through the speakers and rider after rider tore into the arena, standing upright on their saddles, arms extended out like they were flying. Six horses galloped in a circle around the arena, their riders decked out in flashy, bell-bottomed unitards. Big hair, wide smiles, everything glittering. They made it look so easy.

Dean understood what Jo saw in it. They looked fearless. Free.

The soundtrack switched to another testosterone-heavy rock song as the individual riders began to do rounds of the track, sometimes performing multiple tricks in one go-around. Cartwheeling forward over the horn of the saddle, vaulting from one side of the galloping horse to the other. Each trick earned hearty cheers and more than once the crowd gasped.

Jo and Dean quickly had a clear favourite: Pamela, the one who looked like she’d eat sweet country kids like them for breakfast. When Pamela twisted into the Cossack Death Drag, her head mere inches from the ground and the horse’s pounding hooves, Jo dug her fingers so deeply into Dean’s arm that she left marks. The next time her turn came up, she went into an effortless-looking Stroud layout. Dean and Jo watched with parted lips, her body completely horizontal to the ground, her arms spread out but not even touching the dirt. The amount of core strength she needed to do it, let alone smile through it? Dean’s abs hurt just watching.

When the event was over, Jo dragged Dean back into the exhibition hall to look at a trick saddle she’d spied earlier. Some of the vendors at other stalls were packing up, but the saddle was still there. White leather with extra holds and straps for the riders. Two loops let riders stand up on the saddle, which Dean could admit was a pretty exhilarating idea. He flipped over the price tag and gave a low whistle.

“My dad doesn’t pay you enough,” he said to Jo.

“If I save for another, oh, ten years?” said Jo with a groan. “Fifteen to make it safe.”

“I know where you could get one used,” said a voice nearby.

Pamela, decked out in her red show outfit, stopped on her way past them. She’d taken down the clips holding back her dark hair during the ride, leaving it to fall in waves around her face. She looked even more dangerous close-up. She was so ripped. Her lips, darkened with bright red lipstick, quirked into a smile. “You liked the show?”

Dean cast a glance at Jo, whose face was about as red as Pamela’s leotard.

She wasn’t saying anything.

“You were awesome,” said Dean. He nudged Jo with his arm to prompt her along.

“Yeah,” Jo said, sounding breathless.

Dean had never seen Jo like this with anyone, which made this all the more hilarious to him. As funny as it was to see her off her game, this was an opportunity she’d hate herself for missing. So he said for her, “Jo wants to get into trick-riding. Don’t you, Jo?”

“That so?” said Pamela.

Jo nodded her head, still flushed.

“She’s a good rider,” said Dean. “Champion barrel-racer in her age ring.”

“Dean,” Jo hissed

“Well you are,” said Dean.

“Well before you buy the Rolls Royce of saddles here,” said Pamela, “how about you try some trick-riding first and see if it’s your thing? I give lessons.” She patted down her skin-tight leotard and said, “I don’t have any business cards on me, believe it or not. You sticking around here for the big dance?”

“Yeah, we are,” said Dean.

“I’ll track down a pen and give you my phone number,” she said. “See you around.”

She continued past them. Through the cut-out in the back of her leotard, a tattoo on her lower back proclaimed: Jesse Forever.

“Huh. Hope Jesse can keep up with that one,” said Dean. Pamela was something else.

“Oh my god that was so embarrassing,” said Jo, finally finding her voice again. She covered her cheeks with the backs of her hands and winced. “She’s so— She’s just so—”

“Cool?” Dean asked. “Cocky?” He had to admit he liked that about her.

“She’s so gorgeous and it’s intimidating. What was I supposed to do?”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you have a crush.”

“Shut up,” said Jo, punching Dean hard in the arm.

“Ow, alright!” said Dean. “Alright. Are you done mooning over trick-riding, or can we head over to the dance?”

 

They had to make a long trek back to the truck because Jo brought a nicer shirt than the one she’d been wearing all day. Dean stood with his back leaned against the door, keeping watch in case anyone passed by and tried to leer. When Jo knocked against the window to be let out he opened the door for her. She smoothed out the tucked-in purple Western shirt. She’d brushed her hair and braided it afresh and her eyes looked brighter. He supposed she’d put on make-up.

“You need a few minutes with my make-up bag?” she asked.

Dean rolled his eyes and pushed at the side of her head. She made a frustrated sound and checked her hair once more in the truck’s side-mirror.

“You changing?” she asked. “You smell like a rodeo.”

“We’re at a rodeo,” said Dean, though he lifted his shirt to sniff. He conceded far enough to open the glove box and fish out a stick of deodorant. He thought he looked okay, though. Clean shirt. New jeans, still stiff and a little tight.

“Now you might actually get a girl to dance with you,” said Jo.

“Just for that, I’m not asking you,” said Dean. He brushed off his cowboy hat and put it on.

“Total transformation, Cinderella,” said Jo. “Come on, before we miss the whole night.”

The stage-hands were just finishing set-up for the live band when Jo and Dean arrived at the main hall. The volunteer manning the table by the door drew an ‘X’ on the back of Jo’s hand to mark her as a minor but didn’t ask Dean for ID.

“Dude,” Dean whispered to Jo as they went in. “I could totally buy a beer.”

“Do it,” said Jo. “I’m serious, have some fun. I can drive us back tonight.”

“You sure?” said Dean. He didn’t plan to get out of control, but the unexpected privilege was exhilarating. “I might, then. By the way, we’re driving Cas home too. I made plans with him today.”

“Alright,” said Jo. “He here?”

Dean looked around the crowded hall. People talked in groups, wandered around with glasses and pitchers of foamy beer. Some people who didn’t come for the rodeo earlier today arrived just to take part in the dancing. “Don’t see him—”

He paused. He’d been looking for the brown hat Cas was wearing earlier, but that had either been set aside or left behind. Cas stood on his own up at the bar, the neon lights colouring his skin blue and pink and purple. He’d changed out of what he was wearing earlier, and Dean realised he must’ve bought the clothes here at the Stampede. He wore a button-up shirt in a dusky, Prussian blue underneath a black waistcoat, both of them trimly fitted to him like they’d been made to measure.

He’d even attempted to comb his hair, from the looks of it, although a stray tuft at his temple and another at the back of his head sought to sabotage him. Dean liked it, though. It made him look more human.

Dean sidled up next to him at the bar. “Whoa,” he said, flashing a smile. “Is there someone you’re trying to impress?”

Cas must’ve seen Dean’s approach from his periphery. He didn’t look away from the bottles behind the counter for a moment. He paused before saying, “Why not?”

Cas swept his gaze down to Dean. In the low light of the dance hall, his lids looked heavy over his eyes. He’d seen it once or twice before: this luxurious flavour of Cas’ usual stoicism. Sensuous and distant all at once.

Dean looked away, thirsty for a beer. He swallowed around the dryness in his throat.

“It’s a dance, isn’t it?” said Cas. “That’s what they’re for.”

“Guess you’re right,” said Dean. He got the bartender’s attention, ordered himself the same beer as Cas.

Cas waited till she walked away before he said, “Fake ID?”

“They never asked,” said Dean.

Cas gave a neutral nod of his head. “I used to go to bars when I was eighteen. I was nearly done my bachelor’s degree. My friends were always older than me.”

Cas was only twenty-two, of age to drink for barely more than a year, despite having two degrees under his belt.

“So who is it?” said Dean.

“Who’s what?”

“Who are you trying to impress?”

Cas paused, thumbnail scraping at the seam in the neck of his beer, lips parted. He gave a shake of his head and a wry smile. “Dean, I barely know anyone here. Just a bunch of old farmers and you.” He lifted his eyes to Dean again, suddenly impossible to read.

“Right,” said Dean.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to take that to mean. His mind went one place first, a place he quickly shut down because it made no sense. Cas wanted to impress a girl, not Dean.

“Right,” Dean said again. “I should introduce you to some people. I actually know a lot of the girls here.”

Growing up around horses, there were inevitably more girls than guys at meets and competitions. Dean had always been very popular with them. When he was younger, he’d received more than one love letter and countless personalised valentines. They went through a phase where they phoned him up just to giggle over the line, or their friends phoned asking if he had a crush on this girl or that one until he made Sam answer and tell them he wasn’t home. He didn’t mind talking with them about horses, but they got so silly sometimes.

“Why don’t we find Jo?” said Cas.

Dean looked over his shoulder. He’d last seen Jo by the door when he’d been standing beside her, just before he spotted Cas. He hadn’t even said a word to her. Just walked away. That wasn’t like him.

“Jeez, yeah,” said Dean. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

By some miracle, Jo didn’t give him grief over abandoning her. It helped that the music started, the crowd amping up in response to it. The three of them stayed back at a table for the first few songs, talking together as Dean and Cas slowly whiled away their beers.

It was fun to watch Cas and Jo talk about the day’s rodeo events, to have these two people Dean liked so much getting along with ease. The only thing that would’ve improved it was having Sam in the mix, but Hearts & Spurs was definitively not Sam’s ‘thing.’

On stage, the band began performing “Achy Breaky Heart,” causing the dancing crowd to disperse into evenly spaced lines. It was a line dance most of the people knew here by tradition and, like most line dances, not hard to pick up.

“Time to join the party?” said Jo with a smile and a tip of her head towards the floor, already moving away from the table.

“I don’t really—” Cas began to say.

“Come on, Cas,” said Dean, tugging on his arm. Cas followed more easily than he expected. “I’ll show you.”

Jo went ahead into the middle of the dance floor, but Dean kept to the back row with Cas, knowing it might take him a few tries. “Watch my feet,” he said.

Never had anyone looked as serious about line dancing as Cas, watching Dean’s feet but not seeming to coordinate his own. As Dean said, “No, right foot, heel-heel, toe-toe. No, not like—”

Dean kept laughing. He’d never had as much fun in a line dance as he did now, routinely pulling on Cas’ arm to keep him from going too far when he overstepped on his grapevine or almost ran into another dancer. Cas caught the majority of the claps, but rarely on the beat. This wasn’t a partnered dance, but their bodies kept running into each other whenever Cas stepped left instead of right, when Dean reached for his shoulders to turn him a quarter-step to be in the same direction as the other dancers.

When the song ended Dean clapped for the band with everybody else. His body bumped closer to Cas’ by the departures from the dance floor. Dean was warm, the air in the room made hot by all the people in it, and he had some sweat dampening his hair. But he felt good, a smile fixed around his mouth, even as he looked Cas in the eye and said, grinning, “Man, you are bad at that.”

“I want another go,” said Cas immediately.

“You know it’s a relief to find something you’re not good at?” said Dean. On stage, the band started another song with an easy but energetic rhythm. The line dancing wasn’t done. They could stay out here until a real couples’ song came on.

“Show me this one,” said Cas.

“It’s more complicated,” said Dean, making a quick study of the lead dancers at the front. “But hey, if you insist. Come on, thumbs at your belt.”

Cas was a little better at steps this time, having worked out some of the patterns from the previous dance, but now there were new actions. A regular touch of the boot from behind; a lasso motion with the arm when they stepped forward. Dean added a hitch to some of his steps, which Cas tried to imitate but couldn’t get the hang of. “Watch my hips, not my feet,” said Dean. “You’re just walking. You gotta dance it.” He didn’t know how else to explain the looseness you needed, the rhythm.

It was a rush he hadn’t got from dancing before, studying Cas so intensely that he didn’t expect it when the song ended.

He wanted them to play it again. Cas had been on the beat but was still a little too stiff in the hips. He could get there. Dean could watch him and work with him till he moved just right.

Standing close to Cas again, he waited for the band to start their next song in the hopes that there’d be one more chance for them. When they started a slow, moony love song, Dean dropped his eyes to the ground, the hope in his body slackening.

“So?” said Cas.

Dean looked up and offered a brief smile. “You definitely improved,” he said. He wanted Cas to follow him, so he slipped two fingers between the buttons on Cas’ vest to tug him along. “Come on, let’s get another beer.”

His hand pulled quickly back once Cas was in step with him and on the right path. Dean didn’t know what he’d been thinking.

By the time they bought their beers, Jo had reconnected with Pamela in another part of the hall. She was faring better than last time in that she was actually talking, though she still had that look of hero-worship in her eyes. Dean and Cas left her to it. They returned to their previous table, not there even a minute before the Rodeo Queen herself approached.

“Hey Dean!” Carmen greeted him with a hand squeezing his arm and a huge smile. Rodeo Queen wasn’t just a beauty pageant: it required excellent horsemanship as well as demonstrated charity and courtesy, but the competition still required big hair, heavy makeup, and rhinestone-covered outfits. Dean preferred the Carmen he knew at competitions: a practical braid and comfy riding clothes, never afraid to get dirty.

“Carmen, hey,” said Dean. She was warmer with him than expected, but she was probably just amped up on winning her title. “Congrats on the crown. No one deserves it more.”

“You’re sweet, Dean,” said Carmen. “But please, don’t let me interrupt—” She looked at Cas.

“No, let me introduce you,” said Dean. This was what Cas wanted, didn’t he say? To meet girls. Someone worth impressing. “This is Cas. Cas, this is Carmen. Rodeo Queen and all-around great cowgirl.”

“Stop,” said Carmen with a laugh, touching Dean’s arm again. She turned that picture-perfect smile in Cas’ direction. “Are you on the rodeo circuit, Cas?”

“I’m a veterinarian,” said Cas. Compared with Carmen’s demonstrated cheer, his voice sounded even more placid and low. “I’m just here for work.”

“A vet?” said Carmen. Despite the superficial impediments of her Rodeo Queen get-up, she looked genuinely interested in his answer. “That’s great. I’m starting nursing school in the fall.” She shook her head. “I know that’s not quite the same…”

“It’s an honourable calling,” said Cas, and however detached he sounded, his eyes spoke of sincerity. “And there’s lots of work.”

“I’d like to hear more—about both of you—but let me just grab my friend Tara,” said Carmen, tapping the table. “I don’t want her to be left out. I’ll be right back.”

Dean watched her go off, then tipped his head towards Cas. “Think this just turned into a date,” he said.

Cas took a long drink from his beer.

To be honest, Dean wasn’t very good at this kind of thing. When Carmen returned, she stayed on Dean’s side of the round table, Tara on Cas’. Cas looked baffled, almost wide-eyed, when Tara talked about how she wanted to be an actress and looked at Dean like she wanted to devour him. Carmen and Cas found increasing common ground in their shared interests in horses and medical care, but Cas acted more stilted and formal around them than he did in Dean’s company. Dean hadn’t expected him to be shy around women. And that was alright, if he was, but Tara didn’t have to look so bored whenever Cas talked. She wasn’t even trying around him.

Part of Dean just wanted the night to be over now. For the band to suddenly announce they were done playing and everyone should just go home. He was on his third beer and he wasn’t quite used to the feeling. The dance hall was getting so hot and everybody talked so loud and he was sick of hearing it. He just wanted to take a walk outside for some fresh air with Cas, and he didn’t want the two girls to come.

When Carmen proposed that they dance, Dean figured it might be as close to an escape as they’d get. He barely cared who danced with who. He found it was Carmen’s hand in his, Tara and Cas who followed behind like they were being sent to the firing squad.

Dean spun Carmen into his arms. He knew the motions. They’d done this before at junior dances and had both improved from awkward to capable in the intervening years. Dean barely had to think to be able to keep the steps.

Several couples separated them from Cas and Tara. They didn’t look to be talking to each other. Cas held her arm extended out slightly further than looked entirely comfortable. He occasionally checked the crowd to guide them away from running into the other dancers, but mostly looked into the middle-distance.

“Dean?” said Carmen.

Dean looked down at her for the first time since they started dancing and gave a half-smile. He pulled her closer to his chest, which she melted easily into. Their bodies lined up, her cheek leaning on his shoulder.

He went back to watching Cas.

This girl, Tara, acted like she didn’t even want to be there, which was pretty rude. It wasn’t like Cas was stepping on her feet. So what if he wasn’t a great dancer? He was a catch.

Dean’s hand slid up Carmen’s back when Tara stepped back from Cas with some sharp remark, the pair of them stopping mid-dance. Dean wanted to intervene before Tara could say or do something that would ruin Cas’ night. He was almost ready to go over, but then Jo showed up. Asking to cut in.

Dean relaxed again. Tara left the floor to find a new partner, Jo and Cas exchanged a friendly smile, then joined hands to dance.

Over Jo’s shoulder, Cas’ eyes met Dean’s.

Dean felt his head swimming with the beer. The stifling heat. Cas oughtta be focusing on Jo, his dance partner. Not looking over this way. Dean wet his lips; he wanted another drink. Enough to not be in control of himself as much. Enough to forget all the rules and warnings in his head.

The music closed out and Dean slowed his dance to a stop, still looking over. Cas hadn’t looked away.

“Dean?” Carmen said again. She followed Dean’s gaze and he snapped out of his trance. He wanted to go back just a few seconds and stop her from turning her head. Stop her from seeing that he hadn’t been with her.

“Oh,” she said, hand trailing down from his shoulder to rest over his chest. He put his hand over hers to hold it there. That’s what he was supposed to do. “I see.”

“See what?”

“In love with the best friend,” she said.

“What?”

“It’s okay. Jo’s lucky,” said Carmen. She stood up on her toes and kissed Dean’s cheek. “Thanks for the dance, Dean.”

“Carmen, wait,” said Dean, holding onto her hand even as she drew it away from his chest. He should simply tell her that he wasn’t interested in Jo. That it was gross to even think of because she was like his little sister. That she was totally off the mark.

And yet, he didn’t want to. It was a relief that she made it so easy to part ways. It was half from gratitude that he said, “You are gorgeous and so cool and a genuinely good person. I hope you meet someone who deserves you.”

She squeezed his hand and gave a smile. “Right back at you.”


Jo pulled the truck’s bench seat forward so that she could reach the pedals, leaving Cas and Dean with their knees bent, cramped for space when all Dean wanted was to sprawl. He slouched back with his head tipped against the seat. His leg slid against Cas’, lined up from hip to knee, and he thought he should move it, but he didn’t. He fell asleep on the way home without meaning to, only aware of it when Cas tried to move from the middle seat. He shifted. He helped Dean lift his head from Cas’ shoulder so he could get out. He thanked Jo as he got out and stopped with his hand wrapped around the open window of the door and bid them goodbye.

Dean rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hands as Jo covered the remaining distance between Cas’ place above the laundromat and the ranch.

“So. Good night?” Jo asked.

Dean’s mouth tasted like stale beer and his head felt muddy. He kept seeing Carmen, then Tara, then Cas’ eyes meeting his across the dance floor. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tipped back his head to fight the feeling that he was going to be sick.

“Fucking terrible,” he said.

Chapter 17

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

24.
You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for.
— Richard Siken, “You Are Jeff”

Sunday afternoon, Hearts & Spurs ended with a derby, a race of three-year-old horses with a decent pot of prize money to be had. Jo couldn’t come Sunday, so Dean went on his own. He left just after lunch, arriving early to visit some of the exhibitions he’d missed the day before. He liked seeing the newest, state-of-the-art farm equipment, even those specialized machines they wouldn’t have use for at the ranch. He liked hearing older farmers complain within hearing about how new tractors couldn’t be trusted and that a combine didn’t need to have a computer in it.

It was quieter today than yesterday. With fewer events to coordinate, the restrictions were looser and Dean wound down to the animal pens. He couldn’t get close to the horses entering today’s derby, but he liked seeing the heavy horses. The Clydesdales and Percherons who towered above their handlers. He got so used to the ones at the ranch that he sometimes forgot how big certain breeds of draft horses could get. One pair had to be eighteen hands, the horses’ withers level with the top of Dean’s head.

In one pen, four beautiful black Friesians pulled hay out of a slow-feeder. Dean climbed up on the gate because no one was there to stop him. His cowboy boots hooked easily over the lowest rung and he folded his arms on top. Two of the horses approached, letting him reach out his arm and stroke their noses. Their long, black manes were crimped from braiding. Dean loved all the horses at the ranch, but there were downsides to a breeding farm. Some days he wished he could have a farm with every type of horse on it. Some days he wished he never had to sell yet another young horse he’d fallen in love with.

He spotted Cas at some distance, crossing through the rows of pens and marking something on a clipboard. Dean stepped down from the gate, the sound of it knocking against the fence causing Cas to look up. Dean waved an arm—paused to pat the nose of the Frisian who stuck his muzzle through the gate, wanting Dean to come back—then cut down towards Cas.

Cas looked more official today. Someone had actually given him a work shirt, a white polo with the veterinary clinic logo embroidered on the front. It struck Dean that white wasn’t a great colour for large animal work. Maybe that was why Cas so seldom wore it.

Dean jogged the last few steps to Cas. He didn’t even have anything prepared to say, his only goal being to get in Cas’ orbit again.

“Dean. You’re making friends, as usual,” Cas said. His eyes flicked past him to the horses in the pen, then back. He didn’t smile, precisely—he so rarely did—but he had that warm squint like what he saw from Dean pleased him. “I didn’t know if you’d come today.”

“Yeah,” said Dean. “Jo couldn’t make it, but I hate to miss a race when it’s this close to home. With horses I know in it, especially.” He caught himself. “People, too. I know the people.”

Cas gave away a brief smile. “I’m guilty of sometimes being more attuned to the animals, too,” he said. “Who do you know?”

“Well, Bela Talbot,” said Dean. “Riding Lugosi. She lives with her aunt and uncle out at these fancy stables. I’ve worked there before. Bela’s a piece of work, but she’s a good jockey.”

“Are you rooting for her?”

“More than I am for Eldon,” said Dean. “Eldon Styne. He’s a dick and he won’t face that he’s too big to be any good for racing now. But he’s got too much pride to know when to stop.”

Dean chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment, thinking even as he spoke. Replaying the day before in his head. He didn’t look at Cas as he said, “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Anything, Dean,” said Cas, holding his clipboard at his hip.

“You know his horse, Percy? I was watching him yesterday and he seemed sorta…”

“Twitchy,” said Cas.

“You noticed too?” said Dean.

Cas gave a nod of his head. “I mentioned it to Eldon. Asked if he was sure about riding Percy in the derby today. If he doesn’t like crowds, that could hamper him.”

“I don’t know if it’s that, Cas,” said Dean, shaking his head. He looked around them. Even though no one was around, he moved closer and lowered his voice as he said, “The Stynes dope their horses. I just know they do.”

“Eldon’s doping his horse?” said Cas. “He’ll be disqualified. I can run tests—”

Dean shook his head again. “You won’t be able to pin anything on him, I guarantee. The Stynes are smart. They know the rules. They’ll be giving him some sort of ‘supplement’ that hasn’t been reviewed yet or can be explained as something else. Whether it’s a stimulant or a pain reliever or whatever. I just… I don’t think that horse should go in the race today.”

Cas looked deeply troubled, face turning away. After a moment he said, “I had a medical visit with Percy not long ago. Some kind of a strain. I didn’t think he’d be ready to compete again so soon, and not until after another examination, of course. Monroe found a second vet, got a different opinion. He assured me the horse had been given rest and fully recovered.” Cas grimaced, looking off towards the stables by the track. “I shouldn’t have listened. I should’ve pressed for another exam.” He thought for another moment. “If they’re just covering up the pain, they are putting that horse in incredible danger to itself.”

“You believe me, don’t you? Do you think you can talk him out of it, Cas?”

“Of course I believe you. I’ll try again,” said Cas. “Thank you, Dean. I should go.”

“Hey Cas,” said Dean.

Cas stopped and turned.

“I could drive you home again?” He gave a faint smile. “Promise to stay sober this time. Jo’s not here to back me up.”

Cas looked thoughtful, then gave a nod of his head. “I’d like that,” he said.


Dean went inside for a snack before the race, waiting on a fresh batch of fried potato ribbons. It was quieter in the vendor hall today, the aisles emptier and shorter line-ups for food. Dean waited with his arms folded over his chest, lost in the crackling of hot oil. He glanced up when another person stepped forward to order, then immediately wished he hadn’t.

Cesar. As soon as Cesar noticed him, a friendly look crossed his face. “Hey Dean,” he said. “Haven’t seen you around for a while. How are you?”

Dean didn’t know what he was supposed to say or how he was supposed to act. He didn’t want to do the wrong thing. He’d had countless casual conversations with Cesar in his life, but now he had to second-guess everything.

“Oh,” said Dean. “Hey. Yeah. I’m good.” His latent basic manners kicked in as he remembered to say, “You?”

“I’m good. Heard your brother Sam is back.”

How many times had Dean spoken about Sam over the counter of the Roadhouse? Bragging about him and dunking on him in turn, a proud older brother but a brother all the same. “Yeah, he’s back,” said Dean. The lady at the stand passed across his paper dish loaded with potato ribbons. “He got himself work at the grocery store.”

“I wondered if that was him there,” said Cesar. “Here on your own today?”

“Yeah,” said Dean, looking down at his potatoes. He could leave if only he could find his way out of this conversation. “Well. Cas is here.” They were travelling back together. That almost counted. “But he’s an on-site vet, so he’s working.”

“We’re in the same boat,” said Cesar. “Jesse’s working here too. Paramedic. Between the two of them, they’ll have everybody looked after.”

He said it with a riff of humour and Dean gave a faint smile, but didn’t look up. The smile vanished quickly.

There was an implication. That Cesar and Dean were in the same roles, killing time and watching the race while Jesse worked, while Cas worked. That it lent them a specific commonality.

It wasn’t like that. Cesar couldn’t think that Cas was to Dean what Jesse was to him.

Maybe Cesar did think that. Unlike anybody else who would assume Cas and Dean were just friends, maybe he read more into it.

What had it looked like to him when Cas and Dean visited together that day Cas brought the mustang? Cas only brought Dean because he figured Dean would get a kick out of watching a wild horse. Cesar might’ve got a different impression.

Dean looked up and cast a glance around, trying to think of how to clarify the matter, setting Cesar straight on the state of things without actually raising the issue. Even to ask or offer a correction seemed damning. It meant Dean had thought of it at all.

It was because he looked up that he saw his father at the outer edge of the exhibition hall.

The world narrowed rapidly. John hadn’t seen him. If John saw him, he’d come this way immediately.

“I have to go,” said Dean, feeling his pulse in his throat. “My dad’s here.”

He said it without waiting for a response, already walking away. He had too much blood rushing in his ears to know if Cesar said anything in return.

Every step that put more distance between himself and Cesar without his dad looking up from a rack of leather belts was a piece of grace. Dean was the one who approached John. The one who got to show up on his own terms. He didn’t even sound breathless when he said, “Hey Dad.”

“Dean,” said John. “Couldn’t’ve waited for your old man?”

“I thought you weren’t coming to the derby today,” said Dean.

John took a string of potato ribbons from Dean’s dish with a hum. “Wasn’t planning on it,” he said. “But there’s a jockey riding one of ours. Almost missed it because they changed the name. Hoof-du-Pape, the one we called Styx. Thought I’d see it.” He crunched on the string of crispy potatoes. “Just as well we drove separate. I’ll go straight to Lloyd’s after.”

Dean nodded his head. He wanted to answer, even to say ‘Yes sir,’ but he couldn’t seem to conjure up the words, however simple. Yes: it was just as well they drove separate.

He wouldn’t be able to drive Cas home if John were there. It was completely different from driving him with Jo.

And Dean couldn’t explain it, but lately he didn’t like the idea of being around his dad where no one could see.

It hadn’t started all at once. It rose recently with a string of certain nightmares, sharpening from a faint impression to something that might be called a fear. He’d been uncomfortable when they got too far from the house the day they worked on fences, although he hadn’t placed what he was feeling then. Not in so many words.

It wasn’t even that he thought John might hit him. He could stand that.

It was that things were getting worse. A broken arm. A near throttling. John was okay right now, but the next time he blew up, who knew how far he’d take it?

These thoughts were dramatic. Unfair. Nonsense, really. His dad didn’t want to kill him. His dad would never do that.

And yet, when he looked at John he sometimes felt like death stood in the room with him.

They went out to the stands together, snagging a couple of half-decent seats a couple of tiers up. John shared a few insights about the track, but Dean had heard it all before. He used to think his dad was a genius about this kind of stuff, but he realised that he knew pretty much what anyone who followed for a lifetime would know. He parroted the same stats, the same warnings about the conditions that sounded clever but didn’t mean anything if you weren’t the one riding.

Dean kept his eyes on the track. He knew he wouldn’t see Cas unless something was wrong, but he wondered where he’d be standing.

Was he chatting with Jesse the same as Cesar talked to him? Did he come up against the same inferences? Did Cas have any idea of what Cesar and Jesse were to each other in the first place?

The irony of a horse race was that there was a lot of build-up for an event that ended in around two minutes. At the level of the track, the last people moved into position. Photojournalists vying for the best spot, trainers and sponsors looking serious as they waited. The announcer came over the speakers, building anticipation and running through the names of the horses competing.

Dean had his eyes on the starting stalls. Percy and Eldon had been announced, and Dean squinted down hoping the announcer was wrong, working off of an old list perhaps. He couldn’t see from here whether Cas met with any success. He wished he could feel more certain that Eldon would see reason.

There was always a thrill as the horses charged out of the gates and the race was on. Unlike John, Dean hadn’t staked money on any of them. He just wanted to see how they rode and which horse won. These horses put into use every ounce of their power, moved faster than wind. Every second expanded, changing fates from one moment to the next. Those that started in the lead might be fifth or sixth in the span of just a few galloping strides.

All the horses moved so fast they could be hard to distinguish until one fell suddenly behind.

It was Percy, the beautiful grey. Ambling all wrong. Eldon, barely in control, reeled him to a halt and hastily dismounted from his back, holding tightly to the reins.

The horse’s body heaved to one side, even as it still tried to struggle forward as if it could get away from the pain. He’d hurt his front leg. There was no question of it.

Dean stood up. Below, Cas ran across the track to the horse.

John’s hand raised up to Dean’s shoulder. “Sit down,” he said, pulling Dean back into his seat.

Dean followed, but he slid forward helplessly in his seat, his hand around the rail in front of him. The cadre of horses finished the race on the other side of the track, but Dean couldn’t look away from Percy. Struggling and rearing because he couldn’t understand this sudden and excruciating agony. Blood on his grey coat.

Cas waved over volunteers who rapidly set up a green barrier around the horse.

Dean knew what that screen meant.

A broken upper leg bone, especially if it had punctured the skin, wasn’t the type of injury a horse recovered from. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, a hand covering his mouth.

He thought Cas was going to talk Eldon out of riding. Cas must’ve tried. Stynes weren’t ones to argue with, though. And now Cas would have to administer the lethal injection to a horse that should’ve had decades of good life and worthwhile competitions ahead of it.

Cas had years of vet school. He’d been trained in how to do this. He must have faced this already in his years of volunteering and hands-on practice. But Dean wanted to be down there with him and let him know he wasn’t alone. It wasn’t his fault.

“It’s a bad business,” John said, eyeing the screen on the track. The mood in the crowd was a strange one. Some wanted to focus only on the winners and forget the unpleasant sight of a racing casualty. Others stood up uneasily to go inside.

John brushed his hand over some dirt on his jeans. “Animal rights groups always get their panties in a twist when this kind of thing happens.”

Dean turned his face up to John, hurt that he’d be so cold. “That was his horse, Dad.” Somewhere behind that screen, Eldon had to face down what he’d done. The price was steeper than he could’ve reckoned. “Eldon loved that horse.”

He’d loved it, but he’d put it in danger. He justified what he did, risking his animal to gain an advantage, but he couldn’t have imagined it would lead to this. There was no straight line of logic between Eldon’s affections and his actions.

John turned his face towards Dean and gave him a heavy look. Dean expected to find that gaze coldly calculating, taking Dean’s measure and finding him lacking, but it was different this time. Paternal and understanding. John raised Dean to care about horses and today he would grant him this one shred of leniency for caring too much.

“I know, Dean,” said John. “These accidents, though. These accidents happen.”

Dean looked back down to the track. He wondered if it was over yet. If, at least, Percy wasn’t in pain anymore.

It shouldn’t have happened. Not today.

“I’m going in to see about winnings,” said John, getting up. “Come around to the Upper Lobby and make nice with the sponsors, will you?”

Dean nodded, but for the moment he remained in the stands. John departed, and so did most others. As the last of the audience cleared out, Dean walked down through the empty bleachers and folded his arms on top of the barrier separating him from the track.

A few people went in and out of the screened area around the horse. Volunteers, errand-runners. Still at some distance, he couldn’t hear or discern anything more about the accident. Finally, Cas emerged with a slack set to his shoulders, a weary expression on his face. He looked up in Dean’s direction, the only figure left in the stands. Then he turned his face away and headed inside.

The Upper Lobby opened up only a few times a year, which meant it didn’t show the wear and use the rest of the arena had. Clean grey carpet, a tidy built-in bar, a wall of windows that angled with the slant of the roof. Here the jockeys and trainers and sponsors mingled, patently attempting to leave behind the tragedy. They muttered about it being ‘dreadful’ and ‘unimaginable,’ then rapidly moved on, rehashing the rest of the race.

Dean picked up a soda from a small bucket of ice-water and made his way to John, chiefly so that John would know he wasn’t skipping out. He hadn’t been aware until coming inside that it was their horse, Styx, that came first. Dean barely knew the jockey or trainer and he didn’t have room for any feeling like pride after today.

John was proud enough for the both of them. When Dean joined him, John flashed a smile.

“Well, some good’s come of all this,” said John. “Eldon will be back in the running before long.”

Dean frowned as he popped the tab on his soda, then took a sip. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean that I talked with Monroe Styne and he’s prepared to buy Jagger.”

“What?”

“I’ll need you to have him ready for pick-up this time next week.”

“Dad, no,” said Dean. He started to shake his head, then looked around and quickly switched to a hissed whisper. “You can’t give them Jagger. He’s been a good horse. Just look what happened to Percy.”

“I’m not giving him Jagger, I’m selling him Jagger,” said John.

“They dope up their horses with whatever they can,” said Dean. “You know they do. They work ‘em too hard. They wear ‘em right out.”

“We sell horses, Dean,” said John. “It’s not up to us what happens to them after.”

“Well we might as well sell them to a kill farm,” said Dean.

“Hell, if they paid what Monroe is…”

“Dad!”

John whipped his gaze to Dean so quickly that Dean froze. He was cutting it close, arguing with John in public. Dean looked around again. No one else minded them yet, but if those scales tipped, it would be Dean who paid.

“You think every horse we sell goes on to die of old age?” said John. “Don’t be a child, Dean. You know that an accident can happen in an open field as easily as a racetrack. The Stynes care about good stock. That’s what we breed. They want horses that will win year after year, and they’re prepared to protect that investment. Whatever happened today, it was a one-off. Could’ve been our horse, could’ve been anybody’s.”

“I think Percy was injured,” said Dean. “Or in recovery. He should’ve been on rest—”

“You’ve decided you’re out of competitions,” said John. “Apparently, you’re too sensitive to ride a horse that was born to jump and race. Well, fine. But you don’t get a say in how anyone else goes about it. You understand me?”

Even if they weren’t in public, Dean wouldn’t have tried to argue. He looked down between them and gave a nod of his head. “I understand,” he said.

“This is my farm. I’ll sell the horses I want when I want and to who I want.”

“Yes, sir,” said Dean. He straightened his shoulders and fell quiet as old acquaintances approached them. He didn’t feel particularly sociable, but he managed a few thin smiles as they praised the winning horse or commented on how Dean had grown. John was in a rare, charismatic mood. He saw prospective buyers in everybody here. Their horses had pedigree to recommend them, but social connections didn’t hurt the business.

Dean slipped away when he could, bypassing the lobby washrooms to get back into the cool halls of cement and cinderblock that made up the rest of the arena. Out of sight of the lobby, he passed slowly by black-and-white photographs of past events.

He wondered if he could find 1977. He wondered if he could find his mother.

He heard a choked-off sound echo out from one of the halls.

He looked around, not immediately sure of the direction, waiting to hear it again.

Nothing. Still, he looked away from the display case and turned down one hall. The low fluorescent lights were dim against the dark grey paint and dull cement floors. He stepped quietly only so that he wouldn’t miss the sound if it came again. He didn’t think there’d be anyone around here but the shadowy displays and him.

A faint shuffle of sound. Dean came around another corner and stopped.

“Eldon,” he said.

Eldon leaned against a wall, face screwed up, a hand over his eyes. Still in his tall boots, his riding clothes, white pants flecked with dirt and dusty at the knees from kneeling by his horse. This was the darkest, furthest corner of the arena he could find.

Eldon looked up quickly, teeth bared but eyes surrounded by tears. “Fuck off, Winchester.” The words tore from him like a growl from a wounded animal.

Dean stood his ground. He hated Eldon, as a matter of fact. From years of long-running hostility at competitions and in school. From fundamental differences in how they lived in the world. Eldon had shitty taste in friends and virtually no moral compass. Dean didn’t approve of the way he treated people or horses. It was possible he didn’t know about the doping or didn’t realise how bad it was. It was possible he had a father like John who saw everything out his way.

Whether or not he was responsible for what happened to his horse today, Dean could imagine how he felt right now. He’d lost a friend.

“I’m sorry about Percy,” said Dean. “He was an amazing horse.”

“I said fuck off, Pretty Boy.” Eldon pushed quickly away from the wall. Dean thought he was going to simply storm past until suddenly he was in Dean’s space. Dean reached out, hands caught up in Eldon’s shirt to hold him an arm’s length away.

“Jesus Christ, Eldon—”

“I don’t want your dirty fucking horse!” Eldon shouted it, spit flecking from his mouth. He tried to surge forward, gripping Dean in turn, grappling roughly with him.

“Take a walk, man,” growled Dean. He managed to get enough purchase to push Eldon off of him, sending him back a few steps.

Amped up on his own anguish, Eldon pitched forward faster than Dean could anticipate. His arm swung and his primed fist cracked against Dean’s face. Dean moved with the blow, tasting blood as he cut the inside of his cheek on his teeth.

Any other day Dean would’ve fought back, given as good as he got. He’d traded blows with guys like Eldon before, flash-fights that weren’t worth it and ended almost as soon as they began. But this had nothing to do with Dean. He couldn’t punch a guy who just lost his horse. When Eldon came at him, Dean simply tried to restrain him, to keep him from landing any other strikes.

“Cut this shit out,” said Dean, teeth gritted.

Eldon exploded at him again, fighting hard to get his right wrist free of the grip Dean had on it. He seemed stronger than he should, wound up with fury. Snarling and wild-eyed. “I’ll ruin your fucking face, Pretty Boy,” he shouted.

Eldon almost twisted free, so Dean knocked a foot out from under him and gained a moment’s advantage. There were other voices and footsteps in the hall, now, and within moments people were pulling Eldon back, pulling Dean away. Dean went slack as soon as he was out of swinging range, lifting his hands and walking himself back a few more steps.

Monroe showed up for Eldon, getting him clear of the hallway, while John came over to Dean.

“You hit a guy who just lost his horse?” he asked.

A nice lady nearby offered Dean a tissue, then, and he didn’t immediately know why. He brought his fingers to his lips and they came away with blood.

“Thanks,” he said to her. And, “No,” he said to John. He dabbed at his bloody mouth. “He was upset about the horse and thought he’d take it out on me. I didn’t want to fight him, but I wasn’t gonna take it.”

“That’s my boy,” said John, clapping him on the back.




It was getting late by the time Dean found Cas again. Cas had stuck around until arrangements had been carried out for disposal of the horse’s body. He’d only just wound up when Dean found his way down to the locker room where the volunteers kept their personal items for the day.

Passing a trash can, he saw a white polo shirt marked with red.

He rounded a row of lockers as Cas pulled a navy blue t-shirt over his head. It was clean and fresh, if a size too large, with the yellow logo for a feed company emblazoned on the chest.

“You’re still here,” said Cas.

“I’m your ride home,” said Dean. “Wouldn’t leave without you.”

Cas narrowed his eyes, stepping closer. He lifted his hand towards Dean’s cheek, then curled his fingers back before they could touch. “You were hurt.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, eyes tracking Cas’ hand as it lowered again. He rolled his shoulders a little to shake it off. “Yeah, Eldon got me. Just once.”

Cas turned his face away, a grave set to his mouth. “This is my fault,” he said.

“What?”

“I tried to talk to Eldon about Percy, but he insisted there was no issue. I should’ve tried harder.”

“Cas, that’s not on you,” said Dean.

“I should’ve interfered and had them removed from the race.”

“That’s not even your call to make, Cas,” said Dean. “And the Stynes would’ve taken it out on you in a bad way if you tried.”

“I had to euthanize a horse today and it never should have happened,” said Cas. He looked at Dean again. Dean hadn’t been aware of how impossibly close they were standing until now. “And now this?” Cas asked, lifting his hand, gesturing towards Dean’s cheek.

“It’s not your fault,” said Dean.

“If anyone should’ve been in the way, it’s me.”

Cas,” said Dean. “Come off it. Look, I’m shook up about it too. For you? I can’t imagine what it’s gotta be like for you. But you did everything you could. Please, let’s just leave. I’m so done with sticking around here.”

Cas’ eyes, deeply blue, searched Dean’s. They flicked down to the crosshatch of red swelling on his cheek. Dean wished it would heal only so that Cas wouldn’t have to feel like a martyr about it. Cas sighed.

“Right,” he said. “Let’s go.”


They drove in relative silence, even the radio between them a quiet murmur.

Still, there wasn’t anyone else Dean wanted to be in this silence with.

Just shy of an hour they passed the sign that marked the edge of town. Cas leaned his elbow against the open window, his temple on his fist, and said, “I don’t want to go home yet.”

Dean flicked his gaze over Cas. He thought of how quiet the apartment above the laundromat would be after a day like this one. How lonely.

“Me neither,” said Dean. He signalled a turn that would take them a long way around town and circle back, if they were ready for it by then. If not, he knew a dozen other backroads that would make the night last longer.

There was a good place to enjoy the stars up this way. He brought the truck high up a gravel road, then turned onto a lane that was nothing more than a set of rough tire tracks winding through the bush.

Cas didn’t ask where they were going, although he looked around with curiosity. The trees thinned out rapidly ahead, opening onto a brief, grassy plateau that fell away over the countryside.

“Whoa,” Dean said as they came out from the trees. He didn’t expect to put them right in the path of the full moon. It turned up in the front window like a spotlight, illuminating the plateau. The night world defined in blue-black edged everywhere in silver.

Dean stopped the truck before the edge and turned it off. With both windows down, the sounds of night filtered through the air. Wind stirring the papery leaves of the trees behind them. The trilling of insect wings. In some field below, a cow lowed and was answered.

Dean thought they might get out and sit on the hood, but both stayed put, looking at the moon through the front window. It was so bright it washed out the stars, leaving only a few of the strongest visible around it.

“This alright?” Dean asked.

“Yes,” said Cas. Still in profile, he didn’t look as glum as he had on their way into town. “I didn’t know this place was here.”

“Most people wouldn’t,” said Dean. “Once Sam left for school last year, I started driving around just because I was bored. Anything that didn’t have a gate on it saying trespassers would be shot, I followed just for the hell of it.”

“Were you with anybody when you came out here?” Cas asked.

“No,” said Dean. It was a weird question. He flashed a puzzled smile. “Why?”

“Nothing,” said Cas, shaking his head and shifting to straighter posture in his seat. “Just… It sounds lonely.”

“Well thanks,” said Dean. Cas turned his face quickly away at the sarcastic tone. Gaze drifting with the breeze along the dark grass outside the open window.

Dean relented. It wasn’t like Cas had it wrong. “I just didn’t want to be around home, I guess,” said Dean. “Nights especially. When it’s too dark to ride. Too early to sleep.”

“I’d bike through the city,” said Cas, voice subdued. Deep and quiet as the country dark. “In the middle of the night, when I couldn’t sleep and it was quiet. It felt like a different place.”

“Like a bicycle bike?” Dean said. He gave a laugh. “You were such a grad student.”

“I can’t tell if that’s an insult,” said Cas, but he looked over at Dean with a very faint smile.

Cas looked forward again. “Night in the city isn’t like this,” he said. “Brighter. Louder.”

“Which do you like better?” said Dean. Knowing the answer.

“This,” said Cas.

“Then stay,” said Dean.

Cas turned his face, eyes meeting Dean’s. Some part of Dean thought he should look away or say something glib, but he couldn’t.

Cas’ gaze dropped to Dean’s lips. His body shifted a fraction. An infinitesimal gravitational turn towards Dean.

Dean realised all of a sudden that Cas was going to kiss him.

Oh, that was bad. Dean would have to turn him down.

When Cas kissed him, he would have to say, No, Cas, I’m not like that.

He’d break it to Cas easy. Cas wouldn’t be a dick about it, wouldn’t make it weird. Maybe if Dean found just the right words, they’d still be friends after.

Dean couldn’t believe he’d misunderstood all this time. They got so close over the past six weeks that Dean could sympathise with where Cas was coming from. Dean hadn’t meant to give him the wrong idea, but it couldn’t be helped now. Hadn’t Dean had some crossed wires too? It was a normal thing. They’d both get over it.

When Cas kissed him, though, how would he react to that? Of course, he had to end it fast. Just… It might take him a moment to process. It would just be so unexpected.

Cas would be so different from kissing a girl. He might be— not pushy, not rough, but rugged. He had stubble, which would be so noticeably masculine. The proportions were all different, the space he took up was different. Would he put his hands on Dean? Where would he touch? His shoulder? No— his waist. Cas would put his hands on Dean’s waist, his hips. It would make Dean’s head swim and he might not react right away. It would give Cas the wrong idea, when Dean didn’t pull back immediately, but he’d just be so surprised.

There might be a moment where Cas hoped it was reciprocal. Dean would have to explain about being in shock. Dean was going to leave Cas confused and betrayed, but he wouldn’t mean to. Poor Cas didn’t deserve that.

Cas’ lips weren’t parted, but there was a question lingering around his mouth. He still hadn’t leaned forward to kiss Dean. He half-started to turn his face away.

Dean slid across the space of the seat between them and kissed Cas.

Cas’ mouth was—

Dean’s lips drew away. Cas’ followed in their wake and met his properly.

Cas’ mouth was softer than expected, his stubble rougher. Dean felt it against his chin and under his hand, which he hadn’t been aware of raising to Cas’ cheek. If his thoughts raced, he didn’t know what they were supposed to be telling him. He just wanted more of Cas’ kiss. Wanted it deeper. Wanted it forever.

He smelled like he had before, in the garden, like sage but also more like horses this time. His hands—they were such big and steady hands—slid past Dean’s waist to circle around him, holding him closer by the small of his back. Dean lost a desperate hum against Cas’ mouth.

He was supposed to be telling Cas he wasn’t like this, but he didn’t want to stop. With every thump of his heart in his chest, he wanted less to give this up.

And Cas, kissing back like this, so deeply. He must have wanted this. Wanted Dean. Thought about Dean at least half as much as Dean thought about him.

The rush of it, the deep velvet heat of Cas’ mouth, the impression that he could taste Dean’s heart on his lips, that he could reach into Dean’s chest with a hand and scoop out everything that made him spark with life and hold it golden and dripping from his hands, that Dean would hand him anything—

Dean broke his lips away, a sharp gasp shuddering into his throat. He fisted his hands in Cas’ shirt. He pushed himself backwards, breaking out of Cas’ hold.

“That wasn’t—” Dean said. He didn’t know what he intended to mean. “We can’t do that,” he said. “I’m not like that.”

It was the line he’d rehearsed.

“Dean—”

“Don’t.” Dean couldn’t look at Cas. He didn’t dare, not when he already had the impression from the corner of his vision of flushed lips, dreamy gaze still in a trance.

“If you—”

“No.” Dean slid back to the driver’s seat. He turned the keys in the ignition. His hand shook.

“We can talk—”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” said Dean. He reversed the truck to make a turn back onto the narrow road.

“Dean, let me—”

“No, Cas,” said Dean, voice raised. Branches snapped against the windshield. The truck bumped along the rough path in a way it hadn’t before when Dean drove in with greater care. “Just stop.”

Dean wouldn’t look over, but he could tell when Cas turned his face and looked out the window. It was a relief not to have to think about the expression he wore.

At the edge of town, Cas said, “Let me out. I can walk from here.”

“I’m driving you home,” said Dean. It was barely another minute.

Cas didn’t argue with him. When they stopped outside the laundromat, Cas rested his hand on the door latch and paused.

“Will you let me—”

“No,” said Dean.

“Thought so,” said Cas, and got out.

Dean didn’t watch him go up the alley to reach the apartment staircase, but he didn’t pull away either. After a few moments, a lamp illuminated one of the shaded windows at the side of the apartment. Dean turned his head to look, waiting.

If Cas came back down, he’d—

If Cas came down those stairs and got into the truck and said, “Drive,” Dean would take him anywhere he asked.

If he came down those stairs and around the front of the truck to Dean’s open window and he leaned through that window to kiss Dean again—

Dean closed his eyes. Pressed them tight.

No one came down the stairs. Dean drove back to the ranch.

Notes:

» so that Richard Siken excerpt has been quoted to the point of parody but you have to understand what it meant to the author the year it came out. when I earnestly read the entire poem out loud to my friend Jeff, who drove us around rural backroads through the night. you cannot expect me to be normal about it

Chapter Text

When I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it and the hunger for it… and then the warmth and richness and fine reality of hunger satisfied… and it is all one.
— M.F.K. Fisher, The Gastronomical Me

Dean ached. Sleep wouldn’t spare him, evading his reach. He spent the night stretched out on his back in his bed, hands in his hair or over his face, trying to forget how it felt to kiss Cas.

Was he trying to forget or was he just holding on tighter to the memory?

Every moment lingered in detail. From when he closed the distance on the bench seat and kissed Cas—it was Dean that started it—to that first pause, then reconnection. A gap of time that felt like an eternity in the moment. Had been less than a second in reality. Cas kissed him back with more passion than Dean had felt with anyone. The phantom of that kiss haunted his lips even now.

That thrill. This heartache. Was this what he was supposed to feel with Lisa?

He covered a hand over his eyes again.

He knew. He knew the way he liked girls wasn’t the same, was never enough. Always wondering if the lack-lustre affection was something everyone felt. Something that would grow over time if he just stuck it out.

It was nothing compared to the way that he wanted Cas here. Wanted Cas to kiss him again. Wanted Cas in his bed with the kind of burning desire he’d never summoned up for a girl.

His mouth felt stained, besmirched, like it should look different if he were to see it in a mirror. This kind of colossal shift made his past self a sudden stranger, but he should have seen it coming. Like an iceberg calving, separating from an ancient ice sheet. Invisibly inevitable, undermined by warm waters with the fatal rift unseen before it’s too late; impossible to return from and leaving both sides indelibly changed.

He’d half-known. Shoved it down, explained it away, didn’t consider it directly. Until now, when he had no other choice.

It was miserable. Isolating. He’d never felt so alone. Dean lay in the dark, the country quiet nothing compared to the tempest in his head. Sam and John slept in their rooms down the hall and Dean could never tell them this.

It wasn’t something he could pursue. He’d been cruel to Cas, but he had to be. What else was he supposed to do? Think he could just kiss Cas without consequences? They couldn’t date. They couldn’t love each other. It wasn’t allowed. He couldn’t ask for a life like that. He might just as well ask for his mother back.

Dean got up—grey under the eyes—with first light and did his chores. John left for coffee near nine, likely prepared to boast all morning long about his sale to Monroe Styne. Dean went inside and picked up the phone, nervous as it rang through. Four, five times. Maybe no one was home.

“Hello?”

Picked up just before Dean could convince himself out of it.

“Hey,” said Dean. “Cesar? It’s, uh, Dean calling. Winchester.”

“Hey Dean Winchester,” said Cesar.

“I was wondering… I was wondering if we could make those conchas?”

“Oh? Well, sure. When were you—”

“Today?” said Dean. Cesar had Mondays off, he’d said. “Could I come today?”

There was a pause over the line. “Sure,” Cesar said. “But bring some eggs.”


Dean didn’t ask how many eggs he needed to bring. He took two dozen from the fridge just to be sure.

He’d only gone to Cesar and Jesse’s place the once, but he remembered the way. The laneway you’d almost miss, then the long passage through woods before you reached the lush, green pasture. This time, Dean knew the names of the horses he spotted grazing in their paddocks.

He pulled up next to the house and got out of the truck, bearing the two egg cartons in his arm. He hadn’t entered the house the last time he was here. He wondered if things would’ve played out differently if he had. If he would’ve glimpsed something that gave him a clue about Cesar and Jesse earlier in the game.

As if that might give him some clue about himself. If only anyone had thought to tell him.

Cesar opened the door as Dean crossed the patio.

“You’re fast,” he said.

“We have chickens,” said Dean. “There’s always eggs. Is this enough?”

Cesar laughed. “More than,” he said. “Come in.”

Dean followed Cesar inside. He couldn’t pretend to hide his curiosity, although he couldn’t say what he expected to find.

The furnishings inside were masculine and rustic. To his left was a comfy living room with a stone fireplace and low couches. There were colourful patterned blankets folded over the back of a couch, draped over the arm of a chair. An old-fashioned painting of horses and cowboys in a sparse grassland hung on one wall, and there were little decorative touches, like the small iron sculpture of a running horse that sat on top of a long side table.

He felt homesick for something he’d never had.

“Is Jesse here?” Dean found himself asking. He tore his gaze away from the living room.

“Working,” said Cesar, leading the way through a door into the kitchen. “These will be a nice surprise when he gets home.”

Dean paused a few steps into the kitchen, stung with bittersweet jealousy. Cesar had a long counter along the wall for working at, broken up by the kitchen sink under a large window that looked directly out at his horses. There was a large kitchen island as well—more room to plate food, to serve guests, or for two people to sit up at and dine when it was just themselves.

He had a wall oven that opened at standing height. Dean hadn’t seen those outside of home magazines.

“Quite the shiner you got,” said Cesar, gesturing at his cheek.

“Eldon punched me ‘cause his horse died,” Dean answered absently, still lost taking in the kitchen. There were photographs on the fridge, including one of Cesar and Jesse standing in front of a beautiful mountain view, each with an arm wrapped around the other’s shoulder.

“That was too bad,” said Cesar, full of regret. “Though I don’t see what it has to do with you.”

“Wrong place, wrong time,” said Dean. He felt strange thinking of the fight with Eldon. It seemed impossible that it had been less than twenty-four hours ago. He’d been a different person. “I’m just unlucky, I guess.”

“Or… That guy’s just a dick,” suggested Cesar.

“Or that,” said Dean with a hint of an absent smile.

“Well. I hope you came here prepared to learn,” said Cesar. “And not just sit around and eat.”

Dean came back to himself. “No, I am,” he promised.

“You do much baking?”

“I— Yeah. I do.” He cleared his throat, coming to the counter and setting down the eggs. “I make pies. And muffins and cobblers and things. I do the cooking at home. But I like making pies best.”

“You ever made bread?”

Dean shook his head. If Karen had been given more time, perhaps she would’ve taught him.

“Okay,” said Cesar. “Bread’s a little different. It isn’t hard, but it takes time. You gotta leave it alone, let it rise. I figure I can get you to help me with some farm stuff in between.”

“Okay,” said Dean.

“Here,” said Cesar, handing him a plain black apron. “You can wear this one.”

The recipe Cesar brought out was written in Spanish, but the words were simple enough that Dean got the gist. He measured and mixed the flour, yeast, sugar, and salt while Cesar explained the basics of how yeast worked to make the bread rise. How it rose faster in a warm room, how too much salt would slow it down.

Dean wouldn’t have been able to follow this recipe out of a book. It required another’s guidance. Just like Dean knew without being able to explain when the pie crust was perfect, Cesar had a special sense about when the consistency of the dough was just right. Not too sticky, not too floury.

They left it to rise on the counter next to the stove and Dean went out to the barn with Cesar. There were a small handful of two-man chores he’d put off and been meaning to get around to when he and Jesse weren’t so busy with work. A little extra hauling and some finicky repairs. Re-hanging a stall door that had been a thorn in his side for months now. Dean was good at this kind of thing, accustomed to looking after such tasks around the ranch, and likely cut down the time it would have taken otherwise.

Cesar agreed to go with Dean out amongst the horses, climbing the gate into the pasture. Cesar called over the mustang—Indy, short for Indigo, for his blue roan coat—who came up to them with no fear. Cesar stroked his nose while Dean’s fingers scrubbed back and forth between his shoulders. He still had a slightly thicker coat than other horses, though it wasn’t as rough as when he first arrived. Cesar had been brushing him and taking good care.

“Look, he seems so sweet, but he still won’t let me put a saddle on him,” said Cesar.

“He hasn’t been ridden yet?” said Dean.

Cesar shook his head. “He doesn’t mind a rope or a halter, and I got him onto some spoken commands. He’s fine with me approaching from the side empty-handed, but I step near him with a saddle and he bolts.”

“So don’t use a saddle,” said Dean. “Try him without.”

“If he doesn’t like a thirty-pound saddle, how do you think he’d feel about a guy who weighs six times that?”

“But he’s not shy when people come close,” said Dean. “Just saddles. So… No saddle.”

Cesar considered the horse but didn’t look particularly sold.

“Can I try it?” said Dean.

“Can you ride the mustang bareback?” said Cesar. “Yeah, that’s gotta end well.”

Dean slid his arm in slow strokes over the horse’s back, watching for his reaction. Even when he used more pressure, even when he wasn’t easily in sight, Indy didn’t mind.

“I have a good feeling about it, Cesar,” said Dean.

“Fine,” said Cesar after a moment. “But wait a minute and let me get you a helmet. Not that you’ll get up on him, but in case you do…” He turned to cross back towards the barn.

Dean stroked Indigo’s neck, still standing at his side and locking his gaze with the mustang’s. One dark brown eye looked steadily at Dean.

He was calm right now. He was ready. But he was a horse accustomed to movement, and he wouldn’t wait around for Cesar to return.

Dean told himself it would mean something if he could do this. If he could ride this horse, he could…

Face anything.

Beat the odds, square up against every unseen danger. He’d be unfettered. What he wanted, he could have.

Conversely, if he failed, it went to show that he was kidding himself. That everyone else was right. That the thing to do was shutter himself in and never see Cas again.

He needed to know which it was.

Dean placed his hands on the horse’s withers and gave over to a complete transmutation. He became another part of the mustang. No longer in his own body. He moved from the ground in a fleet motion, pulled himself up to sit above the horse. Indigo startled, moving forward two steps, then back, but Dean didn’t let it spook him. Said ‘whoa’ to make the horse stop in place. He kept his seat steady, his weight even. Indy wasn’t used to having anybody on his back, but Dean made himself unobtrusive.

He pet down the horse’s neck, and Indy turned his head to eye Dean. That look said everything. I’m giving you a chance. Don’t fuck this up. Dean kept the weight of his body low as he pressed his knees and said, “Walk along.”

Just like that. Indigo gave one indignant whinny, then walked as if Cesar were leading him on a rope. When Dean took him into a trot, then into a few long galloping strides, it felt like something breaking free in himself. Amidst all the other questions in his life, he knew what he was good for.

Cesar came out of the barn with a helmet in hand, then stopped to watch.

Dean let Indigo pick their direction, asking him to canter as they followed the length of the fence, then used a hand to make Indy turn, walk, then slow to a stop near Cesar.

Dean slid from the mustang’s back, an exhilarated smile on his face as he combed a hand over Indigo’s black forelock.

“You’ve got something to prove, Dean,” said Cesar.

Dean shook his head. “Not anymore,” he said.

The adrenaline wore off gradually as they returned inside, a post-rush mellow taking its place. Thought and emotion dulled by spent energies; the frantic maelstrom that had occupied Dean’s mind for so long now had peaked and blown itself out.

Dean washed his hands again in the kitchen before pulling on his apron, now as much to keep the farm away from the bread as the flour away from his clothes. They were onto the second part, following Cesar’s instruction to prepare the topping out of icing sugar and shortening. They would divide the dough, place the flat topping on each bun, and slice the surface before letting the bread rise a second time.

Dean was quieter as he rolled the dough into balls, working in sync at Cesar’s elbow.

If he could face anything, he should start with this.

“Cesar, can I ask you something?” he said.

“Sure,” said Cesar. Always simple, always ready.

“How did you know you loved Jesse?”

Cesar didn’t answer right away. He looked up from the buns and studied Dean for a moment. “Do you mean how did I know I love men, or how did I know it was him?”

Dean shrugged his shoulder very briefly like he was indifferent to the subject at hand. He wouldn’t look up from his work though, lips pressing together, a frown in his brow. “I dunno. Both, I guess,” he said.

Cesar kept up his gaze a few moments longer, then returned to the dough. He lay down the topping and sliced it with a concha cutter. “First one was hard. Took me a while. I was a bit of a late bloomer. I was the guy who dated every girl in my sixth-grade class, for, like, a week each. I don’t think Jesse was the same. He says he just knew, ever since he was a kid. He didn’t ever try to be anything different.” He shook his head. “I was in my twenties when I admitted it meant something I was dreaming about the guys around the farm and not the girls I brought to the movies. Just to actually, you know, watch the movie.”

Dean nodded his head. He took the concha cutter from Cesar, finishing off his half.

“Jesse, though? That was easy,” said Cesar. “His smile. From the first time I saw it, I knew I wanted to see that smile my whole life.”

Huh. Dean had never seen Jesse smile.

Cas had a good smile. Across his mouth it was rare, it was fleeting. But sometimes it came up in his eyes in a way that was just for Dean.

“Got another question,” said Dean.

Cesar nodded his head.

“Why doesn’t Jesse like my dad?”

Cesar let out a breath of the air he held. “Dean,” he said. “If I tell you, you’re not gonna be able to unhear it. You know that?”

“Yeah,” said Dean. “I know.”

“Okay… Jesse’s an EMT, right?” said Cesar. “A few years ago, he was called in after a pretty nasty bar fight. It was this dive a few towns over. Your dad and some other sucker. Sounded like John had a concussion, real banged-up, caught a broken beer bottle or something.” Cesar gestured his hand up and down as if to say it was a real mess. Dean could believe it. “He was in rough shape, probably couldn’t even stand on his own. Jesse went over to see him, but… he refused medical help.”

That still sounded like John, but it didn’t explain why Cesar looked so uneasy.

“And…?” said Dean.

“Said he didn’t want to get AIDS.”

Dean felt it like the kick to his stomach that it was meant to be.

“Cesar,” said Dean. “My dad’s such a piece of shit. I—”

“You’re not him,” said Cesar. “I know that. Jesse knows that. But his coworkers, they heard it. Knew what your dad meant by what he said. They see a lot of drunks, of course, saying all kinds of shit, but Jesse didn’t like the questions it raised. It changed things at work, a bit. He wasn’t out to them, but now he figures they know. Know enough, at least. Don’t talk about it or anything, but it’s some sort of… you know. Don’t ask, don’t tell.”

Dean’s hands fell away from the counter. The conchas were ready to rise then bake and he didn’t have anything left to keep his hands busy. Dean turned away from the baking trays and wrapped his hands around the counter behind him.

“You okay, Dean?” Cesar asked, leaning his hip against the countertop. “I’m thinking you didn’t turn up just to make conchas.”

Dean lowered his gaze to the floor. The words caught under his tongue first, before he could force them out to say, “Cas and I kissed.”

Cesar gave that a moment, nodded his head, as even about this as he’d been about everything else. “When was this?”

“Last night,” said Dean.

Cesar actually laughed, fast and light, looking out the window over the sink. “Wow, Winchester, you don’t waste time.”

“What?”

“You’re here right now instead of with Cas, which tells me you’re freaking out. But you couldn’t last a day without asking the first gay man you could think of for advice.”

Dean wanted to say it wasn’t that simple but Cesar had a point.

“Do you know if Cas is— is—”

“Gay? Not my question to answer,” said Cesar. “Let me ask you this, though. How’d he act about the kiss?”

Dean felt a flush in his cheeks just thinking about it, let alone talking about it out loud. “Well, he kissed me back. He— He wanted to talk, but I iced him out.”

“Okay,” said Cesar, slowly scratching at the side of his beard. “Okay,” he said again decisively. “Let’s not cry over the conchas. It’ll kill the yeast. We’ll go outside, have some lemonade.”

Dean took off his apron when Cesar prompted him to and handed it back over. He couldn’t act without being told how, body mutely automatic but mind reeling at what he’d said aloud. An admission he couldn’t retract. The world felt liquid and surreal and he watched Cesar stir up a batch of lemonade and pour it with ice into two mason jars like he was part of a silent film.

“Come on,” Cesar said, handing Dean a glass of lemonade and gesturing his head towards the door. He led the way out onto the patio that flanked the length of the ranch house. Two deep wooden chairs angled on either side of a low table gave them the same view of the barn and horses as they’d had from the kitchen. Dean sat back in one, looking out at the horses grazing in their paddock and feeling exhausted, his sleepless night catching up with him.

Cesar wasn’t nosy by nature, not the kind of person to force a conversation. He gave Dean a few moments of brooding before he said, “What’s on your mind?”

Dean glanced briefly over, then let his gaze rest sightlessly back on the landscape ahead. “Everything,” he said. “I don’t even know…” He crossed his arm loosely over his stomach. “Wondering… why it’s like this. Thinking how much my dad would hate me for this. I didn’t mean to be this way, and what if I’m just confused?”

“Do you think you’re confused?” Cesar asked, pressing on that one.

Dean felt the truth in his heart, in his throat. He shook his head.

“Are you thinking about talking with Cas?” said Cesar.

“I don’t know what I’d say,” said Dean. His lips pulled back in half a grimace. “Like, what can I say?”

“You could tell him what you’re feeling, to start.”

Dean didn’t know if that was a place to start from. He felt too much.

“I dunno,” said Dean. “Where are we supposed to go from here? We can’t date. We’re both…”

“So you can’t make out in the back of a movie theatre,” said Cesar. “Or take him to the high school reunion. There’s other ways you two spend time together, right?”

Horseback riding. Study sessions. Swimming in the river. Thelma & Louise. All those moments of just him and Cas that would’ve been spoiled with anybody else’s company.

“I guess,” he said. He tapped his fingers against his glass of lemonade, a restless urge building under his skin. He just wanted to be with Cas. With nothing specific he wanted to say or do: just to be within reach of him and have the reassurance of his presence. He wanted Cas in his sight so he wouldn’t lose him.

“Me and Jesse can’t always live like other couples,” said Cesar. “We don’t draw attention going out around town. We’re careful about who we invite up here. But day-to-day… We love each other. Just like anybody else.”

“What you have up here,” said Dean. “It’s nice. The farm and everything. I didn’t use to think… I mean, sometimes the world makes it seem like… Like gay guys are always…” He didn’t know how to say it. There was just one form to follow, repeated in news and media and popular parlance. That gay men were always artistic, gregarious, metropolitan, well-groomed.

He fumbled out, “Like Liberace or something.”

Cesar laughed outright, although Dean hadn’t been trying to be funny.

“Sorry,” Dean said. “You’re not like that.”

“I think I know what you’re trying to say,” said Cesar. “I know a lot less people like Liberace and a lot more like you and me.”

“Really?”

Cesar nodded. “You know, a couple weeks ago Jesse and I were in Denver,” he said. “For the Rocky Mountain Regional Rodeo. You might not have heard of it. It’s a gay rodeo. It’s not even new. It’s been running for sixteen years.”

“A gay rodeo?” said Dean, not sure he’d heard right.

“Yep.”

“How’s it different?”

“It isn’t,” said Cesar. “Except maybe a drag beauty for Ms. Rodeo Queen. We’re all just a bunch of cowpokes who want to be ourselves and win a bit of prize money being thrown off a bronc. It’s not as big a rodeo as that Hearts & Spurs Stampede, but it’s more fun. The socials… It’s a nice thing to see everybody dance with their partners.”

It swept Dean back viscerally to the night of the Hearts & Spurs dance. Watching Cas from across the dance floor as if to see him would be enough to close the distance between them. Like he could swap out their partners by locking eyes. God, how deep had he been in this, and for how long? He could’ve kissed Cas that night. He could’ve kissed Cas a hundred times before.

“What I’m trying to say,” said Cesar, “is that right now there’s some things that maybe you’re afraid of. Isolation. Rejection. Prejudice. I’ve felt all that too, of course I have. I want you to know what I wish someone had told me. You aren’t alone, Dean. You’re not doomed. And you don’t have to change for anyone.”

It meant more than Dean could say to hear it. So much he had no easy room to cast doubts or challenges, nothing ready to ask. He gave a sombre nod of his head, just once. He finally took a drink from his lemonade.


They each ate one of the fresh conchas after they came out of the oven. They tasted even better than Dean remembered. Cesar gave Dean a couple of containers to pack up the conchas in and walked him out to his truck.

“Thanks, Cesar,” said Dean, depositing the containers on the passenger seat by reaching through the open window. “For everything today.”

“Call anytime you need,” said Cesar. He paused, looking Dean over, then gave a shake of his head. “Hey, Dean, c’mere.”

He opened his arms and Dean almost stepped back. People only got this close to him to land a blow, to leave something like the bruise from Eldon’s fist that purpled the ridge of his cheek. Instead Cesar hugged him.

Dean’s arm wrapped around him in turn, barely used to this, eyes wide and blankly looking in the distance. He couldn’t say why he suddenly thought of his mom. Wondered whether she’d hug him like this if he’d told her all he said to Cesar today. His eyes sank closed.

“You’re gonna be happy, Dean,” said Cesar, patting Dean’s back as he drew away from the hug. “Remember that.” Dean’s eyes desperately tracked Cesar’s face as he stood back again like he was waiting for the trap door to release from under him. For the ‘gotcha’ moment that revealed none of this was real. Instead, he saw Cesar’s trustworthy brown eyes creased at the corners, the kind of smile on his face that a proud father would give his son.

For the first time today, Dean’s eyes stung. He hadn’t wanted to cry. Everything caught up with him and as he nodded his head, the only response he could give to Cesar’s words, one tear streaked in a fast, straight line down his cheek. That was all, although if he’d tried to speak he likely would’ve fallen apart. Cesar, understanding without having to hear it all, put a hand on Dean’s back and walked with him to the driver’s side door.

Cesar leaned on the open window after Dean got in and said again, “Anytime you need, you call. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Dean. “Thanks, Cesar.” He cast a glance at the two containers in the passenger seat. Thought of Cesar’s comment earlier, which he hadn’t read into. There’s other ways you two spend time together, right? A question, sure, but one built on an underlying assumption he had scant evidence to make.

“Hey Cesar,” said Dean, looking back out at him. “Has Cas ever talked to you about me?”

Cesar took a few steps away from the truck, a cheeky smile on his face. “How about you ask him that?” he said.

“Cesar,” said Dean. “Come on. That’s not fair.”

“Let me know how it goes.”

“I thought we were friends,” said Dean. He should’ve asked earlier. He should’ve annoyed Cesar into telling him everything. Cesar backed further away, amused with himself, raising a hand to wave goodbye. Dean gave a frustrated huff and started the truck.


Dean drove past the laundromat and around the block once before he managed to actually pull up at the sidewalk.

The chances were good that Cas was at work. In fact, Dean was relying on it. He would leave the conchas on Cas’ doorstep and it would say… something. Enough. A stopover until Dean actually found the words. A gesture that said Dean wasn’t mad at him, a code that he hoped Cas understood.

Dean didn’t have a plan for what he’d do if Cas was at home. Cas would surely hear him coming up the stairs. If he opened the door, what then? How would Dean explain himself? Would Cas pull him inside, push him back against a wall, and kiss him again?

Dean got out of the truck, holding the container more tightly than needed as he walked up the alley to reach the back of the building. He’d visited Cas’ apartment multiple times to study for his GED. He could picture taking his usual seat on that low, green futon only to have Cas kiss him, leaning him back against the cushion, making out like that until—

Dean reached the place where Cas’ motorcycle would be parked only to find it empty. Cas wasn’t home.

That made this easier, surely.

Dean went up the steps, not trying to be quiet. He paused on the landing. Listened, wondering if he’d hear anything inside.

He could hear someone else’s TV from one of the neighbouring buildings. The heavy whirr of the laundromat’s air conditioning below, and the scented air venting from the dryers.

Dean set the container down on the small, round table on the landing. He pulled the scrap paper and pen he’d taken from the truck’s glovebox out of his pocket.

He had no idea what to say. He stood there and thought about it for longer than he cared to admit. Finally, he wrote: I made you bread. Dean.

He stuck the note under the container and capped the pen. He turned and hurried down the stairs and back to the truck before he could change his mind.

Chapter Text

Is it you on the other end of the line
     hesitant to speak to me, pausing for a moment
to register my hello so you know my number
     stayed the same, my last name remains mine?
— Margaret Hasse, “Hoping to Hear from a Former Friend”

John’s vehicle wasn’t there when Dean got home from Cesar’s. He left his own container of conchas on the counter then headed upstairs, trying not to think about what Cas would do when he got home. Would he call Dean? Would he ask him over? Maybe they’d go for a drive again. Or what if it wasn’t enough? What if Cas was too mad at Dean to accept the gift at face value?

Dean stopped at the top of the stairs. The small spare room at the end of the hall, which used to be the nursery, stood with the door hanging open. Something thumped from inside. Dean crossed down to the room, stopping at the door frame.

Sam shoved a milk crate full of old vinyl into the closet. A set of dated bedsheets with a floral print, still folded from the linen closet, sat on the end of the old-fashioned iron bed tucked under the slanted ceiling. Sam had opened the window, letting in some fresh air.

Dean folded his arms and leaned against the door. “Downsizing?” he asked.

“No,” huffed Sam, heaving the crate up on top of another box within the closet. “Getting it ready.”

“For who?” Dean asked.

“My friend Charlie is coming to visit.”

“Charlie?”

“From school,” said Sam, backing up into some wire hangers and knocking them down from the rail, barely catching them before they hit the floor.

“Oh, so,” said Dean, “a nerd-friend.” He scratched at his jaw and frowned. “Dad’s okay with that?”

“He was in a good mood about that sale he made, so I saw I had a chance and asked,” said Sam. “I’ve been sitting on it for ages.”

Huh. Sam was smart, after all.

“How long’s this friend of yours staying?” asked Dean.

“A week,” said Sam. “Do you have any plans tomorrow?”

Tonight Cas would get home and see the conchas. He might call. He might not. He might ask to see Dean tomorrow. He might tell Dean he never wanted to see him again.

“No,” Dean said. “Why?”

“Can you drive me to the airport?”

Dean froze.

Red painted the interior of his brain like a hall lit by emergency lights and sirens.

How would he tell Sam that he couldn’t drive to the airport? He’d say John needed him, of course. He’d come up with some job that couldn’t be put off. He’d offer to buy a bus ticket. He didn’t have loads of cash, but he didn’t want Sam to think he was just being a jerk.

“Dean?” said Sam. “Dad said to ask you.”

Dean blinked. He tipped his head. A trap. It was some kind of trap. “Dad said that?”

“Well, I asked him and he said you could do it,” said Sam.

“Dad said it was okay for me to drive you?”

“What’s the big deal, Dean?”

“Nothing, I just… I thought he might need me for something,” said Dean. He found it suddenly hard to swallow. “You’re sure he said it was okay?”

Sam gave him a weird look. “Yeah, I’m sure,” he said. “I was counting on him not wanting to do it. I’d rather be in the car with you than him. It’s a hell of a long drive when he’s there.”

“Yeah,” said Dean. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“And it’ll be great for you and Charlie to meet. I think you’ll get along.”

“Except I’m not a nerd,” said Dean.

“Except you totally are,” said Sam. “I’m your brother. You can’t hide anything from me.”

Dean snorted. Oh, Sam had no idea.

“By the way,” said Dean. “You’ve got the wrong sheets. Those are full and the bed’s a twin.”

Sam looked at the folded sheets, then back at Dean. “Does it matter?”

“Yeah it matters,” said Dean. “And you’ve gotta find something for a bedside table. I think there’s a lamp in the attic I can bring down, too. You gotta, you know, make it nice.”

“Only you,” Sam muttered.

Still, when Dean got back with the lamp, Sam had rustled up a suitable side table.




Dean brought it up over supper, making careful and deliberate mention of the fact he’d be driving with Sam to the airport to pick up his friend Charlie. He needed to be sure Sam hadn’t missed some important, innocuous detail.

John replied off-hand, “Better you than me.”

So that was that. Simple. Inconsequential.

Dean picked at his food and tried not to glance in the direction of the phone. He made himself finish the plate because it was more essential than ever that he didn’t draw attention by placing even one toe out of line. The secrets he now harboured made him feel like a criminal. Like he sat in the same room as the evidence of his crime, sweating lest the investigators uncovered some clue he failed to hide.

As badly as he wanted Cas to call, he feared it too. He stuck around in the living room after dinner watching TV with Sam where he could see the phone desk. It wouldn’t even be a good thing for Cas to call while everyone was around. John outside drinking beer and listening to the game. Sam guessing Jeopardy answers ahead of the contestants.

Dean wouldn’t be able to talk to Cas the way he wanted. And what if he gave something away by total accident despite that? His voice would betray him. His entire being would.

The phone never rang.

By late morning, when Dean and Sam left for the airport, Cas still hadn’t reached out.

Dean tried to take his mind off it. It would help to be on the road. He couldn’t let on to Sam that he was distracted by anything out of the ordinary. They stopped at the Video & Variety for road snacks: sweet & hot jerky, dill pickle chips, blue gatorade. Sam, heathen that he was, lambasted Dean’s choice selection of a package of licorice. Apparently that fancy school couldn’t teach him everything.

It was a familiar route to the airport, given he’d made the trip just two-and-a-half weeks before. It went faster with Sam in the truck, distracting him from thinking about Cas and what he might be doing right now.

He’d be at work. Either at the clinic or out on somebody’s farm, checking their sheep or cows or horses. He’d be busy, not thinking of Dean. Even if he wanted to call, he wouldn’t have the time.

Possibly, he didn’t want to call.

“Wasn’t that the exit?” asked Sam.

“Shit, already?” Dean moved over to catch the next one.

They parked at the airport and checked the Arrivals board for Charlie’s flight. The plane from San Francisco landed ten minutes early, and baggage was quick here. There was a good chance the passengers were already through.

Dean had the idea that Charlie would look a lot like Sam, just with glasses or something. A fifteen-year-old boy with dark hair who hadn’t grown into his limbs. He kept an eye out for solo travellers who fit this vague impression but was right to suspect that Sam would catch sight of his friend first.

“Charlie, hey!” Sam called out suddenly, waving an arm.

The person who came running, despite the heavy luggage hampering each step, was very little like Sam. Charlie had long red hair and an expressively cheerful face. She was tiny and would’ve made a good jockey on account of it. She turned her face so as not to smother herself against Sam’s chest when she greeted him with a hug.

“Sam!” She pulled away. “You have no idea how good it is to be here. My whole summer’s been green juice and crystals—my aunt’s new boyfriend got her started, don’t ask—and you made this place sound like pretty much the opposite of that. You’re my hero.”

“You won’t find any of that around here,” Sam said with a laugh. “Charlie, this is my brother, Dean.”

“Dean! Good to meet you.” He got a hug too, quicker, but no less bubbly. He inexplicably felt like he’d just gained a little sister.

“Charlie,” he said, returning the brief hug, then offering a hand out for her bag. “Your flight… Flight okay?” He said it like he sincerely doubted it could be.

“The world’s driest breakfast muffin aside, no complaints,” she said.

“We’re out this way,” Sam said, leading on.

Dean remained a step back with the bag, letting Sam and Charlie catch up as they walked out together. His eyes flicked between them, trying to work out the pattern. Trying to gauge the atmosphere between them. Sam couldn’t have mentioned that Charlie was a girl? Did John know that when he okayed her visit?

Dean loaded her bag into the bed of the truck. Being the smallest, Charlie ended up in the middle seat.

“Ooh, licorice,” she said, snatching the package up off the dash. “Is this up for grabs?”

“See?” Dean said to Sam. “Someone has taste.”

“And it’s not either of you,” said Sam.

Charlie mock-gasped. “You don’t like licorice?” She turned to Dean. “He doesn’t like licorice? Dean, tell Sam I’m no longer speaking to him.”

Dean laughed, nudging her with his elbow. “You’re alright, Charlie,” he said. He guided the truck onto the highway, letting the wheel slide back into place under his hands as he came off the spiral of the ramp.

“Sam told me you raise horses,” said Charlie.

“Yeah, our dad’s a breeder,” said Dean. “You ever ridden a horse?”

“Does a pony-go-round at a sixth birthday count?” Charlie asked.

“I’ve gotta nix that, sorry,” said Dean. “Been on farms much?”

“You’re just going to tell me playing SimFarm doesn’t count either,” said Charlie.

SimFarm?”

“It’s a computer game,” said Charlie. “You know, SimCity’s country cousin?”

Dean shook his head.

“Dean doesn’t use computers much,” said Sam. “I don’t even know if he can find Solitaire.”

“Whatever you’re talking about, I’m sure it’s very funny,” Dean said, a little snide.

“I admit,” said Charlie, getting back to the topic, “that as far as country life goes, the Wilderness Experience was probably my only taste of it. And there weren’t even any cows.”

“Okay, well we’re somewhere between the wilderness and the city,” said Dean. “And actually mostly like neither.” He rolled his lower lip between his teeth. “You two were on the trip together?”

“Yeah,” said Sam. “Most of the other students on the trip were next year’s seniors. Charlie was the only person my age.”

Dean looked over between them. “You dating or something?” He had to ask it. He couldn’t read the air between them.

Charlie burst out laughing. “No way,” she said. She put a hand briefly on Sam’s arm. “No offence,” she said. She turned back to Dean, still wearing that permanently buoyant expression. “I’m a lesbian.”

“Whoa,” said Dean, at the same time as Sam said, “Charlie!” in an urgent tone of voice.

“What?” said Charlie, hair flipping as she turned to look at Sam again.

Sam wore a strained expression, looking between Charlie and Dean. “She’s not serious, Dean—”

“What?” said Charlie.

“Dude,” said Dean.

“You were joking, right Charlie?” said Sam, giving a nod of his head to prompt her.

Charlie tipped her head and wore a scoff. “What’s your damage, Heather?” she said.

“Yeah,” said Dean, gleefully latching on. “What’s your damage, Heather?”

“Dean—” Sam started.

“Were you just joking around?” Dean asked Charlie, taking his eyes away from the road to look level at her. Dead serious, now.

“No, point in fact,” said Charlie. “I wasn’t.”

“Cool,” said Dean and looked back at the road. “I’ve never met a lesbian before.”

“That you know of,” said Charlie.

“That I know of,” Dean corrected, smiling faintly.

Charlie whipped her sharp gaze back to Sam. “Care to explain what that was all about?” she asked.

Sam slumped low in his seat, a hand over his eyes. “I don’t even know anymore,” he groaned. “I just— This isn’t San Francisco, Charlie. Where we’re going, you can’t just tell people that kind of thing. People are closed-minded. Traditional. They’re not okay with anything different.”

“Dean seems fine,” said Charlie.

“Yeah that was… unexpected,” said Sam.

“Hey now,” said Dean. “Just ‘cause I don’t go to your fancy school, you think I’m mean?”

“That’s not what I think,” Sam said. “I just… Around town, you hear a lot of ‘gay’ this and ‘faggot’ that. And if that’s what you’re always surrounded by… You’ve never left, you know?”

Dean’s mouth became a straight line. This conversation cut too close, but he couldn’t get out of it. Hearing words like that from Sam…

And it pissed him off, being treated like an asshole hick just because farming meant something to him and he didn’t want to leave.

“Yeah, well,” said Dean. “A man can make up his own mind, wherever he is.”

“Sorry, Dean,” said Sam. “And it’s cool. That you’re fine with it. But back me up here. Charlie shouldn’t mention it to everybody.”

Dean eyed Charlie. Envied that she said it so openly to a stranger, face bright and beaming. It was true that maybe she was too used to whatever circles she ran in, too used to the city and her arty private school, and blown up with the self-confident convictions that came of being fifteen years old, when authenticity mattered more than sense.

She looked despondent now, that sunniness dramatically gone from her eyes. She spoke before Dean could: “Maybe I wasn’t going to mention it to everybody I met, Sam,” she said. “But you didn’t make a big deal about it before this and I figured your brother wouldn’t care either. You’re the same family.”

“Yeah, we are,” said Sam. “But that doesn’t mean… Like, for instance, you can’t tell our dad.”

“Oh,” said Dean, eyes on the road but barely thinking about the straight highway ahead. “Yeah. No.”

“I see,” said Charlie. Dean felt her eyes flick over his profile before she looked back at Sam. “All that to say: no, Sam and I aren’t dating.”

“Sam have a crush on anyone he hasn’t told me about?” Dean asked.

“Eileen Leahy,” said Charlie before Sam could react to shush her. She swatted away his half-hearted attempt to cover her mouth. “He’s learning sign language to impress her.”

“Aw, Sammy,” said Dean. “Why didn’t you say?” He looked at Charlie. “Does he scribble ‘Mr. Eileen Leahy’ in all his notebooks?”

“I don’t know about that, but he did once call her a ‘bitch’ while trying to invite her to his table for ‘breakfast.’”

Sam made a tortured sound from the passenger seat.

“What about you, Dean?” said Charlie. “Any romance woes we can dig up?”

Dean wouldn’t know where to begin, and he wasn’t about to start with honesty. “Nah,” he said.

“Dean’s dating Lisa,” said Sam. “Who is, I might add, way too cool for him.”

Dean’s brow furrowed. He hadn’t thought about Lisa in weeks. Even if he were still stuck in the everyday gossip mill of high school, their split would be old news by now.

“Lisa and I broke up,” he said.

“What? When?” said Sam.

“It was back in May,” said Dean. “Prom.” He hadn’t told Sam about that stuff. It was all wrapped up together in his head. The broken arm. The flunked classes. The break-up. But he was surprised Sam thought they were still together when he’d never mentioned her.

“Then where are you going all the time?” Sam asked. “I thought you were meeting up with her. Like yesterday. You were gone almost the whole day.”

Yesterday aside, Dean had chiefly been sneaking in study sessions with Cas. Grabbing half an hour or an hour when he could get away from the farm. They weren’t even the kind of tryst Sam was making implications about, and that Dean in retrospect wouldn’t have minded, but he didn’t want to talk about them any the more for it. He didn’t want to mention the GED to anyone unless he knew he passed, and even then he might keep it to himself. Sam already assumed he had a diploma.

“I have a life, Sam,” said Dean.

“He really doesn’t,” Sam said to Charlie. “The horses are his life.”

“And when you meet them,” Dean said more loudly, half in the hope of redirecting this conversation, “you’ll understand why. When we get home, we’re gonna load Sam up with antihistamines and all go on a trail ride.”

Charlie gave a squeal of pleasure, gripping Sam’s arm.

“I’m not getting out of this, am I?” said Sam.

“Not a chance,” said Charlie.




John, evidently, had been in the same boat as Dean for not knowing Charlie would be a girl. He met her at supper, after they’d cleaned up from the trail ride. Getting back when they did, Dean didn’t have time to cook a proper meal. He ordered a few pizzas in town and picked them up, returning at the same time as John.

John made a small fuss, although Charlie didn’t pick up on it. Dean knew there was a rebuke in the things John said. How Charlie was an uncommon name for a girl. How Sam made friends in the least expected places. How she’d have to forgive their ways and their mess because, after all these years, they weren’t accustomed to a feminine presence. It rolled off Charlie’s shoulders, either because she didn’t know the history behind it all or because she genuinely didn’t care about John’s opinion. He hadn’t seen much of that before.

Later, John talked to Dean outside.

“What do you think of this business?” he said, jerking his head towards the house, where Charlie and Sam were putting on the movie Dragonheart.

“Charlie seems alright,” said Dean carefully. “It’s like you said. Sam makes friends in unexpected places.”

“This his girlfriend?” said John. “I don’t want any mischief under my roof. I’m supposed to go away for a few days.”

“Yeah?” said Dean, feeling a flicker of hope.

“But now I’m not sure.”

“You know,” said Dean, lips parting as he thought up an excuse. Oh, Charlie would hate it. “She’s a real Christian girl, from what I understand. Saving it for marriage kind of thing.”

“Sometimes they’re worse,” said John.

“I can keep an eye on things here, Dad,” said Dean. It would be the easiest job of his life. “Don’t let her stop you going.”

“You watch them,” said John. “And don’t be afraid to send her home, if it comes to that. Sam’s not getting some girl pregnant out of school.”

“No sir,” said Dean.


While John lingered around the porch, drinking and keeping half a suspicious eye on Charlie and Sam, Dean took care of the evening chores in the barn. It was a warm night with sweat making the cotton shirt under his work clothes cling to him. He heard the barn phone ring, its line shared with the main one in the house. Someone answered inside. A moment later, the barn phone rang again with the different sound of a transferred call.

Dean wiped sweat and hay dust from his face with the collar of his shirt and crossed to the phone. “Hello?” he said.

“It’s for you,” Sam said briefly over the line, then hung up with a click. He had to get back to his movie.

The voice that came over the phone was a low rumble, the sound Dean had been waiting for.

“You made me bread.”

Dean leaned back against the wall behind him, smile stretching across his face. He’d never had a phone call that made his heart beat so fast.

“Yeah,” said Dean. “I did.”

There was a pause over the phone. Cas broke it, saying, “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to talk to me again.” Another, briefer hesitation before he said, “I’m worried I’m saying the wrong things.”

“I wanted you to call,” said Dean, his words dovetailing with Cas’. “I did. I've been waiting since yesterday.”

“Oh. I tried to call earlier today,” said Cas. “There was no answer. I didn’t think I should leave a voicemail.”

“Probably not,” said Dean.

“Dean, can I see you?” said Cas. “I’m not very good over the phone.”

“Not tonight,” said Dean. “Tomorrow?” He’d have time to make his excuses. Sneak away without raising questions. “Tomorrow afternoon.”

“I work until three,” said Cas. “Any time after that, I’ll be here.”

“Good,” Dean said quietly. “Then I’ll be there.”

“Dean?”

“Yeah?’

“I’m not sorry,” said Cas. “Whatever else we have to say to each other, I want you to know that.”

Dean cupped his hands around the receiver, turning his body towards the phone on the wall like he was sharing a secret. “I’m not sorry either,” he said.

He could feel Cas’ relief over the line. It made Dean giddy. He tipped his forehead against the rough boards of the barn.

“You’re in the barn right now?” said Cas after a moment. Neither of them wanting to hang up.

“Uh-huh,” said Dean. Sam must have told him when he transferred the call.

“How are the horses?”

“Good. Quiet,” said Dean. “It’s warm out. They’re saving energy. Got the fans going, though. They’ll be okay.”

“They’re in good hands,” said Cas.

“Worried about Zepp, though.” Dean said it with a sly smile.

“What’s wrong?” said Cas, voice immediately serious.

“Think he might be down with something,” said Dean. “He can’t sleep. Can hardly eat. You know what I think it is? Heartsickness. He’s feeling real bad about the way he acted lately. He’s been a real dick, but that’s not who he is.”

“I see.”

“So he might need a vet to check him out.”

“Sounds like it,” said Cas. Then he said, “This is a metaphor where you’re Zeppelin, right?”

Dean laughed. The smile on his face was so wide and sincere it almost hurt. “I was trying to be subtle here, Cas,” he said.

“I’m not very good with ‘subtle,’” said Cas.

“Okay,” said Dean. “How’s this? I want to see you.”

“That’s good,” said Cas, his voice so low Dean could’ve shivered.

“And…” said Dean. He ran his lower lip under his teeth. It was only them on the line. He’d heard Sam hang up. There was no one else near the barn. Still, it felt dangerous when he said, “And next time I kiss you, I won’t run away.”

“That’s very good,” said Cas.

“God, tomorrow feels far away,” said Dean.

“Yeah,” said Cas. “It does.”

“I gotta finish up in here, Cas,” said Dean, looking around the barn. “But, um, I can’t stop thinking of you. Just so you know.”

“That’s only fair,” said Cas. “I’m thinking about how much bread I have to eat. And you.”

Chapter Text

Do not care if  you just arrive in your skeleton.
Would love to take a walk with you. Miss you.
Would love to make you shrimp saganaki.
— Gabrielle Calvocoressi. “Miss you. Would like to take a walk with you.”

Dean had motivation to finish his morning work quickly. Buoyed by the promise of seeing Cas this afternoon, his brain buzzing with electrifying static whenever he tried to think of it. That same energy coasted him through fixing a proper lunch for the household. The pizza last night felt like a cop-out for Charlie’s first day at the ranch, and Dean wanted to show her what a real country meal looked like.

He also wanted to kill as much time as possible until three o’clock when he could see Cas. He needed to keep himself busy so that he didn’t give himself away by pacing and staring at the clock.

“This looks awesome, Dean,” said Charlie as she slid into her chair. “Sam said he missed your cooking at school.”

“Aw, homesick much, Sammy?” said Dean, mirth flashing in his eyes.

“To be fair, we were on the wilderness trip at the time,” said Sam. “We’d basically been eating hard tack.”

“Dean,” said John, interrupting the three of them. He didn’t look up from dishing up his food. “Meant to say to you about that water line to the barn…”

From there, John dominated the table with work conversations held exclusively with Dean, leaving Sam and Charlie with no openings to speak. Dean responded with brief answers, but John wasn’t looking for input, wasn’t saying anything new that Dean didn’t already know about. It was strange for him to be so talkative over a meal when there wasn’t something specific he wanted.

Dean glanced at Charlie, the only new element in the room. The only thing that Dean could conclude was that John wanted to look big and important for their guest. Wanted to show himself as master of his domain.

And he wouldn’t let up because Charlie sat there unperturbed with an almost canny look in her eyes, without having to say a word. This tiny, smart redhead was throwing his father off simply by virtue of not caring about what he said or did.

“Called the vet’s office this morning,” said John, stabbing up a forkful of potato salad.

Dean’s attention jerked upwards. He tried to school his expression, but his eyes were wide.

There was no reason to phone the vet. The horses looked fine this morning. Their routine vaccinations were scheduled months in advance. If there was something of concern, Dean would’ve noticed. John would’ve mentioned it before this.

Somehow, this had to do with him and Cas.

John figured it out. Called the office to confirm his suspicions, to get Cas fired and sent away, or to say he’d shoot Cas if he came around here.

“Is something wrong with one of the horses?” Dean asked, his voice strained to his own ears. He’d pretend ignorance until he couldn’t get away with it anymore.

“Monroe Styne wanted a pre-purchase exam on Jagger,” said John. “That’s his money to waste, but our time. I’m gonna need you to get out to the barn after lunch and give Jagger a full groom, make him shine. When the vet comes, you can put Jagger through the paces for him.”

Dean’s pulsing heartbeat didn’t slow.

“Which vet?” Dean asked. He felt on tenterhooks just asking; it was dangerous to even think about Cas in front of his dad. “Doc or Cas?”

“One of ‘em,” John said with a careless shrug, slicing the edge of his fork down into his barbequed chicken.

One of them. Great.

“Can I come out and watch?” Charlie asked, looking around the table.

“It’s just a check-up,” said Dean. “It’ll be pretty boring.”

“Sure,” she said. “But maybe if I spend a little more time with this horse stuff, I’ll be able to keep up with dinner conversation.”

She said it so nicely, with a smile like she wasn’t pointing out John’s rudeness. Dean didn’t think John caught it. He underestimated her by far too much.

Dean hid a smile by taking another bite of food, chewing before he said, “Great.”

Charlie joined him outside the barn as he brought Jagger out and brushed his coat, cleaned his hooves, combed his mane and tail. It was easy to keep up with her questions, and it helped him to not overthink the upcoming vet visit.

It would be Doc. Surely it would be Doc. The Stynes, like the Winchesters, had worked with him for longer. An exam on a healthy horse like Jagger would be a walk in the park for Doc. He could leave messier jobs to Cas, as the younger and newer vet at the clinic.

Honestly, Dean hoped it was Doc because he didn’t know how he would cope with having Cas on the ranch. He couldn’t predict his behaviour. He didn’t know if he could control how he responded to Cas. It was hard enough when they were separated, but it would be so much worse with Cas nearby.

Sam came out after washing up dishes inside, joining Charlie out of boredom more than anything else. By the time the tan veterinary truck drove up the road, spotted from some distance, John emerged from the shed to meet the truck in the lane.

Dean stuck around by the horse, keeping his head low and his cowboy hat shaded over his eyes. Surreptitiously, he tried to glimpse past the reflection in the truck’s window as the vet parked. It wasn’t easy to see at first, until the door opened.

He sank into a lean against Jagger as he made out who it was.

Cas.

It was the first time seeing him since they’d kissed.

John met him at the truck, reached out to inattentively shake Cas’ hand. Cas wore that same questionable vest he’d had on the first time he came up here.

Dean should’ve known back then. He’d always been worked up where Cas was concerned.

“Hey,” said Sam, hopping down from the fence he sat on. “That’s Cas.”

Dean told him about Cas when he picked him up from the airport, but Sam and Cas hadn’t yet crossed paths. It hadn’t been on purpose, just a matter of timing. Dean always liked having Cas to himself.

Dean watched it all like a pantomime as Sam jogged over and welcomed him back, as Charlie followed Sam and cheerfully introduced herself.

It was so ridiculous to see Cas swarmed by all of them that Dean turned away and let his hat hide his smile, stroking his hand down Jagger’s broad neck.

It didn’t seem quite as funny when Cas came over and joined Dean at Jagger’s side. Dean didn’t know how to keep from giving himself away in front of everybody. He didn’t know what Cas would do or say, or if Cas would treat him any differently. He didn’t know if he might die from keeping in all the things he thought and felt.

Jagger gave an indignant shake of his head, and Dean realised he’d been clutching too tightly to his halter.

Cas looked at him with the same even, placid expression as always. If there was something more there, it was held in check. “Hello Dean,” he said.

“Hey,” said Dean. It felt like a confession. He had to remind himself this was all normal. No one else could see through their conversation. Hell, even Dean couldn’t see through it.

Dean forced himself to pretend he was fine. He wet his lips. “This is Jagger,” he said.

Cas’ eyes narrowed faintly, surveying the horse’s face, then tipping his head. He reached into his pocket and offered up a cube of sugar. A cheap bribe, considering the thorough examination ahead. Jagger reached his muzzle forward and took it up quickly, and Cas’ hand turned to stroke against his nose.

“Any concerns I should know about before we start?” Cas said.

“None,” said John. Dean nearly jumped at the sound of his voice.

He hadn’t realised how close John was. For a moment, his world had only been the horse and Cas.

Dean had to pay better attention. Charlie and Sam were up on the fence, talking with one another while watching Cas and the horse. John stood with his arms folded, and as Cas picked up his chart and asked about the horse’s medical history, John answered every question like Dean was only there to hold the reins.

That was fine. Dean was better not to say anything—risk anything—in front of John.

John went back inside after he’d given sufficient history for Jagger and Cas began the physical examination. Dean kept the horse calm and in place. His job today gave him an excuse to watch Cas at work. The focus in his face when he listened to Jagger’s heart with his stethoscope, the calm self-assuredness as he checked his mouth and teeth. Cas might not own a horse, but he handled them beautifully. Jagger showed no trace of alarm when Cas tested the sensitivity of his hooves or examined his eyes.

Cas held his pen between his teeth as he flipped over the paper on his clipboard.

“Flexion tests,” he said. “I’ll bend the joint, then ask you to trot the horse on your rope.” Dean nodded, knowing the procedure. He’d never paid so much attention before, though. It was quite a different thing to watch the way Cas’ hands carefully lifted Jagger’s leg and bent the ankle. Hands a sculptor would cast for David. A doctor’s hands put to use.

A mild breeze chased against the warm skin on Dean’s cheeks, against the fine hairs on the back of his neck.

He led Jagger on a rope through the flexion tests. Cas and him were good at this, working in cooperation. The longer they were at this, the more normal Dean felt. They had something to give mutual attention to, to avoid confronting the thing they couldn’t talk about with others here.

John returned from inside the house as Cas checked Jagger’s heart and lungs again after the exercise.

“How’s it looking?” he asked. “Full marks?”

“Monroe asked me to observe him under saddle as well,” said Cas. “But from what I can see, Jagger is a perfectly sound horse. There shouldn’t be any issue.”

“I could’ve told him that,” said John. He checked his wristwatch. “Dean, I’ve gotta hit the road. This has already held me up enough. I’ll be back in a few days.” He leaned closer and pointed surreptitiously towards Charlie and Sam. “And you keep a close eye on those two,” he said.

“Yes sir,” said Dean.

John bid goodbye to Sam sitting up on the fence with only a wave in his direction. He got into the truck where he’d already put his overnight duffel and drove off.

Dean quietly watched his truck disappear, then looked back at Cas. Cas frowned at Jagger, looking him over.

“Something wrong?” Dean asked.

Cas glanced up at him, still wearing that furrowed looked. “Is there someone else who can ride Jagger?” he asked.

It took Dean aback. Why would Cas suddenly doubt Dean’s ability, when he trusted him as a handler till now? “What do you mean?” he said.

“I thought you might not want to ride him,” said Cas.

“Why?” asked Dean.

“Jagger’s the one that threw you,” said Cas. “When you broke your arm.”

It took Dean a moment.

“Right,” he said. He looked at Jagger, wetting his lips. “Right.” He shook his head. “You know that wasn’t his fault,” he said. “So don’t put it as a mark against him in the report. It was me. It was all me. And I’ve ridden him loads of times since and he’s been a great horse. Just gotta, you know, get back in the saddle. And all that.”

“If you’re sure,” said Cas, still looking concerned.

“I’m sure,” said Dean. “Let me grab his tack.”

By the time Dean was back and saddling Jagger, Sam and Charlie hopped down from the fence. Jagger craned out his head to give Charlie’s hair a good sniff while Dean cinched the saddle in place.

“Charlie and I are going to walk over to Bobby’s so she can meet him,” said Sam. “Can you pick us up there in a couple hours?”

It was a scenic walk to Bobby’s, but a long one. Dean understood why they’d want a ride back. “Yeah,” he said. “Call the house when you two are ready.”

He slid a boot into the stirrup and rose up in the saddle as Charlie and Sam crossed down through the orchard, their voices carrying as they joked around with each other.

“I thought you were supposed to keep an eye on them,” Cas said, observing their departure.

“Believe me, they’re fine,” said Dean. “And not who my dad should be worried about.” When Cas looked up at him, Dean flashed a wide smile. He winked, more confident on horseback than on the ground. “Eyes on the horse, doctor.”

He set off into a trot, looking over his shoulder at Cas after leaving him behind. Cas wore a look of amused interest. For a long moment, he simply watched. Finally, he flipped a sheet on the clipboard and started scrawling notes.

Dean asked the horse to walk, to trot, to canter, showing off how well he turned, how responsive he was to the rider. He rounded again so that he’d be in profile to Cas as he picked out a natural obstacle for a jump. This hadn’t even been asked for, but Dean wanted to show off.

Jagger lived for just that kind of thing. Dean shared a focus with the horse as they ran, as he cued the jump, as Jagger soared, then landed with his feet sure and strong underneath himself.

The Stynes would have nothing to complain of. They were purchasing a good horse.

Dean circled back to Cas and hopped down.

“Impressive,” said Cas, although for the moment his eyes lingered on the horse. He lifted his stethoscope to fit his ears again and slid the bell against Jagger’s chest to once more hear Jagger’s breathing and heart rate.

Dean couldn’t take his eyes off of Cas. Sam and Charlie were now long out of sight. They were the only two here.

If Cas were to listen to his heart, it would beat louder than the horse’s.

“A lot of people have difficulty trusting a horse again after a bad throw,” said Cas, finishing up his notes, head bowed over his clipboard.

Dean’s smile flagged. He shouldn’t have made that showy jump. It wasn’t careful of him.

“Are you sure you don’t have any behavioural concerns?” said Cas. “Does he spook easily? Or…?”

“He’s fine,” said Dean, stroking Jagger’s nose. “I’m serious. I’m gonna miss him, actually.”

Cas looked up, smiling faintly. He clicked his pen closed and slipped it below the clip. “Then my exam’s done.”

“So,” said Dean. “Are you off the clock?”

“This was my last appointment,” said Cas. They’d burned away the time quickly. It was later than three, when he was supposed to finish. He looked around them. “Although I seem to remember you mentioning a problem with Zepp.”

Dean laughed. He ducked his head, hopelessly bashful. “Oh yeah,” he said. “The, uh, heartsick thing.” He looked back up at Cas. He’d said he felt bad for acting like a dick, but he said it equivocally through Zeppelin. He owed Cas better. “I freaked out the other night. I regretted it immediately. I’m sorry.”

“Regretted it?” said Cas.

“I mean, shutting you out like I did,” said Dean. “We already said we weren’t sorry about the other part.” Just mentioning it aloud made Dean’s mouth remember the kiss. Like Cas’ lips ghosted against his once more. He sensed it so vividly he half-believed it could be visible from where Cas stood, like the stain of lipstick smeared across his mouth.

“It’s… understandable,” said Cas, which was better than Dean deserved. Cas deliberately relaxed his mild frown. “I don’t think either of us was expecting that to happen.”

“You weren’t?” said Dean.

“Not then,” said Cas. “Necessarily. I’d been thinking about it for a long time.”

Dean smiled again, his recent suspicion confirmed.

Beside him, Jagger mouthed at his sleeve. An insistent presence. Dean lifted a hand to his cheek. “The horse doesn’t wanna hear all this,” he said. “Help me bring him in?”

Dean removed the saddle and bridle, hanging up the tack. Jagger seemed pleased with himself. He drank deeply from the waterer, and Cas gave him an extra scoop of oats and rubbed a hand over his withers. Cas looked at home in the stables, looked natural tending to a horse.

Dean leaned his shoulder against a pillar between stalls and tipped his head. He couldn’t have dreamed up someone he liked better than Cas.

“Hey, Cas,” he said.

Cas looked up in response, hand falling away from Jagger.

“D’you remember what else I said?”

Cas levelled out his shoulders, his chin dipping and his eyes narrowing faintly. He looked to be taking Dean’s measure, confirming that he understood Dean perfectly. He didn’t even know it made him look purely devastating.

“Yes,” he said.

He closed the stall door after himself. In two more steps, he was with Dean. His hands slid to Dean’s hips, his head tipped so that he could kiss Dean again.

This time, Dean wouldn’t run away. This time he met it knowing how much he wanted it.

Dean let his eyes sink closed, let his thoughts drift unmoored. His body slackened against the post behind him. One arm draped over Cas’ shoulder while his other hand cupped around the back of Cas’ neck, thumb lined up with the corner of his jaw.

Dean’s cowboy hat got pushed back, caught between him and the beam at his back. One of Cas’ hands came to rest at his side, at the bottom of his ribcage, the press of his fingers spanning part of his back. He wasn’t rough, but he wasn’t delicate either. His hands were so sure, so definite. They found Dean's edges, his body clarifying into shape under Cas’ attention, transforming from something once uncertain and malleable into something true.

Dean caught his breath when their lips parted, his heart pounding. They kept their faces close, only inches away from another kiss.

Dean’s heart hammered against his ribcage, measured by the press of Cas’ fingertips.

“I didn’t know it could feel like this,” he said.

Cas kissed him again, then once more. Dean’s hat tumbled to the dusty stable floor.

“You asked me to stay,” said Cas, voice so low and quiet it felt like a hum that quivered from the earth. “I can’t remember anyone asking me to stay.”

Dean’s lips rolled in, tasting the colour of Cas’ kiss, his heavy-lidded eyes on Cas’ mouth.

“Does that mean you will?” Dean asked.

“I don’t want to go anywhere else,” said Cas. He kissed Dean again.

Dean felt dizzy and out of sorts in the best way. This was new to him. Although he’d dated and kissed girls before, this all felt like the first. He wasn’t thinking of other things. He wasn’t counting down till it ended. He was trying to take as much of it as he could before it overwhelmed him, hypersensitive to every touch, every kiss.

They broke off again, still sharing breath. Cas’ thumb stroked along Dean’s chin, just underneath his lips, their foreheads leaned together.

“Take a walk with me,” said Dean. There was a whole wide country open to them and no one to mind. This alone was thrilling.

Cas took one more kiss before Dean could take his hand to pull him from the stables.

Cas let Dean pick their direction, unspoken, simply following where he led. Dean felt like he was cheating somehow. That life wasn’t supposed to include this kind of happiness and that he’d conned his way into it. How else to explain everyone going away, and the day stretching out so long and quiet, and Cas being Cas?

“What took you so long to call me?” Dean asked.

“I told you. I tried earlier,” said Cas.

“You could’ve called that night. After I brought you the bread. I thought you would.”

“I did not understand that the bread meant ‘call me.’”

“Obviously it did,” said Dean.

Cas looked at him with a raised brow.

“I brought it to your place,” said Dean. “I made it for you.”

“I was very confused.”

“And it went to show that I talked to Cesar.”

Cas narrowed his eyes in question.

“Did you not get that?” said Dean. “Cas, seriously?”

“You talked to Cesar?”

“They were the conchas,” said Dean, gesticulating with a hand. “That we had when we brought out that mustang.”

“Right, so…?”

“So obviously I’d gone to talk to him,” said Dean, unable to believe that he had to explain it. Waiting for Cas to reveal he was pulling Dean’s leg. “And if I went to talk to him, it was about you and me because of, you know, him and Jesse. You do know about him and Jesse, right?”

“Yes,” said Cas, which was at least something.

“Which meant I was working through whatever it was that made me be a dick to you. And had gotten somewhere and wanted you to know it. So there was, you know… bread.”

“I was supposed to get all of that?” said Cas. “All of that. From: ‘I made you bread.’”

Dean couldn’t help that it made him laugh, body turning away from Cas, though he never lost his stride.

“You talked to Cesar?” Cas said again.

“Yeah,” said Dean. “It was good. I needed it.”

Cas nodded, looking into the distance ahead. “He’s a good person,” he said. “He’s the reason I came here in the first place.”

“Here?” said Dean. “You mean like back then?”

Cas nodded again. They looked at each other as they walked through the tall grass and the afternoon light. Wind tousled Cas’ dark hair and although Dean didn’t raise his hand to touch it, he thought of how now he could.

“I was sixteen,” said Cas. “I had already skipped a grade of school, but I pushed myself to finish even sooner. My parents… my parents made it clear I wasn’t welcome at home. I had a choice between conversion therapy and homelessness.”

“Cas…”

“There was a hotline I called for LGBT youth,” said Cas. “Run out of Chicago. Most of the support for housing and work was in the city, but I didn’t want that. The only time I’d been happy was when I went to the farm camp when I was younger. For someone with no prospects whatsoever, I was very firm about wanting to find work with horses. It’s… strange. We think we’re agents of our fates, but this was total chance. The man I talked to knew Cesar and reached out to him. Cesar couldn’t do much himself, but he knew John Winchester was looking for workhands and…” Cas shrugged. “I ended up here.”

Dean watched him as they walked. The vagaries of chance were the only thing that brought them together. Cas spoke to someone who knew someone who knew someone. And their lives were thrust together, irrevocably altered.

“I always wondered what made you split from your parents,” said Dean.

“We never really saw eye-to-eye,” said Cas “Telling them I was gay was the last nail in the coffin.”

“I can’t believe you told them,” said Dean.

“I was never good at subterfuge,” said Cas. He shook his head. “I was young. Back then, I hoped that they’d understand.”

“Do you miss them?” Dean asked.

“No,” said Cas. “I don’t.”

Dean couldn’t picture it. He couldn’t picture not missing his dad and Sam. He couldn’t picture telling them. He didn’t have the same drive for self-authenticity that Cas had, that Charlie seemed to have. He wanted so badly not to lose the few comforts he relied on, he’d tell every lie he had to just to keep them.

“Do you have siblings?” Dean asked. He couldn’t believe he never asked before.

Cas nodded his head somberly. “I miss them,” he admitted. “I don’t know if they miss me.”

Dean let their bodies brush, arm against arm. His knuckles traced against the back of Cas’ hand. He could take his hand again if he wanted. It still seemed impossible that he could.

“You’re missable,” said Dean. “I’d know.”

Cas didn’t speak to it, but he tipped his head and looked at Dean as if, only as an indulgence to him, he’d take it into consideration.

The field they walked through sloped down towards the river, and Dean veered them closer to the road, to a steep slant where the bridge rose from the gravelly bank. He took Cas’ hand again as he kept his footing, leading him to the cool shadows cast by the bridge, the road over their heads. He smiled as he turned and once more kissed Cas in this quiet, sheltered place. With no one else around in the surrounding empty acres, it felt less like hiding than finding a harbour.

What frightened him so immensely only days ago seemed laughable now. Cas’ presence made him feel excited and safe like nothing else. How could he have doubted, even for a moment, whether he wanted this? For the first time, he understood that feeling he had around Cas in full: wanting him to stay, wanting to be near him, wanting to look at him. Learning what it meant only made the feeling stronger, made it simpler for Dean to understand himself.

He didn’t think of consequences or obstacles. He didn’t think of how it was not only Cas’ presence, but John’s absence. The relief, the freedom. To be at the beginning of it with days ahead where Dean would not be running like a rabbit from the rifle’s sight. Far enough away from John’s return to not even dread the inevitability of it.

Cas leaned his forehead against Dean’s, his hand lost in Dean’s hair, thumb stroking back from his hairline. They kept stealing small kisses, not saying a word, acting like they intended to ease off or play cool but entirely unable.

Cas’ hand slid down, his thumb now tracing underneath the bruise on Dean’s cheek that blackened his eye. It was only the second day and it had become a meaner purple than before.

“I still feel responsible for this,” Cas said.

Dean checked the tremor that passed through him. He lifted his hand and pulled Cas’ away from his face. Cas wouldn’t strike him. He’d seen Cas’ hands working with animals. He’d felt them stretching the taut muscles in his injured arm. They were benevolent, generous hands. But it was all too easy to picture how someone could change on a dime. Dean didn’t want to think of Cas like that.

“Don’t worry,” said Dean. “I’m used to it.”

Cas tipped his head in a way that made Dean hear his own words.

“I mean it’s not like it’s the first time some guy like Eldon has tried to fight me,” said Dean.

“Your dad’s a fighter,” said Cas. “Are you?”

Dean tried to make sure his expression didn’t change. Cas sounded like he knew something, the way he started, but he ended ambivalently. John had a reputation as a brawler, fully merited. Cas would’ve known it from the summer he worked at the ranch. He could’ve heard it in town since. He knew what Jody and Ellen knew, but guessed less. That was a boon.

“I’m not much like my dad,” said Dean. “In the end.”

“No, you aren’t,” said Cas, hand sliding around Dean’s waist. “Which is a good thing.” He pulled Dean closer to kiss again, their bodies pressed. Dean felt insubstantial and weak, on the one hand completely overcome by every breath of contact between them. On the other, he felt solid and eternal, like he’d never been in his body as much as in this moment, not even while riding a horse. Every place they touched existed anew, from hips and flat stomachs to the hungry searching of their hands. The sound of the river water running under the bridge, the smell of wet rock and of Cas, and the taste of his mouth that was now something familiar and known.

Dean drew away first, as ever, breathless and light-headed. Cas’ eyes remained on Dean’s flushed lips, enchanted. Dean smiled.

“Stay for dinner tonight,” he said.

“I have to return the vet truck at some point,” said Cas.

“Then we’ll go into town and I’ll drive you back,” said Dean. He shook his head. “I’m not asking.”

“Okay,” said Cas. Dean smiled wider.

He took Cas’ hand and started him up from under the bridge again, letting go as he turned back up the slope by the road. He looked around, confirming they were still alone. No farmer tilling a nearby field, no truck pulling in for a delivery or a visit. Just some horses in the distance, grazing in the pasture.

In the kitchen he started to work on the food, quickly realising Cas was useless for anything but passing and stopping to exchange kisses and that it made for a dangerous distraction. Dean took twice as long to make everything, and it was only his determination to feed Cas that kept him on task.

Cas still needed to return the truck to the clinic, so when Sam called from Bobby’s, Dean followed Cas into town. He’d drive Cas home at the end of the night and not have to worry about cutting things short. At Bobby’s, Dean let Sam and Charlie ride in the back of the truck, which Charlie was green enough to consider a real treat, while he and Cas remained in the cab.

Their presence changed things. Dean and Cas couldn’t touch anymore, couldn’t kiss, but there was a different pleasure in watching how Sam admired Cas for his academics, how Charlie took to him without a moment’s uncertainty. Dean served a table full of short ribs, roasted potatoes, grilled vegetables. Dishes passed back and forth, second helpings heaped onto plates, the conversation loud and punctuated by frequent laughter. For dessert, Dean set out the berry crumble that had been cooling in the window. They scraped the glass dish clean.

After dinner, Charlie connected the bulky laptop she packed to the dial-up Internet, now that John wasn’t around to complain about it tying up the landline. Charlie and Sam hunched over the screen of her computer, while Dean led Cas out to the pasture to visit the horses.

It was only partly an excuse to be alone again. The colt Cas delivered, Salt-N-Pepa, followed his mother over to them. Like Dean, the horses took an active interest in Cas. Others in the pasture quickly joined to investigate him, as well as search for the treats that Dean brought out and uselessly tried to conceal from the horses.

The evening light turned purple over the emerald green fields, the clouds above them a textured orange and pink and lilac-blue. Cas looked more handsome than ever in this light, stroking his hand over Zepp’s neck as he nickered and shamelessly leaned into the affection.

Dean drove Cas home long after night had fallen. He walked Cas to the door. There were no windows looking onto Cas’ small staircase-patio. Cas leaned against the doorframe and pulled Dean to him and kissed him so deeply that Dean almost followed him inside.

Almost. Not yet.

This was incredible, intense, and overwhelming. These were grown-up kisses. Everything he’d shared before with girls had just been kid stuff in comparison. Under Cas’ eyes Dean thought, anything, I’d do anything. It was precisely this that thrilled him, terrified him. He kissed Cas once more in goodbye and parted, blood warmer than he could bear as he drove home alone.

Chapter Text

Neither knows the other yet. Hence they must tell each other: “This is what I am.” This is narrative bliss, the kind which both fulfills and delays knowledge, in a word, restarts it. In the amorous encounter, I keep rebounding—I am light.
— Roland Barthes, A Lover’s Discourse; Fragments

Sam had the early shift stocking the grocery store and Charlie said she wanted to try her hand at “this farm stuff,” so Dean woke her at the same time as he woke Sam. He drove Sam down to work, drifting off in the passenger seat most of the way, then came home and woke Charlie a second time.

“Up and at ‘em, kiddo,” he said.

“Just five more minutes,” Charlie groaned into her pillow.

Dean laughed. “Nice try. If you’re in the kitchen in five minutes, I won’t dump out the coffee.”

To her credit, Charlie stood in the kitchen five minutes later, dressed in a yellow t-shirt and a pair of denim overalls with her hair unbrushed and her eyes still closed. Dean put a cup of coffee in her hand and she had to take a sip from it before she opened her eyes properly.

She fit into an old, old pair of rubber boots he found in the closet that had once belonged to him. From the floppy sound they made when she walked, there was still a bit of extra room.

Charlie woke up a little in the brisk morning air, crossing from the house to the barn through the pale early light. Mist in the fields lent a purple tint to the grass. Later in the morning, by nine o’ clock or so, the sun would be hot enough to burn off the mist and paint the ranch in the everyday lustre of daylight. Its brevity made this in-between hour more rare and precious. It was an indulgent and gentle dawning, halfway between the sleeping and the waking world. Crickets whirred and the trilling of spring peepers carried from the river.

They fed grain to the horses in the stables before turning them out for the day. Although wary at first, with every horse she led, Charlie grew more comfortable handling them. She got the hang of the work quickly and didn’t even wrinkle her nose at the prospect of cleaning manure out the horse stalls. When she went in, she went all-in.

The sun rose higher and yellow light came through the barn doors. By their third stall, Charlie had a sense of the routine. The work woke her up more as well, or maybe it was just the ripening morning, which made her chattier.

“How long before we’re finished? Can we go for a ride again today?”

“You’re not sick of it already, are you?” said Dean, scooping soiled straw into a wheelbarrow.

“Delightful though it is,” said Charlie, “I definitely preferred the actual horseback riding.”

“Can’t have the horses without the… this,” said Dean, gesturing around. “Ask Jo to take you. I might head out once she gets here.”

“Jo?”

“Neighbour,” said Dean. “She keeps a horse here with us. She’s working as many hours as she can here this summer.”

“And where are you going to be?” Charlie asked.

Dean shovelled up more straw, delaying his answer by a moment. He didn’t know how much to say. “Might work on this car I have at Bobby’s for a bit,” he said. Then, hoping to sound casual, “Or I might visit Cas or something.”

Cas was off work today. This single thought had occupied Dean most of the morning.

“Cas,” Charlie repeated thoughtfully. She rested her manure fork on the ground, holding onto it and looking up as she rotated something through her head. Her lips twitched in a faint smirk. “He seems dreamy.”

“Didn’t think he was your type,” said Dean.

“Not my type, no,” said Charlie. She rested her hand over the top of the manure fork, her chin on top of her hand. Innocently she said, “But… Could he be yours?”

Dean paused at the question, then forced himself to continue cleaning the stall, not looking at her.

“Why would you ask that?” he said. A shock of nerves skittered through him. Charlie was safe company, but that wasn’t the point. He didn’t want anything that would give him away. He didn’t want to know it was obvious on him, something immediately visible that identified him to outsiders like a mark of Cain.

“I don’t mean anything,” said Charlie. “Just… The way we all talked on the way from the airport. Things seemed kinda tense. I know ‘a man can make up his own mind,’” she said, roughly imitating a low and gruff register with no intention of flattery, “but I wondered if you had reasons Sam might not know about.”

Dean combed straw into a pile for better lifting. He dug the fork in, jostled it to let the straw settle, and unloaded it into a wheelbarrow. He wiped sweat from his cheek against the shoulder of his shirt. He didn’t want to answer and was aware of his non-answer meaning something. Denial would’ve come quick and easy if it were true.

“I wouldn’t tell anyone,” said Charlie. “Just saying… Y’know. Cas seems pretty great.”

Dean still couldn’t decide what to say. Charlie didn’t leave him room for a quip that could keep everything at a distance. He couldn’t connect his brain to his tongue. He was still trying to understand that this was safe, that he wouldn’t invite disaster by being open with Charlie. Yet the danger lingered in the corner of his sight, like he walked shakily along the very edge of a cliff.

He was spared answering as a figure showed up in the barn doors. Jo arriving. She walked up the aisles, unaware of interrupting or of the reprieve she brought.

“Jo, hey,” said Dean, latching onto her arrival. He stepped out of the stall. “Charlie and I got you started.”

“Who’s—” Jo began to say, then cut herself off when Charlie followed Dean out. “Oh.”

“This is Sam’s friend Charlie,” said Dean. “Charlie, this is Jo.”

“Hi, Jo,” said Charlie. She gave a small wave, ducking her head and smiling.

Jo looked at Dean. “What’s she doing here?” she asked, a little sharp, but even more awkward. Underneath her grey cowboy hat, her cheeks turned faintly pink.

“Helping out with the chores,” said Dean, thinking that much should’ve been obvious.

“I don’t need any help,” Jo said. The pink in her face darkened.

Something clicked in Dean. He didn’t know if it was wild speculation or basic math. It wasn’t like Jo to get worked up, and the last time he’d seen her blush like that was when Pamela, the trick rider, chatted with them.

Charlie was nowhere near as intimidating as Pamela, but she was cute.

“Sure you do,” said Dean, training away any semblance of a smile. “Because I’m not sticking around. Jo, you’ll need to show Charlie the ropes from here. I’ll be back later.” He walked to her and handed her his manure fork, then went on past. He turned on his heel to walk backwards for a few steps and said, “I’m gonna drop in on Cas.”

He shot Charlie a wink, letting her have that for an answer.

He didn’t worry about leaving them. He had full trust that Jo wouldn’t keep up the cold act, once she got over her initial surprise. Even as he parted, he heard them beginning to talk. Jo saying, with a note of contrition in her voice, “Hi.”

“Hi?” said Charlie. Thrown off by the harsh introduction.

“Sorry I— I wasn’t expecting anyone else here…”

Yeah. They’d figure it out.

He didn’t want to smell like a barn when he showed up, so he went inside and took a shower, warring between the impatience of leaving and the desire to be found without fault. He put on a pair of jeans he wouldn’t wear for farm work. They had holes in the knees but he had the impression they looked good on him, the way they fit to his hips, his legs. He’d never been so conscious of wanting to appear desirable. He pulled on his favourite t-shirt, a fresh-looking Led Zeppelin one he wore rarely only because he liked it so much.

He studied himself in the mirror. Was it enough? Or was it too much? Would Cas find it obvious that Dean dressed thinking of him? It was just a t-shirt and jeans, yet Dean felt like he was begging Cas to look.

He couldn’t drag out the debate. It wasted time that could be spent with Cas instead. He turned from the mirror.

Downstairs he picked up the phone, smiling when Cas answered, telling him he’d be there in just five more minutes.

He’d made this trip frequently in recent weeks for their study sessions. Days spent with Cas that had been some of his favourites of the summer, despite the fact they were filled with lessons. He parked near the laundromat and took himself up the staircase at the back, as he had so often done.

Never with his heart so eager and full in his chest.

When Cas opened the door and said, “Dean,” Dean entered without a word. Smiling, shutting the door after himself, and greeting Cas with a kiss. He’d gone from never having kissed Cas to being unable to survive without it. Cas matched him in hunger, though. His arms wrapped around Dean as they kissed, holding him as Dean’s shoulders leaned back against the door. Dean’s lips parted against Cas’, ever-deepening their kisses.

The couples in those romance novels never had anything like this.

Cas wound down their kisses, starting to speak, even as he stole kisses between words.

“Dean,” he said. “Dean, we need to study.”

“Study what?” said Dean, brain humming with pleasure, dulled to everything else.

“We’re behind schedule,” said Cas, still plucking more kisses. “For your GED.”

Dean couldn’t believe Cas could still think about that. He lost a smile against Cas’ mouth. “This counts as studying,” he murmured. “I’m getting your smarts through osmosis.” He kissed Cas again. “See? I know what osmosis is.”

“What’s osmosis?” Cas tested.

“Uh.” Dean knew. Sort of. Not enough to describe.

“Your test is in three weeks,” Cas said, arms sliding from around Dean’s waist. He took Dean’s hands instead. Dean had to tear his eyes away from Cas’ mouth. “You aren’t failing this exam just because I don’t want to stop kissing you.”

“I might need study breaks,” Dean said, casting a hopeful look up at Cas. “Lots of study breaks.”

“Then do well on the practice questions,” said Cas. “And we’ll see.”

Dean grinned. A reward system. He could work with that.

Dean sat sideways on the green futon so that he could see both Cas and the book, one foot up and the knee bent, his side leaning against the back of the futon. It was difficult at first to make himself focus on the workbook when all he wanted to study was Cas. The handsome movement of his hands, the darkness of his eyelashes when he lowered his gaze to the pages of the workbook, the way his hair fell across his temple. Cas hadn’t cut it since he arrived. Dean wondered how long he’d let it grow.

“Dean?”

“Hm?”

Dean didn’t even know what he’d missed. Cas took pity on him and reached a hand over the book between them to cradle Dean’s cheek. He leaned forward and kissed him.

Strange to think they hadn’t been doing this the entire time.

Cas sank back to his seat. Apart from wanting to put off his lessons, Dean didn’t know what prompted him to say, “Is this why you were nice to me?”

“What?” said Cas, looking up from the book once more.

Dean shrugged, resting his elbow on his bent knee and tipping his head against his fist. “I mean offering to help with the test and everything. Was it because you hoped you’d get… this?”

Dean meant it in a kind of funny way. To think that they’d ended up here after all. Part of him just wanted to talk about them, to rehash all the moments that led up to the night it all changed. Luxuriate in what they could’ve been, what they could’ve meant. Kissing Cas for the first time altered the qualities of everything that came before it. Dean had missed his life the first time around; he wanted to relive all those moments with a different understanding.

He didn’t expect Cas to look so upset. For a few moments Cas looked confused, unable to find words.

“You think I’m like that?” he said.

“I was just asking,” Dean said. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong. “You said… Yesterday you said you’d been thinking about it for a long time.”

“Yeah,” said Cas. “I had. But— I wasn’t nice to you so I could get something.”

“But you did,” said Dean, raising his brows, trying to be funny.

Cas dragged a hand over his face and made a brief, frustrated sound. He stood up and crossed the small apartment. Into the kitchen, where he paced once, then turned to take two glasses down from the cupboard. He concentrated on filling them with water, not looking back at Dean even though Dean sat there wishing he would.

“Sorry?” Dean said, figuring he should at least try it out, even if he didn’t get for what.

Cas turned off the tap and came back, handing Dean a glass of water, unasked for. Dean let the hand holding it curl towards his chest, gaze following Cas as he sat back down.

“You make me sound like an opportunist,” said Cas. “That’s very—” He got stuck on putting it into words.

He didn’t have to. Dean could feel the revulsion. The insult. He’d wounded Cas.

“I don’t think you’re that,” he said. “Cas, I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” said Cas, looking at him again, still with that perturbed furrow in his brow.

He said he didn’t hate Dean, but Dean’s heart pounded in his chest because he’d messed up. Nothing had ever been as important as this in his life. Every good moment left him exhilarated, but every bad one seized him with the dread of being abandoned. It would be worse, after having had this, to lose it. He couldn’t bear the thought of screwing up so bad that Cas ditched him.

“I’m not good at this,” said Dean, voice subdued. Not wanting to set Cas off if he said or did the wrong thing again. “I’m not used to it.”

He’d never been in a relationship with stakes like this. It wasn’t even that he and Lisa never had an argument during their months of dating. It was that he’d never been afraid of losing anything. He’d always been safe from the consequences, disengaged enough that it wouldn’t leave a bleeding hole in his chest if things ended.

Cas looked away, giving the impression of a sigh without having to exhale. He shook his head and set down his glass of water without having drunk from it.

“I offered to help you because I wanted to help you,” he explained. “I liked to spend time with you. I won’t pretend an excuse to see you wasn’t a bonus, but I didn’t expect anything.”

These weren’t things Dean was used to hearing either. This clarity Cas offered was intoxicating, even if Dean wasn’t out of the woods yet.

“It seemed like you liked time with me as well,” said Cas. “And I— Yes. I always wondered if you wanted what I wanted. I’d convince myself you didn’t, and then you’d go and do something or say something— I wanted to be able to talk about it to you so badly.”

“I kinda wish you had,” said Dean.

“Do you?” said Cas. “Would that have been better or… If we had only talked, would you have pushed me away for longer?” His eyes looked impartial, heavy-lidded as usual, but his mouth made a serious line.

Dean tipped his head, wanting to give a good answer but ending up on a wince instead. That kiss resolved a lot of things very quickly for Dean. Despite his initial reaction, in very short order it was impossible for him to deny how much he’d liked it. Words and ideas wouldn’t have been the same.

“Cas, you gotta know,” he said. “Even if I couldn’t put a name to it, this whole time I’ve been kinda crazy about you.”

Although Cas looked intent on remaining serious, a flicker passed over his face. Flattered despite himself. Dean latched onto it with a smile playing around his mouth. “Probably since I first met you, actually,” he said. “You came back here and I fell right back into it. Trying to come up with reasons to hang out with you and afraid I was annoying as all get out.”

“You were never annoying,” said Cas.

“You can admit I was, it’s okay,” said Dean. “Won’t stop me from kissing you again.”

Cas cracked a smile and relief swept through Dean. Cas didn’t hate him.

Dean took a drink from his water and set it aside, unable to shake the picture of Cas’ face from just moments before. The particular heaviness as he asked whether Dean would push him away.

“Hey Cas?” he said. “I’m sorry I shut you out that night. Didn’t let you talk.”

“You’ve said that already, Dean.”

“I know. But. You must’ve felt awful.”

“It didn’t last very long, in the end.”

“You didn’t know that at the time.” Dean shook his head. To his ears, Cas’ words sounded dull and rehearsed. “I don’t wanna make you feel like that.”

“You were sorting a lot out—”

“You don’t have to apologise for me,” said Dean. “I’m just saying—” He didn’t know what he was saying. That he wasn’t like Cas’ parents who would burden him with rejection for invented shortcomings. He wouldn’t shuffle him away for being who he was or act like he needed to be sent in for repairs.

“I asked you to stay,” said Dean. It had meant something to Cas, hadn’t he said? “I want you to know that I’ll stay too.”

Cas stilled. When he moved it was all at once to reach for Dean, to pull Dean towards himself. Dean’s knee crinkled the papers of the GED workbook. It slid from the couch to the floor as their lips met again. Although Dean was fully capable of saying the wrong thing, it seemed he had the ability to say the right thing too.

Cas’ hands were above the waist of his jeans, under his shirt and grazing against bare skin before Dean managed to kiss away. “Is this studying?” he asked. Voice low. They were so close whispers were loud enough.

“Osmosis,” said Cas.

“I still don’t know what that is,” said Dean.

Cas groaned and manhandled Dean off of him to deposit him back in his spot on the futon. Dean laughed and let him.

Chapter 22

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

When, years later, I read Hannah Arendt, writing (in The Life of the Mind) of “a timeless region, an eternal presence in complete quiet, lying beyond human clocks and calendars altogether... the quiet of the Now in the time-pressed, time-tossed existence of man... This small non-time space in the very heart of time,” I knew exactly what she was talking about.
— Oliver Sacks, “Speed,” from The River of Consciousness

John never said when he’d be back. He never even said where he’d gone. It left his return uncertain and every visit with Cas felt like a stolen moment. Without John around, Dean didn’t have to summon up explanations for having Cas over every day.

On Friday, they took a pair of horses out just to ride for hours. They crossed the river where it was shallow and rode as high into the hills as they could. When they took a break at a lookout, they lay in the long grass with Dean’s head on Cas’ stomach, Dean’s hand toying with Cas’.

Everything was still a first. First kisses to Cas’ fingertips and knuckles. First time hearing Cas’ heart beat beneath his ribs. It was the kind of afternoon that felt like it should last forever.

Saturday, Dean invited Cas and Jo for another big supper. Charlie wore her red hair in an over-the-shoulder braid just like Jo’s, a recently acquired style. The two had taken short rides together twice and Jo lent Charlie a pair of her own cowboy boots that fit her better than anything Dean had to offer. Dean paid attention to them in the same way Charlie sometimes eyed him and Cas. Jo’s initial abruptness left no hard feelings; they were gigglier when they were together than they were separate.

Dean had perfected his burger recipe. He seasoned the food with fresh herbs. Stirred up his own barbeque sauce. Everything tasted brighter and punchier, each mouthful of food the distillation of a long summer evening. They pulled the table out from its cramped place under the window into the centre of the kitchen, lifted the leaves, placed mismatched chairs around so everyone had a seat. Cas sat at Dean’s left elbow, kitty-corner to him, with the radiant sun through the window behind him. He was so easy to look at. It sated something deep within Dean to watch him chew the hamburger or take up another helping of roast potatoes when he had barely just polished off his plate. Cas’ knee bumped against Dean’s under the table, and Dean shifted his foot to twine their legs more closely.

After supper, Cas helped Dean with the dishes while Charlie showed Sam and Jo some game called Myst on her computer. Sam wanted to save up and buy a copy of his own.

If Dean had any kind of money, he’d have got it for him. He wondered if he could talk John into getting Sam a computer for school. He wouldn’t mention the computer games.

From the window, Dean saw Ellen’s Jeep pull up.

“I’ll be right back,” he said to Cas, touching his elbow as he passed behind him. He packed up the last of the dessert in a container and went out the door.

“Hey Ellen,” he said.

“Dean,” she said. “Feels like it’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”

It was true. Dean had been avoiding her since the Fourth of July party. The last time they saw one another was after John’s last sojourn away almost a month ago, when John went off about Cesar then threw Ellen into his line of fire.

“Been pretty busy, I guess,” said Dean. It wasn’t untrue. “Summer always is. I wanted to give these to you.”

She took the container he offered out, lifting the tin lid. “Peanut butter brownies?” she said. “Ooh. You know those are my favourite. There something you’re after, Dean?”

Dean shook his head. “No,” he said. “Just… My dad’s away. And what I mean is, my dad’s a dick sometimes and the last time you were over he— I just don’t want there to be any hard feelings.”

“Well I don’t have any hard feelings around you,” said Ellen. “And I’ve been putting up with John Winchester’s particular social graces for years. But thank you, Dean.”

“Anyway, Jo’s just inside. I can grab her,” said Dean.

“Dean,” Ellen said, stopping him with his name. “You want to sit for a minute?” She gave a tip of her head toward the porch steps.

Dean had the same sensation as when he overheard Ellen and Jody at the party. A cold sweat broke out over his body. He made a weak joke. “I’m not in trouble, am I?” he said.

“No, of course not,” said Ellen. She looked him over for a moment, then moved past him to take a seat on the steps, leaving him no choice but to follow suit.

He sat down uneasily. Night had fallen, but the porch light and the light above the barn cast them in a gold-orange glow. Above their heads, squares of light shone from the windows of the house.

Ellen traced her thumbs against the edge of the dessert tin. Dean thought she wouldn’t say anything, they’d been quiet so long. When she spoke, it was careful and thoughtful. “I was good friends with your mother, you know?” she said. “I think about her often. I miss her. Her spirit, her friendship. I can’t imagine how you must.”

“I only remember a little,” said Dean.

“Enough to know she was a wonderful person,” said Ellen.

“Enough to know that, yeah,” he said. “Why do you— What brings her to mind? Is it… the brownies or something?”

Ellen laughed. “Oh no,” she said. “Mary couldn’t bake worth a damn. I don’t know where you got this gift from.”

“Karen Singer,” Dean said.

Ellen paused, bowing her head a little further. “Karen,” she echoed. “You’ve lost a lot of good folks for someone as young as you.”

Dean looked out towards the paddock where he saw the shadowy figures of the horses that stayed out at night. He hadn’t expected this conversation. He didn’t know the right way to answer.

“It’s how much you’ve grown up, though,” said Ellen. “That’s what makes me think of her.” Dean turned his face back to look at her, meeting her eyes. She said, “You went and became a young man all at once. A damn fine young man.”

Dean knew even less how to speak to that. He wanted to tell her that she was wrong. That he’d failed school and he couldn’t stand up to his dad and he didn’t even like girls, and if she knew all of that she’d take it all back.

“It’s hard for a mother to realise when their kid starts to grow up,” said Ellen. “I think if Mary were here, though, she’d see it in you. She’d be proud of you, Dean.”

“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “I dunno—” He wanted to brush it off.

“Well I do,” said Ellen.

Dean dropped his gaze, telling himself he wouldn’t let emotion carry him away, wouldn’t cry in front of Ellen just because she said his dead mother would be proud of him.

“Dean,” she said, and there was something in the hesitation halfway through his name that made him refocus. “I also want to say that I’m around. If you ever want to talk. If there’s ever a problem you need help with…”

“What kind of problem?” Dean asked. Blunt, in order to test her. He didn’t think she’d say to him the things she said to Jody. Not to his face.

“Any kind,” she said uneasily. “I’m sure there’s things you don’t ask your dad about—”

“Like what?” said Dean.

“Or things you disagree on,” said Ellen, persisting despite Dean’s sudden contrariness. “I’m just saying you know where to find me if you need.”

“I’m fine,” said Dean, looking ahead, jaw set.

Ellen’s thoughtful expression taunted the corner of his vision. “Well, I’m glad you’re fine,” she said. “That’s all I want for you.” She stood up. “I better collect that daughter of mine.”

“I’ll send her out,” said Dean, standing as well. For a moment he remained with her, standing awkwardly on the steps, thinking he should say something. He turned, went up, then stopped again at the level of the porch.

“Thanks, Ellen,” he said. “I just— Thanks.”




Sunday morning John still wasn’t back, leaving Dean to handle Jagger’s sale on his own. Charlie and Sam slept in after a late night playing that Myst game, and Dean went through his morning chores alone, wishing John would turn up before the Stynes did.

No one came up the lane while the time ticked on. Dean returned to the house and drank a coffee on the porch as he waited for the Stynes to pull up. He’d taken care this morning to brush Jagger to a shine and clean up his hooves. The Stynes had been given the bill of health and John had the post-dated cheque waiting at the bank. The only thing today would be loading Jagger into the horse trailer, and while it wasn’t much, Dean didn’t look forward to seeing the guy who punched him in the face a week ago on his own turf.

He couldn’t help hoping that once Eldon got him home, maybe Jagger would throw somebody. Just once.

Inside the house, someone came downstairs and clattered around the kitchen. After a few minutes, Sam came out to the porch with a cup of coffee. He wore pyjama pants and a faded t-shirt he absolutely swam in. He collapsed into one of the porch chairs, his coffee sloshing dangerously close to the edge of the cup. He yawned without bothering to cover his mouth.

“Hear from Dad yet?” Sam asked.

“Not yet,” said Dean. “Thought he’d be here to load Jagger, but… I wish he’d at least say when he’d be back.”

“Or tell us where he’s going,” said Sam. “That’s weird, right?”

Dean pressed his lips together. He enjoyed the freedom too much to complain about it.

Sam yawned again. “Charlie thinks he’s seeing somebody,” said Sam.

“What?” said Dean, looking over his shoulder.

“Says maybe he met somebody. Long distance or something.”

Dean shook his head. “It’s gotta be about business,” he said. “Looking at stallions or new equipment or something. He wouldn’t leave work behind this long.”

“Sure he would,” said Sam. “He’s got you to pick up the slack.”

Dean frowned at his coffee.

“I mean, you already do most of the work around here,” said Sam. “Between the house and the horses, it’s no surprise you only have one friend.”

Dean intended to protest, but he got stuck. “Do you mean Jo or Cas?” he asked. He had to know where Sam was at.

“Okay, two friends, I guess,” said Sam. Not clarifying which he thought of first. “But they’re both people you work with, which is ideal for you.”

“Wow,” said Dean. “Somebody’s bitchy before his coffee.”

Sam took a long, purposeful sip from his cup.

“I’m just saying, maybe you don’t see it,” said Sam. “He knows he can drink more because you’ll make up for it. And he knows he can take off for a few days and you’ll keep everything running because that’s what you already do.”

Dean tapped a nail against his coffee mug. “You think he drinks more than he used to?”

“He definitely does,” said Sam. “I’ve been away for long enough to see the changes.”

Maybe Sam was more perceptive than Dean sometimes gave him credit for.

“It’s a sweet deal for him,” said Sam. “He used to have to pay and put up a couple of workhands or seasonal guys, right? That bunkhouse has been empty for two years.”

“A pipe burst,” said Dean. The whole thing needed refinishing. Water damage everywhere. Cas had stayed in that bunkhouse six years ago. It didn’t sound like it had been much to boast about then. “Anyways,” said Dean, “He’s got me and Jo now.”

“With you doing twice what one ranch hand would do,” said Sam. “Honestly, I don’t know how you made it through school with all Dad expects of you.”

Dean’s coffee tasted cold and bitter. He dumped the last of it over the railing. “I didn’t know you paid so much attention,” he said.

“Of course I pay attention,” said Sam. “I’m your brother.”

It was the second time Sam had said something to the effect. Dean’s first instinct was that he should therefore be careful around Sam in order not to give him any further clues about Cas, about things with John. Sam had witnessed some of the darkness before. Dean successfully shielded him from receiving it, but not from seeing it. It was enough to give young Sam nightmares, to find him crying in his bed after watching John mete out punishment against Dean. Leaving Dean to comfort Sam and promise he wasn’t in any danger and that Dean was fine, could handle it, it looked worse than it was.

He’d kept up the lie that it ended years ago. It wasn’t always easy, but the incidents were infrequent enough Dean could get away with it. There had been a few good years before Sam left where the farm was busy but breaking even on income and John didn’t drink as much. Where Dean’s mistakes were met with shouting and stern reprimands but rarely bubbled over into a thrashing. John’s disfavour in a sober state of mind meant withholding attention, praise, money. Denied a field trip or told he couldn’t leave the house even to go to Bobby’s. Consequences that Dean didn’t have to worry about Sam seeing or being so scared of.

Dean looked after the accounts when his broken arm put him out of work. Tracked the better sales and lowered debts of the past year over the ones before. It was a strange pattern, almost counter-intuitive, that years when the profits were bigger, John was worse to deal with.

It was dangerous to have Sam pay too much attention, but there was another part of Dean that wanted to tell him everything. Tell him about failing school but preparing for the GED. Tell him about the broken arm and Zeppelin losing sight. Tell him that if he had the means, he’d take Sam and the horses and get the hell out of here.

Tell him that Cas made him the happiest he’d ever been.

Sam didn’t mind about it with Charlie. But maybe he’d be different when it was his own brother.

Dean looked down below the railing where he’d dumped his coffee into the dirt. He found himself saying, “Wish you wouldn’t go away in the fall.”

That snapped Sam out of his objective, observational mood.

“I like my new school,” said Sam.

“And you like the city,” said Dean.

“I like not being allergic to it.”

“And you like the people there better than the people around here.”

“Everyone we went to school with are a bunch of inbred redneck assholes,” said Sam.

“Stop,” said Dean. “There are good people around. You wouldn’t know it.”

Sam huffed, evidently not in agreement.

“I’m here,” said Dean.

Sam looked over with a complicated expression on his face. “Yeah, well. So’s Dad.”

“So that’s enough to cancel out?” said Dean. His voice shook as he said it. He looked swiftly away. His eyes stung and a frown pulled at the corners of his mouth.

“I just wish you were out on your own,” said Sam. “Instead of doing everything for him all the time. What’s he ever done for you?”

“He raised us,” said Dean. “He did it on his own. Maybe he’s not perfect, but the house, the farm, the coffee you’re drinking, the clothes you’re wearing. That’s what he’s done for us.”

“He did the bare minimum,” said Sam. “It’s not enough to say ‘He’s our dad’ and leave it there. I don’t even like him. If I met him on the street, I’d hate him.”

“Don’t say that shit, Sam,” said Dean.

“And the way he raised us. The things he’s said in front of us, the things he’s done? And all the ‘Yes, sir. No, sir.’ Like a drill sergeant. He wanted soldiers he could order around, not kids. I’ve told my friends at school about him and they—”

“What did you tell your friends?” Dean asked, twisting around.

“That I would’ve killed for parents that gave a shit about my grades and my future, for one,” said Sam.

“I give a shit about that,” said Dean.

“You’re my brother,” said Sam. “Not my parent.”

Dean wanted to argue that. Strange that a simple fact made him feel so cold.

“You shouldn’t talk about Dad like that to other people,” said Dean.

“Why not? I’m just saying the truth.”

“Because... They’re outsiders. They wouldn’t understand him,” said Dean.

“What’s there to understand?” said Sam. “Can you hear yourself, Dean? Why are you defending him?”

Dean’s lips parted, sure he had an answer. His mouth twisted into a grimace and he had to turn away from Sam again.

“You never loved this place,” said Dean. “Maybe that makes it easy for you to leave it all behind. But the horses, the fields, the big sky, the quiet… I can’t give that up.”

“You had all that,” said Sam. “But I didn’t. So I saw what was right here.” He nodded towards the front door. “It’s a jailhouse. Run by a prison guard who’s always angry and mean and drunk. This place is polluted. I see you… I see you sweeping out the corners and trying to make it nice and pretending like it’s a real home, but it isn’t. As soon as your back is turned, Dad just fills it up with all his bullshit again. He’s not even grateful to you.”

“Stop it, Sammy,” said Dean. “Just stop.” He couldn’t listen to it any longer. He started down the porch steps. “I’m surprised you even came back,” he shot over his shoulder.

He faced ahead again so that he could rub at the hot tears in his eyes. He made for the barn where Sam wouldn’t follow.

The smell of the horses and hay that repelled Sam comforted Dean. He knew himself here. He could escape all the accusations and criticisms Sam doled out. Sometimes Sam reminded him of John. So focused on being right all the time they didn’t care who caught the shrapnel.

Dean washed his face over the sink in the feed room. A visit from the Stynes seemed suddenly more bearable than having to go in and look Sam in the eye again.

When he heard them pull up with the horse trailer, he had almost collected himself. He dabbed away the cool water from his face and went out.

Monroe, although surprised at John’s absence, quickly pressed for a tour of the stables and property. Dean didn’t know if John would’ve turned him down, but Dean was too worn thin to come up with excuses. Eldon followed a step behind his father while Monroe eyed up the facilities, the horses. Dean didn’t imagine there was much he could find fault with. When it came for care of the horses, the Winchesters had always invested in quality provisions.

“You have fine, healthy horses,” said Monroe. “Good bloodlines. Physical health and performance are important to us, you know.”

“It’s our business,” said Dean. He couldn’t help adding, “We’ve got a good vet.”

“Percy’s dam turned up with some eye problem,” said Monroe, careless of Eldon’s reaction. A tightened jaw, eyes turning away. “The vet scooped out the unhealthy eye, but they still breed her. I think it looks poorly. We never would’ve bought Percy if we’d known. They should put the mare down.”

“Blindness— It’s not a death sentence,” said Dean. He couldn’t stop himself. He had to say it. “There have been blind horses that could ride through a jump competition with no faults.” His gaze flicked between the two Stynes, both of whom looked ready to say something. Dean beat them to it, “As long as they had a rider who’s actually worth something.”

Dean ended his tour with that, heading back outside without seeing if the Stynes followed. He kept Jagger in the paddock by the stable with Zeppelin for company. He swore the two horses knew they were saying goodbye as Dean approached. Heads close together like conspirators, sniffing one another and sure to remember the scent. John would’ve called it childishness, but Dean hoped they’d meet again one day.

Monroe returned to open up the expensive horse trailer while Dean attached a lead to Jagger’s halter. Eldon stood with his arms folded, squinting at the house.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

Charlie came down from the porch, a perpetual bounce in her step, even if she looked mismatched in her cowboy boots from Jo, yellow-plaid shorts, and rainbow-edged t-shirt.

“New girlfriend?” Eldon said. “Major downgrade from Lisa. Really scraping the bottom of the barrel, Winchester.”

“You know something? You can shut the fuck up.” Dean said it with a slack voice, exhausted more than anything. “You’ve got your daddy’s money, you’ve got your fancy trainer, and now you’ve got the best horse you could’ve asked for. It ain’t my fault you can’t just buy yourself a girlfriend or the kind of personality somebody else could stand.”

Eldon’s face pinched. He flicked a glance at Charlie, who slowed in her approach as she sensed the stand-off between the boys.

“You know, there’s something off about you,” said Eldon. “Something that ain’t right. The way you quit, the way you disappear. Backing out of competitions before I could beat you square. The way no one’s ever been good enough for you around here. You think you’re something special, even though you’re just cornfed hick trash. There’s something you hide. One of these days I’m gonna find out what it is.”

Eldon was smarter than his gang of friends. He knew Dean better through years of school and meets and he knew Dean’s world. If this were Nick or Cole, Dean would roll his eyes and forget about the threat. With Eldon, it was serious.

“You sound sort of obsessed with me, Eldon,” said Dean. “People might find that a little queer.”

He threw in the word as a weapon, even as it left the taste of blood and danger on his tongue. It had the intended effect of making Eldon step back.

Charlie, who heard them, moved closer to Zeppelin by the paddock fence. Dean led Jagger into the horse trailer and removed his halter, stroking his fingers through the horse’s mane one more time.

“Give him hell,” he murmured.

Seeing Eldon climb back into the expensive truck came as a relief, but it stung to watch Jagger go. Dean stood with Charlie at the fence and watched the horse trailer depart.

“Whew. Something about those guys,” said Charlie, shaking her head. “I thought this place was more Anne of Green Gables, but they’re all Mississippi Burning. Gives me the heebs and the jeebs.”

“I’m with you,” said Dean. “Come on, kid, let’s go in. You had breakfast?”

“I should say no so that you make me some kind of down-home gourmet meal, but I literally just ate,” said Charlie. She walked in step with Dean to go back inside all the same.

“I’ll make it up to you at lunch,” Dean promised. “What do you and Sam have planned for today?”

“Honestly? Nothing, I hope. A girl needs time to catch up on her message boards,” said Charlie. “I’ve essentially been AFK for a week and people are going to think I died.”

“AFK?”

“Away from keyboard,” said Charlie.

“Ah,” said Dean. Sam wasn’t around the main floor when they came in. Just as well. Dean could hear the shower running upstairs. “What’s a message board?”

“You know, like an internet forum? Websites where like-minded people can just hang out.”

Dean gave a faint nod of his head, though it was hard to picture ‘hanging out’ by sitting in front of a computer screen.

Charlie made for her laptop, which remained hooked up to an extra phone jack. “Especially when you don’t have a lot in common with the people around you, they’re kinda… nice,” said Charlie.

“What do you talk about?” Dean asked. He lingered in the doorframe like he was about to go do something else. He couldn’t help his curiosity though. She opened the laptop and booted it up.

“There are a few different boards and chat rooms I go to,” said Charlie. “Techy ones, of course. People building their own computers, hacking the government, that kind of thing.” She clicked an icon to connect to the internet. Dean frowned not only at her comment, but at the weird dial-up sounds emanating from her computer.

“Joking, of course,” she tacked on. Then, under her breath, “Mostly.” She began to type, her fingers flying across the keyboard as a few programs opened up on her laptop. “There’s lots out there for D&D geeks and even a huge Moondoor forum. But there are also, you know, chat rooms for queer teenagers who might not have other people to talk to.”

Charlie looked over at Dean again, her meaning perfectly clear.

Dean took a steadying breath. “Yeah, well,” he said. “Maybe I’ve got people to talk to.”

He didn’t expect Charlie to shoot up from her chair and throw her arms around his middle, putting all her tiny force into crushing him with a hug.

Dean couldn’t pretend that hug didn’t mean something. He squeezed an arm around her in return, smiling faintly against her red hair.

It was funny how little it took with the right people. A few words changed everything.

“Was I onto something with Cas?” Charlie asked, drawing away.

Upstairs, the shower turned off. Dean had to be more cautious. “Yeah yeah,” he said. “Enough of that. You’re not getting me online, so you know.”

“There are probably a whole bunch of horse forums,” said Charlie.

“Wait, really?” That made him pay attention. Message boards about horses. People exchanging ideas about riding and care and different breeds. Maybe a few pictures. Things that weren’t big or glossy and wouldn’t necessarily be printed in books and magazines. Huh.

“I can dig around a bit, let you know what I find,” said Charlie.

Dean looked distrustfully at Charlie’s laptop, wanting to be skeptical. “Maybe later,” he said. He tapped his fingers against the door frame. “Call me old-fashioned,” he said, “but there’s such a thing as phones. If I need to, I might call you.”

“Dean Winchester,” she said, “you’d better.”




John came back Sunday night. He bitched about the drive—no one but himself knew how to behave on the road, after all—but he seemed in good spirits.

“So where were you?” Sam asked over dinner, and Dean sensed something deliberate in it. Sam was making a point about being left out of the loop.

“Minnesota,” said John, not bothering to look up from his plate.

“And… What was in Minnesota?” said Sam.

Dean wanted to roll his eyes. John would tell them in his own time if it was relevant.

“Some old business,” said John. He reached for the salt and added more to his food.

“To do with the ranch?” asked Sam. He hadn’t taken another bite since he started.

Charlie sat at one side of the table looking awkward, and Dean had an inkling of how she felt.

“To do with the family, as a matter of fact,” said John. He wiped the side of his hand against his lips and sat back. “Thought I’d wait on our guest to leave before I mentioned it, but since Sam is just dying to know, I guess we’ll have it out now.”

Dean’s food lost its flavour in his mouth. His gaze flicked to Charlie first, wondering if he should get her out of here. He had no idea of what Sam stirred up, and he didn’t want to find out. He didn’t have time to make an escape plan. John spoke with his eyes fixed on Sam as if to say that this was his fault if he didn’t like what he was about to hear.

“There’s a woman out in Minnesota that I’d like to bring around here for you to meet,” said John.

Charlie’s eyes rolled expressively towards Sam as if to say, ‘I told you so.’

“Kate Milligan,” said John. “She’s a nurse. She fixed me up after I got into trouble at that stock show a few years ago.”

Dean had to think back. Unless there was something he missed, it was five or six years ago. It was hard to believe John held a candle for her all this time. They must have reunited more recently.

It didn’t change the fact that Dean wasn’t prepared to welcome a new person here just like that. All the way from Minnesota, like it was serious.

“She’s who you were visiting?” said Sam.

“Uh-huh,” said John. “Her and…” His eyes flicked once to Dean, then back to Sam. “My son. Your half-brother. Adam.”

The blood left his face. Dean didn’t realise he was still holding his fork until he dropped it. It clattered to the floor and he reached down to pick it up immediately and set it aside. Across the table, Charlie now looked very resolutely at her food, eyes wide, like she might bring forward her morning departure to the present moment through sheer telekinetic will.

“Your—” said Sam. “Our what?”

“Half-brother,” Dean supplied. Voice quiet, mind blank.

“Were you ever going to tell us this?” said Sam.

“How old is he?” asked Dean. His voice remained quiet, almost hollow, compared with Sam’s chagrin.

“How long have you known?” asked Sam.

“When will they come here?” said Dean.

“Well, Sam, I was gonna tell you in my own time,” said John. “I had to sort a few things out before I made up my mind about it. But it looks like taking time and thinking things over are a luxury only some of us get.”

“You’ve invited them here?” Dean asked again. He didn’t want Sam to have the chance to speak beyond that scoff. “When will they come?”

John dragged his eyes back to Dean. “End of the week,” he said. “Come late Friday, leave on Monday. I’m gonna need you boys to be nice and get along with Kate. None of this attitude, Sammy, or so help me.”

Sam looked across at John with his jaw set, his eyes blazing. Dean turned his face away from his family.

He had another little brother. Adam. He passed a hand across his face, squeezing briefly at the bridge of his nose, but quickly pulling himself together. This summer plagued him with new awareness at every turn. His mother’s prayer book, his father’s stray child, the delicate mechanics of his own heart. What further lessons could it plan to teach? Were they somehow all connected, his eyes opening to a world he’d never looked for? Or was this just what it was like to be eighteen and coming into the world?

Notes:

» it has been mentioned to me and I need to state it here: y'all are the best comments section and I am spoiled rotten by every single one of you. theories and highlights and keysmashes are all accepted with the utmost gratitude, so thank you for being great readers

Chapter Text

      In your hands I am a coming vessel,
an empty boat willing to be helmsman or helmed,
moored, made fast—shackled and filled.
— Natalie Diaz, “Asterion’s Lament”

A new pattern emerged that week with John’s return. Dean couldn’t go a day without seeing Cas, but they most often met at Cas’ apartment above the laundromat. Sometimes Dean claimed to be working on the car at Bobby’s—and sometimes he genuinely was: now that he had the parts, the Impala came together like she wanted to be whole again and hit the open road. Other times Dean dropped Cas’ name casually so that he wouldn’t be caught in a lie if Cas called the house or if someone mentioned seeing them in town, not that they ever veered far from Cas’ apartment.

Dean was supposed to be reading about world climates and plate tectonics, but geography wasn’t one of his trickier topics. Dean lay on his stomach across the futon while Cas worked on assembling sandwiches in the kitchen. He’d been at it for some time.

“Did you know there are wild mustangs in North Carolina that live along the ocean coast?” said Dean. “On these islands in the Outer Banks. People think they swam to shore when Spanish boats got shipwrecked in, like, the 1500s.”

“This is on the exam?” Cas asked, looking over.

“They eat seagrasses and things,” said Dean. “Which is how they get most of their water intake. Since they’re surrounded by ocean, they sometimes have to dig in the sand with their hooves to find groundwater they can drink.”

Cas lay a final layer of bread on top of the sandwiches and turned, leaning a hip on the counter and folding his arms. “This isn’t on the exam,” he said.

“Now Chincoteague ponies,” said Dean, “that’s a horse of a different colour. They have the same sort of story as Banker horses but they weren’t brought over by the same Spaniards.”

“I didn’t know we were studying for the Global Equine Diploma,” said Cas.

Dean pushed the GED workbook away from himself. He didn’t want to read about continental drift. “Would it kill them to include a few things I do know on the exam? Who says this stuff is more important anyways?” He sighed and rested his chin on his fist. “Nobody cares about my horse facts.”

“I like the horse facts,” said Cas. He brought over the sandwiches, setting the plates down on the coffee table. He perched at Dean’s hip, placed a hand on Dean’s back, and leaned down to kiss him. Dean twisted to meet it.

Moments like these, the rest of the world didn’t exist. They came so easily. He could be his own person in Cas’ apartment. He could talk about horses and be caressed with touches that were allowed to feel good. Under Cas’ eyes, nothing he did felt embarrassing or unworthy. His body wanted to turn towards Cas like he was the sun, opening to him like a morning glory.

Dean had a smile in his eyes when Cas kissed away, gaze dipping down to Cas’ mouth, then up to his eyes like he could never get his fill.

He was also hungry, though, and had to concede to that at some point. He sat up properly on the couch and Cas handed him a plate. Dean carefully picked up the sandwich—not the most structurally sound he’d seen—and took a bite. He paused after a few chews.

“What’s in this?” he asked.

Cas shrugged. “I dunno. Sandwich.”

Dean swallowed his mouthful and shook his head. It wasn’t necessarily terrible. It was just complicated.

“What’s this?” he asked, pointing to a brown goop.

“Uh. Chutney,” said Cas. “Of some kind. One of the vet techs made it.”

“Uh-huh,” said Dean. He took another bite, morbidly curious. The sandwich still didn’t make sense. He peeled back the bread. Underneath the slices of fresh red pepper were unevenly cut slabs of white speckled with red. “This?” he said, pointing.

“Cheese,” said Cas.

“What are the flecks in it?”

“It looked interesting at the store.”

“It’s a lot of flavours,” said Dean. The cheese itself was peppery, creamy, and tangy. It didn’t work with the shaved ham Cas found for sandwich meat. “And we’ve got… dill pickles. And honey mustard. Cas, how am I supposed to eat this and still kiss you?”

“Like this,” said Cas, closing the distance and pressing his mouth to Dean’s, chasing him with kisses even as Dean burst into laughter and tried to squirm away. Cas tasted like his questionable sandwich. He was going to leave Dean’s skin sticky and smelling of honey mustard as he kissed along his jaw and across his throat.

Their sandwiches ended up hastily set aside after Dean nearly squished his. They gave over to long, searching kisses instead. They were the kind that made Dean’s cheeks flush pink, made his body warm. There were lines they hadn’t crossed yet. They hadn’t touched, hadn’t undressed. Dean didn’t mean to hold out and didn’t think of himself as shy, but he didn’t have experience.

He understood, now, what Lisa had done. Wanting to make it something special. Going to all that preparation because she knew what she wanted and wanted it to count. Only now did he have a sense of how bitter she must have felt.

Cas wouldn’t turn him down when they got there.

But Dean loved this part, too. He loved kissing Cas until he was dizzy from it. Loved how exciting it was to slip a hand under the back of his shirt and trace against Cas’ warm skin. Loved how they ended up now a tangle together, seated and facing one another and leaning their sides against the back of the futon, bowed heads touching. Dean could count Cas’ breaths or every blink of his eyelashes.

“I’ve never seen the ocean,” said Dean. Still thinking of wild horses. “Have you?”

“Yeah,” said Cas. “I went to a conference in Charleston once.”

“Did you like it?”

“The ocean? I liked it,” said Cas. “Do you want to travel?”

“I’ve never been away from home for anything but horse shows,” said Dean. “I can’t stand the thought of planes.”

“There are other ways to get by,” said Cas. He stroked Dean’s cheek with his thumb. “You could visit Sam in California one day.”

Sam had travelled. Sam had seen oceans and major cities and deep wildernesses. Cas, too, had a much wider view of the world than Dean ever had.

“Maybe,” said Dean. “Maybe… If I didn’t have to go alone.”

“You could always ask me,” said Cas. “I haven’t been on a vacation since I’ve been on my own. I think that means I’m due sometime.”

“Hey Cas,” said Dean. He grinned. “Wanna come with me to California?”

Cas laughed, hand stroking over Dean’s hair and coming to rest on the back of his neck. “Yes,” he said against Dean’s mouth, voice low, and kissed him again.




July slipped quietly into August, the long Sunday of the summer. On Friday afternoon, John drove out to meet Kate and Adam, saying he’d be back late. Sam worked an evening shift at the grocery store. It was easier to have Cas over, even for something as innocuous as a trail ride, when there were no questions for Dean to answer in the first place.

Dean called Cas to invite him, but work prevented him from coming over right away; he’d get there when he could.

It would be nice if they had time to take out the horses. Time for Dean to make them supper before he had to pick Sam up at eight.

Dean busied himself by working in the stable to clean and oil the leather tack. It was the kind of thing John didn’t have to ask him to do, that Sam would likely say went to show how Dean kept the place from falling apart, quite literally. Neglected leather dried out and rotted. Rough and cracking leather didn’t give the same signals to the horses. Halters, saddles, and breast collars all collected dirt and sweat in carrying out their essential purpose, but a little time and care could have them like new.

They were beautiful horses. They deserved equipment that matched as a sign of respect.

Dean worked in the tack room and started with the saddles. He cleaned every surface, lifting folds and flaps to wipe away any trapped dirt or grime. He removed the stirrups and the cinch and checked the latigo for elongated holes or stretching over time.

He dipped the corner of a cloth in warmed oil and rubbed it in small circles over the leather of the saddle. Like many things around the farm, Dean didn’t have a written schedule for when this task needed to be done. He just knew. Whether he had an unconscious calendar in his head, whether he saw the leather lighten and draw taut before cracks appeared, whether it gave off a certain smell or feel. It was as if he woke up and the leather whispered to him that today it would drink up the oil and remain soft and pliable again for months to come.

He set aside the gleaming saddles on their racks, then followed with the rest of the tack. The smaller pieces were less complicated and quicker to finish, but no less satisfying to set aside looking almost new. He washed the oil from his hands with the gritty orange soap in the feed room.

He smelled more like himself than usual, like horse and sweat, underscored with soap and conditioning oil. He should shower before Cas arrived – if he was coming. There hadn’t been a phone call to say Cas was on his way, so Dean had time.

There was a corner feeder he noticed in one of the stalls that had been knocked loose by an enthusiastic eater. He could get that put up again before he headed in. It was better to spend the afternoon knocking things off his list than mooning around inside.

Dean took the tools from the closet and entered the stall at the end of the row, next to the ladder to the hay loft. He knelt down and used a power drill to make a new spot in the corner for the grain feeder, the previous place too shot to hold anything. Once mounted, he tested whether it would stay in place, pressing at the edges. Seemed okay, but there was no predicting what a horse would get up to.

He really needed to shower. But there was always another thing in the barn that needed doing if he lingered long enough to look. He’d nearly convinced himself to go back inside, getting as far as putting his tools away, when a motorcycle pulled up outside the open stable doors.

Dean still got a funny feeling in his heart at the sight of Cas.

The way he straddled the bike made his jeans hug tightly to his thighs. His Doc Martens added to his height just enough to make his legs look longer. Cas tucked away his helmet and took off his leather jacket in the heat, draping it over the saddle of his bike.

Outside, in the full sun, he looked radiant, reflecting back the light cast down on him. When he stepped into the stables, it was Dean’s eyes that had to adjust. Cas’ form first dim, then swimming into focus as he approached Dean, who hadn’t moved from his spot.

Cas wore a faint smile, awkward and self-satisfied and shy all at once. “Hi,” he said.

Dean’s eyes trailed up from where Cas’ t-shirt was caught over the belt of his jeans. Cas looked so handsome it made him dizzy. Dean wore an expression somewhere between playful and besotted.

“Falling all over a guy on a motorcycle,” said Dean. “What would my daddy say?”

He didn’t think seriously of the answer. Neither did Cas, who simply closed the last of the distance between them and kissed Dean.

They were alone here for the moment, but too near the stable doors for Dean’s liking. He pulled Cas back to the further corners of the horse barn, where distance and shadows served as barriers against unexpected intruders.

Cas followed without asking questions, seeking Dean’s lips as often as possible along the way.

There was something hungrier than usual about the way they kissed. Dean understood it on his side; for Cas to come in here looking like that. Like some handsome vintage leading man in a movie about hot rods and romantic angst. What he could see in Dean, skin smeared with hay dust and work clothes marked with sweat, Dean couldn’t guess.

“Dean,” Cas said against his mouth in that low register, the one that pulsated down through Dean’s bones. If Dean weren’t pressed back against the post of an end-stall, he never would’ve stayed up. He wanted to fall into the pile of hay used for bedding that was stacked behind Cas and kiss him into eternity.

Dean pulled him closer for their mouths to meet once more, for their kisses to deepen. To take the invitation of Cas’ parted lips and sigh against his mouth. Cas’ hands slid under his sweat-damp shirt and up his back to his shoulders. Dean arched, letting more of his bared stomach slide against Cas’ shirt.

He was too warm. He was so hot his skin would burn Cas’ hands. He acted without letting himself think of it, breaking off their kiss for long enough to pull off his sweat-marked t-shirt and cast it aside.

Cas looked at him for a moment with something heavy in his eyes, then dipped forward to kiss Dean with more urgency than before.

Dean had no game plan here. No coherent desire beyond feeling closer to Cas. Cas’ hands framed the bottom of Dean’s ribcage. Dean wanted Cas to caress the span of his bare skin, leaving no part of him untouched. A disjointed relief plagued him: today he had nothing to hide. No bruises to raise questions. Cas could look at him without wondering.

Cas parted their kiss long enough to pull his shirt over his head, letting it fall next to Dean’s on the floor.

It wasn’t the first time seeing Cas’ bare chest, but this was different. He’d never allowed himself to look as long as he wanted. The pattern of dark hair, the lines of his shoulders, the cut of his hipbones. Dean only had a moment, and then Cas kissed him again, their bodies closer than before.

Cas’ bare arms slid around Dean, palms panning up to his shoulder blades. Their stomachs and chests aligned. The fever-hot press of Cas’ skin against his own made Dean lose a sound against Cas’ mouth. He had never felt so deeply enveloped, his body cradled by Cas’ arms. Miles of bare skin, and only half-undressed.

“Dean.” Cas pressed his body closer. The jeans they wore were too constricting. Dean’s want burned so intensely he couldn’t think of anything but how he needed more. More skin. Deeper contact. He lost his hand in Cas’ hair as Cas sucked kisses down Dean’s throat. His other hand slid over the muscles of Cas’ arm, gripping it just for something to hold onto. If he let go, he might rise off the face of the earth.

He didn’t know what he was doing. He’d had no plan today of reaching a new frontier, but his body didn’t want him to stop.

“Dean,” Cas murmured again. He lifted his face from the base of Dean’s throat, looking at him with lust-ridden eyes and pink in his cheeks. The low timbre of his voice deepened, a sound like rusted metal that Dean tasted on the back of his tongue. “Can I touch you?”

It was so direct it surprised Dean, even though his mind had been travelling the same paths.

“No—” Nerves answered first. Aware of crossing a new line. Not for lack of wanting it, but thinking that this should be reserved for a special moment, marked somehow by atmosphere, preparation, decorations.

Completely counterintuitive to what his body said, what his soul wanted.

He heard himself and said, “I mean: Yeah.”

Cas lifted his eyebrows and looked at Dean, which made the colour in Dean’s cheeks darken.

“Is that a yes?” Cas asked, more lucid than his first question.

“Yeah,” said Dean. “Yes, it’s— Cas.” He didn’t care about roses and mood music. The set-dressing didn’t matter, only Cas did.

He pulled Cas to him to kiss again. He took Cas’ hand and guided it across his stomach to the top of his jeans.

Cas had already been patient, well-practised in holding back. It was almost cruel that he did so now, tracing a finger back up to Dean’s belly-button, further from where his offer promised he’d go. Dean’s skin shivered, his body trying to arch up closer. When Cas slid his hand back down again with painstaking slowness, Dean sighed against his mouth. Gasped when Cas palmed the front of his jeans. Dean’s head tilted back while Cas’ mouth trailed to the corner of his jaw.

Dean wouldn’t be able to stand it. His body lit up so warm and eager. His fingertips pressed more firmly into Cas’ arm, pitched past control. Cas unfastened the first button of Dean’s jeans, then reached the second one and paused.

“Of course you have a button-fly,” he said in a low voice, almost to himself, nose pressing against Dean’s jaw before he took another kiss.

“What’s that mean?” Dean spoke breathlessly. He barely knew what he asked or heard; he couldn’t catch his brain up and sort out what was important.

“Complicated,” said Cas.

Dean laughed outright, head tipping back. It didn’t break up his desire, but it chased off some of his nerves. If he wanted, he could’ve taken it in bad faith. But, well, Cas wasn’t wrong.

Cas made fast work of the buttons anyway. The smile lingered on Dean’s mouth until Cas lifted his hand to lick his palm, his eyes on Dean’s. He’d never been looked at with such a devastating brand of desire. Cas leaned in for another kiss and sank his hand below the fabric of Dean’s clothes. Dean lost his breath. The world narrowed to the touch of Cas’ hand, the press of his lips, the places their skin brushed. Only the dimmest remaining room for awareness of the smell of hay scattered around their boots, the rough grain of wood between his shoulders, the shadowlight of this part of the stable.

He lost himself in the tide, like a wave rising over him but not abating. Overwhelmed and underwater, taken deep, where the ocean fissures vented superheated steam. He was scared of this crushing want, of how good it felt, of having no power or control over his desire. He begged Cas’ name, unable to even think of how they were no longer kissing, how Cas bowed his forehead against Dean’s temple with his gaze dropped down to his hand around Dean. Looking at him, seeing him in the way Dean so longed for, nothing secret. How Cas kissed below his ear and whispered to let go.

The release hit him with more than just the breaking of heat, tension, and desire. He felt something else go in him too. A fear, a barrier. One lock on the many chains that bound him to his hardships. He gasped in shaking breaths until he once more felt Cas’ lips meeting his.

“Perfect,” Cas murmured against his mouth, thumb affectionately sliding back and forth against Dean’s cheek. Like he still couldn’t get enough of touching him. “You’re perfect.”

Dean’s heart thumped against his breastbone. It was a marvel that Cas didn’t tire of him, that Dean didn’t fall short of his expectations. That as they reached new ground, they grew more enmeshed. Dean didn’t think his body could feel more right than when he kissed Cas, than when he held him, than when they shared food and time. But with every step they took, with every vulnerable truth they bared, he felt more deeply sure of how this was what he was made for.

“I wanna touch you,” he said to Cas.

“Yes,” said Cas.

“I wanna be there,” said Dean, nodding his head towards the pile of hay over Cas’ shoulder. Cas looked away from his flushed lips to follow his heavy gaze.

“You are a farm boy,” he said.

Dean grinned, tipping his head back once more, giddy with the high of his release and the daring of their actions. He pushed against Cas to walk him back a few steps. Cas reached out behind him as he tried to lower himself back, the other hand holding Dean’s. It was not a suave or graceful movement; he pulled Dean along when Cas sank back further than expected.

That made Dean laugh too, followed up with eager kisses that gradually deepened their flavour. In the hay pile, they lay overlapping, one of Dean’s legs between Cas’ with his thigh grinding up towards his hips. Dean lapped his tongue against Cas’ skin between kisses, tasting his throat, his collarbone. He kissed across Cas’ chest, rewarded with deep sounds of pleasure from Cas for it. Dean’s hand rose up to find Cas’, joining palm-to-palm, fingers intertwined.

He wanted to be joined everywhere with Cas. One day.

When he touched Cas at last, he couldn’t look away. Gaze flicking between the pleasure on Cas’ face and down the length of his body to his hips, to the weight of Cas in his hand. Different enough from Dean to be exciting and overwhelmingly sexy. Dean could admire this body eternally without tiring, whether in the steady, regular world or in moments like this one, rippling and arching with wild passion. When Cas came Dean felt a second sense of rapture, as new to him as the first. He had brought Cas there. He wanted to do it again.

Cas caught Dean up in his arms, rolling him over to kiss him again. Straw fell from Cas’ dark hair. Their bodies were messy, clinging together sweaty and sticking. Their loose jeans gapped and slid half-off their hips. They were too busy to care: kissing, laughing, wrestling back against the other.

They disturbed the hay pile too much for comfort, leaving half of it in crushed disarray. They abandoned it before they made it worse, but they didn’t move far. They sat back against the side of the last stall, out of sight of the stable doors, lit by the dim glow of a stray caged light. Still shirtless, shoulder to bare shoulder. Cas sat with one hand offered out for Dean to purposelessly investigate, tracing a fingertip over the outline of Cas’ hand, up to a fingertip then dipping down between. Circling under the wrist only to go back and trace the lines of his palm.

“You ever done that before with anybody?” Dean asked.

Cas didn’t say anything right away. He kept his attention joined with Dean’s on the intricate lines of his hand. “I can’t tell if there’s an answer you want,” said Cas. “Or don’t.”

Dean shook his head, pressing his lips. “Just the truth,” he said, turning his green eyes to look at Cas so Cas would see he meant it.

“Then, yes,” said Cas, but he still watched Dean carefully.

There had been other people than Dean. The sting of a threat rose in him, precisely what Cas watched for, but Dean deliberately pushed it back. “That’s good,” he said.

He looked back at Cas’ hand, folding fingers down one by one. “I figured maybe— I mean… You’ve been to college. You’re four years older than me. You knew way before I did. It’s good one of us knows what he’s doing.”

Cas slowly nodded his head.

“How many?” Dean asked. He couldn’t look at Cas this time.

Cas unfolded the fingers Dean had just pressed down. Two.

Just two. Dean unfolded the rest of Cas’ fingers so he could slide his thumb against the well of his palm. He wouldn’t ask more about them.

“I hadn’t,” said Dean. “Not even with girls or anything. Lisa wanted to sleep with me so I broke up with her which, now I think about it, was pretty telling.” He hadn’t been able to put words to it at the time. The feelings of fear and aversion. The constant, overwhelming dread at the prospect of a role he’d eventually have to play. If not with Lisa, then with some other girl. With some one-day country wife, an inevitable fate he could never see the way out of.

The thought depressed him so much he couldn’t stand it some days.

The thought of Cas—the thought of forever with him, even if they always had to hide—made his heart come alive.

Dean flipped over Cas’ hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. He touched his lips to each of Cas’ knuckles, then brushed his thumb over them.

“So I’m not asking to make myself jealous or anything,” said Dean. “Anyway, I wouldn’t have wanted you to be lonely.”

“Dean,” said Cas. “It’s not the same as with you. It was still possible to be lonely.”

Dean lifted his head to see the story deep in Cas’ eyes.

“The other men were— Safe. Available. A solace, sometimes. But I didn’t— I didn’t want to spend every day with them like with you. They weren’t what you are.”

Dean dropped his gaze, a complicated understanding washing through him.

“If you think that’s insincere,” said Cas, “or— or cheap, then—”

Dean covered Cas’ hand with both of his own to stop him mid-sentence.

“I don’t,” said Dean. “I just… I meant it. I didn’t want you to be lonely.”

Cas dropped his gaze, eyes flicking back and forth as he tried to come up with something to reassure Dean. “I had friends,” he said. “People to talk to. But. No one who would’ve asked me to stay.”

“You’re not lonely now, right?” said Dean.

“For the first time in a long time,” said Cas. “It’s not something I’m used to.”

“Me neither,” said Dean.

Cas leaned in slowly to take a tender kiss. Warm and searching, the kind that made Dean feel like he might have died already, or fallen into a dream, because nothing in the waking world had given him this sensation of protection, of everlasting adoration.

Time passed like in dreams too, elongated and hazy until it caught up with him all at once. Dean was behind on the evening feed and chores: there wasn’t time to offer a shower. They quickly combed up the scattered hay, reestablishing the hay pile in a little less glory than before. They cleaned as much as they could in the feed room sink. Cas helped him through the night routine and by the time they were done, Dean had to pick up Sam from work.

He kissed Cas goodbye over the motorcycle, stroking a hand against the seat after he’d drawn back. “You know, you’re going to have to take me for a ride on this one day.”

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask,” said Cas.

“Soon,” said Dean, risking one more kiss.

Cas left just ahead of him. Dean followed his taillight most of the way into town, seeing Cas raise his hand as Dean turned off towards the grocery store.

If Dean still reeked, Sam couldn’t tell over the scent of the sour-milk smell in his clothes thanks to an accident in the dairy aisle.

“Dad back yet?” Sam asked.

“He said he’d be late,” said Dean.

“Doesn’t this kid have a bedtime? How old is he anyway?”

“This kid’s our brother,” said Dean. “And he’s five, so. Don’t take it out on Adam just ‘cause you’re pissed at Dad.”

“I don’t see why Dad has to bring them here. Already. Isn’t it a little soon?”

“Is there ever gonna be a better time?” said Dean. Even if he’d wondered the same thing. “Nothing’s set in stone. They’ll visit and then… we’ll go from there. Who knows? We might even like him.”

Chapter 24

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry.
      Go to sleep you little baby.
When you wake, you shall have
      all the pretty little horses.

Blacks and bays, dapples and greys,
      all the pretty little horses.
— Traditional

Dean and Sam stayed up in the living room, flicking through channels but watching the window more than the television. They’d eaten their way through three rows of the rice krispie squares Dean made earlier. Kids liked them, he figured.

Dean had showered and put on fresh clothes. He had food in the fridge that could be warmed up quickly if Kate and Adam and John were hungry when they got in. As time ticked on, it became increasingly unlikely that they’d eat it.

At eleven, John’s truck finally came up the lane, headlights breaking apart the dark. Dean turned off the TV and went out to the porch, where moths fluttered around the yellow light over his head. Sam followed, but he lingered near the door.

Kate got out first. She looked pretty and nice, at a glance. Not what Dean expected of a once-casual affair for John. Tidy but conservative clothes, so unremarkably Midwestern they said virtually nothing about who she was.

Blonde, like Mary. Dean wished she had a different hair colour for that reason alone.

Her attention was still on the truck, following John as he got out. Not alone.

John carried Adam in his arms, the five-year-old fast asleep. Adam’s blond head was tucked against John’s neck, his limbs slack and trusting. Adam wore a white baseball jersey, new from the merch shop, bearing the same team logo as John’s pristine baseball cap.

Kate moved towards the back of the truck, looking for her luggage, only to be stopped by John’s voice: “Dean’ll get those.”

In John’s arms, Adam stirred, then settled again.

Dean came down the steps, thinking John might stop and say a word of introduction, but John walked past him. Dean’s head followed, trying to glimpse his half-brother’s face, trying to see if there was anything familiar.

Kate followed John, a little uncertain, but paused as Dean did when their paths met.

“I’m Dean.” He offered out his hand.

“Kate,” she said. She had a quiet sense, matching Dean’s careful manners. Like him, she seemed aware of the relational challenges that John pretended didn’t exist. Like him, she didn’t address them directly. “You’re John’s older son?”

“Yeah. That’s Sam, back there,” said Dean. “I’ll get your stuff out of the back. You must be tired.”

“It was a long trip,” she said. “The baseball game went into extra innings. That made it late for Adam. And traffic getting out was bad.”

It wasn’t hard for Dean to imagine Kate making a petition to leave early, for Adam’s sake. John with the rejoinder that it was the big game, that Adam wouldn’t want to miss the ending, that they’d make up time when they got on the empty country roads. He could conjure up every argument.

“Good he’s tired, right?” said Dean. “He should sleep sound.”

He was used to this. He didn’t want her to be bitter towards John. It was only the first day, and John wanted this to work out. He couldn’t tell when he messed up for himself, so Dean had to follow after him with the broom. He could repair it tonight, and it would keep John from souring on everybody.

“I suppose,” said Kate. “In a new place, it’s good.” She looked around at the farm’s dim shadows. “It’s quiet out here,” she said.

“Nice, isn’t it?”

“Spooky, I was thinking,” she said.

“When you see it in the morning, you won’t think so,” Dean promised.

Kate gave a faint nod of her head. Her eyes were far-off and grave. She thought more than she spoke, and Dean didn’t know what that heralded for John.

“Thank you, Dean,” she said. She met his gaze briefly, making a short assessment of his sincerity, then she turned to head inside.




John came into the kitchen in the morning as Dean pulled eggs and a package of bacon out of the fridge.

“Dean, put it away,” said John. He walked past Dean to reach the coffee maker, which popped and steamed as it finished percolating.

“I was just gonna make some breakfast,” said Dean.

“Not when Kate’s here,” said John. “I don’t want you cooking.”

Dean looked down at the carton in his hands. They had food in the house. Dean always kept them fed, and he thought the kid might like some bacon and eggs. He’d make it just as well as the Roadhouse would, and he didn’t want to wait to go out.

“So… We’re gonna eat out the whole weekend?” he asked.

“Kate cooks.”

“You’d make her cook?” said Dean. “She’s our guest.”

“She’ll know what Adam eats,” said John. He stirred sugar into his coffee. “And if we have to go out, we’ll go out. But while she’s here, she rules the kitchen.”

“I don’t mind helping out—” Dean started to say.

“Let me say this clearly. You’re gonna cut out the little homemaker act, Dean,” said John, voice clipped. “It’s funny-looking.”

Dean turned and put the eggs and bacon back in the fridge.

It made no sense. Pretending like Dean didn’t cook, that nobody was around to feed this family when there wasn’t a woman in the house.

“You know, Dad, it’s 1997. They let women out of the kitchen these days.”

“When you get married, your wife won’t want you upstaging her under her own roof,” John said. He rested a hand on the countertop, leaning against it with one hip cocked, his coffee held at chest level. He looked squarely at Dean. “Men and women were made differently for a reason. Now each of them brings something to a household, but they’ve got different tendencies. She won’t be happy if she doesn’t get to make the dinners and look after the kids. It’s not natural.”

John spoke expecting no contradiction, in possession of infallible wisdom even the Pope would covet.

When Dean got married. Stated as an inevitable fact.

The only person Dean wanted to be with made the world’s most inedible sandwich.

Of course, John wouldn’t say that was natural either.

“What if I’m the better cook?” said Dean.

“Then you never let her know it,” said John. “You’ve stepped up and done a lot for this family. I’ve seen that, son, even though I never asked for it. But I don’t want you to get confused. This is just a stop-gap. Till there’s a woman here or till you find a woman of your own.”

From John, this counted as a philosophical mood. In the past, Dean would’ve paid careful attention to the way it set out guiding rules and principles. Ways to act and survive. Hell, he’d even thrown in one scrap of a compliment, which Dean wanted to believe counted even if the rest rankled.

John drank from his coffee, then lowered the mug again, using it to gesture at Dean. “I don’t want you to injure Kate’s pride or make her think there’s no place for her here by doing all this house stuff. A woman likes to feel needed. And they like a man they can take care of and fix up a little. You can’t advertise being too self-sufficient.”

“You’re pretty serious about her?” said Dean.

“Wouldn’t bring her here if I wasn’t,” he said. John tapped his fingers against the countertop. He spoke almost to himself as he said, “She’s got my kid.”

Your kids are right here, Dean thought. Waiting for him to show up for them, for once.

Maybe he wanted to start over with Adam. Fix all the ways he screwed up with Sam and Dean.

They were too late to be saved.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs stopped them saying anything further. Dean filled his mug with coffee. Normally, he’d have pulled out an extra mug for Kate, asked what she took in it, brought it to her wherever she took a seat. Unwilling to incur John’s disfavour, he sat down with his cup as Kate came into the kitchen with Adam, saying good-morning and trying to introduce Adam, who hid next to her legs.

For breakfast they ate cold cereal.

Adam didn’t warm up easily. John wanted to take him out to see the horses and show off the farm to Kate. Dean had the impression he wanted to find the chance to dump Adam with him, if the kid were willing to let go of his mother’s hand. The horses in the paddock frightened him and he didn’t want to get closer, even when Dean gave him a piece of apple to offer up.

Dean hadn’t found it difficult when the Girl Scouts visited, but Adam was a different story.

He was younger. He woke up in a strange place. Everyone around him was shattering the status quo of life as an only child of a single parent.

Dean got it. He didn’t know either, what he was supposed to be like with Adam. They were brothers and they were strangers. Adam was so much younger and had been raised so differently.

Yet he stood in the yard, a tow-headed gangly little kid with a bandana around his neck that Kate had neatly knotted that morning. Dean had been that blond, once. He had a mother who dressed him as a small cowboy. His mother who held his hand and took him into the paddock to greet the horses in the morning. When he thought of whose hands first put him in the saddle, he never pictured John.

“The only thing for him is to get up on a horse,” said John. “He’ll see there’s nothing to be scared of.”

“Would you like to give it a try, Adam?” Kate asked kindly.

“He’ll like it once he’s up,” said John. “Dean, pick a horse and get her saddled for him.”

Adam looked between all of them, saying nothing.

“I don’t know if he wants to ride just yet, John,” said Kate.

“I can ride,” said Dean. “He can watch the jump course.” He looked down at Adam. “See if you like that.”

It was a painfully managed compromise, unsatisfying to everybody but Springsteen, who thrilled at the opportunity to unleash his extra energy. Dean took him through their rustic round of jumps, perfectly in control of the horse. He’d worked with Springsteen a long time, and they knew how to talk to one another.

From the sidelines, John described the paces Dean went through, the methods he used, all the things John had taught him over the years. John had always been proud of Dean in competitions. Even from the saddle of a horse, Dean could feel the way John eyed him like he might renew their former argument and get Dean back in a meet.

His arm twinged at the thought. An ache started in his shoulder. Psychosomatic. He never got back the range of movement that he used to have, but he hadn’t had active pain in a few weeks. This was more than a little stiffness in the morning or when it rained. He had to reroute Springsteen around a jump at the last minute because Dean wouldn’t have stayed in his saddle.

He ended the course abruptly, not that Adam would know. John looked hard at him but had no way of knowing what stopped Dean. Dean walked Springsteen over to them slowly, the throb in his shoulder increasing until he heard it in his ears, muffling every other sound.

He didn’t look at his father, just at Adam. He met his eyes the same way he would a nervous horse. Calm and neutral. Promising without saying anything that there was nothing to be scared of, no wrong answer or action.

“What’d you think?” he asked.

Adam looked at the ground like he wanted to climb down from the fence. Less scared and more apathetic.

Dean worried for him. It was obvious John wanted him to love the horses in the same way that Dean and John did. He wasn’t looking for a second Sam who refused the family lineage. John expected the horses to impress him, for something in his genetic material to take over. He wanted Adam to take naturally to the horses. He would’ve loved to brag about Adam getting up on a horse at age five and riding like a born cowboy.

“Do you want to pet him?” said Dean, petting his hand down Springsteen’s neck to show him. “His nose is soft. If you put out your hand, he’ll go to it.”

Adam squinted up at Dean, but he held out his hand. Springsteen stretched his head forward and sniffed, then lipped at it. Adam pulled back and looked up at his mom.

“It’s alright,” she said, but Adam started to climb down the fence.

Dean didn’t look at John. He rolled his right shoulder like he could squirm out of the phantom pain.

“Why don’t I show him the chickens?” Dean offered.

Adam liked the chickens moderately better than the horses. Inside the henhouse, Dean asked him to find and collect the eggs from the nesting box.

“This one’s warm,” said Adam, putting both his hands carefully around a brown egg.

“It was just laid, then,” said Dean.

Adam paused, then looked up. “Wait. Do chickens lay eggs from their butts?”

Dean laughed, scratching at his temple as he searched for the answer. The anatomy of a chicken was another of those things that would never show up on a GED test, which never came around to all of the general knowledge a farm kid learned over the years. He could’ve explained that while the oviduct and the digestive tract were separate functions, they came out of the same place. That the correct word was ‘vent’ and not ‘butt.’

Instead he said, “Yeah. They come out the butt.”

Adam cracked into giggles and gave a delighted, “Ewww!” He brought over the egg and placed it gingerly into Dean’s wire basket.

Adam only carried one egg at a time, which made the task much longer than it needed, but Dean was patient. Out of John’s sight, the strange feeling in his arm ebbed.

As Adam brought back the last egg, looking down at his hands and not at his feet, he stumbled on a step. The egg dropped between Adam and Dean and broke open on the floor, the clear white clumping around straw as the yellow yolk oozed out of shape.

“Uh oh,” said Adam, looking down at the mess.

Dean knelt down and put a hand on Adam’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said quickly. “I don’t mind. There’s still lots of eggs here, see?”

Adam looked up at him with a neutral expression. He hadn’t been scared in the first place.

Dean dropped his hand away.

He was just a kid and he knew the difference between an honest mistake and a hanging crime.

He was John’s son, but he hadn’t grown up with John.

“What do you think of toasted Westerns for lunch?” he asked to divert Adam’s attention again. “Good use for these eggs.”

“Okay,” said Adam.

Dean flashed a smile before remembering he wasn’t supposed to be in the kitchen. This was going to be harder than he thought.

When lunchtime rolled around, Dean drew himself a glass of water just for an excuse to follow Kate into the kitchen.

“Do you like chicken Caesar salad?” she asked as she looked into the fridge. “Or maybe just… salad. I don’t see any chicken, but it looks like you’ve got Romaine.”

The lettuce came from Missouri’s garden stand. It was good, but after such a light breakfast, Dean was hungry. “Sure,” he said. “But I might’ve got Adam set on a toasted Western. Sorry. You made them before?”

“Oh,” said Kate. “I mean, I’ve had one, I think.”

“Here, you just need…” Dean glanced over his shoulder. The last time he’d seen John, he was out in the shed. He opened the drawer under the oven where he kept the frying pans. “Basically like an omelette. We cut up some ham, green pepper, green onion if we’ve got it.”

He meant to provide the recipe and cut out, but John wasn’t in sight so he stayed around to dice up the ingredients and tell Kate about how to manage the different burners on the stove, all finicky and no two the same. As she stirred the egg, Dean toasted the bread and shredded cheese.

“I had no idea you’d be handy in the kitchen,” Kate said. “I’m impressed. It’s a great help.”

“I know a little. And I’ll stay out of your way, I promise,” Dean said, “but if you ever need an extra set of hands, just ask.”

“I may take you up on that, Dean,” she said. “John doesn’t cook much for himself, does he?”

“Well, that depends on whether you’d call warming up a can of meatballs and gravy cooking.”

Kate winced. “How’d you boys get by all these years?”

Dean wrapped up the cheese and moved fluidly through the kitchen to put it away and check on the bread. “That’s anybody’s guess, isn’t it?” he said.

Kate watched him for a moment, then turned back to her eggs. She shut off the heat on the burner. “You know,” she said. “Women like a man who can cook.”

Dean grinned. He wished he could tell her how hilarious it was. “A guy’s gotta be able to take care of himself, right?” he said. “Who wants some helpless dope?”




His success with the chickens aside, Adam remained distant the rest of the day. He liked his mother and the Disney movies he brought. He liked his own toys. He asked a few times when they were going to go home.

Sam seemed to prefer that it failed, going to no more than the basic minimum of effort, even when afternoon rain pushed their activities indoors. Dean didn’t push. John couldn’t make them a happy family through one brief visit and sheer force of will. If Adam didn’t like it out here, that was for John and Kate to sort out. Kate cared about Adam, and his well-being would overrule everything.

That night, Dean lay awake in bed thinking of how he’d explain this all to Cas. Cas didn’t immediately understand social nuances, although he felt things deeply. This wasn’t a fault in him, just a fact. He might not perceive the problem or he might cut through to the easiest solution. Dean never knew what it would be.

Dean fell asleep quickly, but he swept out of it as soon as he heard a sound from down the hall. Stifled crying. The same snuffling Sam used to make when he woke up from a nightmare.

No one else made a sound in the quiet house. Dean got up and treaded carefully across the floorboards, used to being silent. Adam slept in the same room Charlie stayed in, the old nursery.

Dean knocked gently on the door. “Adam?” he whispered, then opened it. He reached in and turned on a lamp.

Adam sat up in bed, arms wrapped around his knees, crying.

“Hey, champ,” said Dean, stepping in. “You okay?”

Adam hid further into his arms, overcome and trying to cover up a wail.

Dean stopped partway into the room. He caught the recognizable whiff of urine. Adam wet the bed.

“Adam,” said Dean, dropping to one knee beside the bed, putting a hand on Adam’s back. He looked tinier in his pyjamas. “It’s okay,” he said. “We can change the sheets. I’ll help you. Let’s get you out of bed, okay?”

Adam got slowly out of bed, face splotchy with tears. Dean wiped at one of his cheeks with his hand. “It’s okay,” he said again. “You don’t need to cry.”

Adam stood in place as Dean stripped the bed. He’d put the sheets through the wash first thing in the morning.

“Do you have extra PJs?” he asked.

Adam nodded and went to the small chest of drawers where he’d put his things.

“Do you want to go down to the bathroom and change?” Dean asked. He was big enough to do that on his own.

“It’s dark,” said Adam.

“I’ll walk you,” said Dean. He took Adam’s hand and walked him down, turning on the bright bathroom light. While Adam changed, Dean deposited the soiled sheets in a laundry basket and put fresh ones on the bed. He joined Adam again when the bathroom door opened and walked him back.

Adam climbed under the covers again, surrounded by sheets that smelled of fresh laundry.

“Was it too dark to go find your mom?” Dean asked. He was thinking of whether he could find a nightlight somewhere, maybe in a cupboard downstairs. It had been a while since they’d needed nightlights around here.

Adam didn’t answer for a long moment, offering neither a yes nor a no. Finally he spoke in a quiet voice. “I wet the bed sometimes,” he said. “John said I wouldn’t at the ranch.”

Of course. The same as he thought Adam would take to horseback riding and farm living after one visit, he believed that merely arriving at the ranch would cure Adam of any weaknesses or fears.

“Would John be mad at me?” Adam asked.

Dean pet a hand over Adam’s fair head. He didn’t go to his mom because she slept in the same room as John, who he was too afraid of waking. Dean didn’t know how to say he was right to.

“I won’t tell him,” said Dean. “Pinky swear.”

He held up his pinky. Adam studied it for a moment, then took him up on it, his tiny finger hooking around Dean’s.

Dean would tell Kate in the morning, and he’d explain that Adam didn’t want to disappoint John so that it wouldn’t go any further. John didn’t need to know.

“You know,” said Dean. “I think I could find a nightlight for in here. Would you like that?”

Adam nodded his head quickly.

“I’ll be right back, okay?” said Dean. It earned another nod.

Dean brought the laundry basket down with him, loading the bedsheets and pyjamas into the washing machine so he could start them first thing in the morning. He rooted through a closet before he found what he was looking for. He returned upstairs to Adam’s bedroom and plugged in a nightlight in the shape of a cowboy boot.

“How’s that?” he said, flicking it on. “Right where you can see it. Does that help?”

“Yeah,” said Adam.

“I know it gets dark in the country, but you’re safe here, you know that?” said Dean, sitting on the end of Adam’s bed.

Adam looked at him like he was waiting for proof.

“We have all those horses outside,” said Dean. “And they can tell apart the good guys and the bad guys. So nothing would get past them.”

Soldiers rode horses into battle. Brave horses had done all kinds of unlikely things. At the same time, Dean knew the reality of horses as prey animals on high alert for anything that even mildly resembled a threat. They spooked at nothing, and he couldn’t say in good faith that they added any level of protection at all. Horses serving as the first line of defence was a bedtime story, more than anything.

So he added something that was true: “I’m right down the hall. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

Adam leaned forward and hugged him, his thin arms barely making it all the way around.

Once upon a time, Sam had been this small. It had been a long time since then, since anyone needed Dean like this. He squeezed Adam in return, then pulled the covers over him when Adam laid back again. When he turned off the lamp, the tiny boot plugged into the wall gave off a warm glow.

“Night, Adam,” he whispered.

“G’night, Dean,” he heard in return.




On Sunday, Adam followed Dean around like a shadow. He went up on a horse, as long as Dean was the one to lead it. He helped collect the eggs again and named all the chickens. They all looked alike and some of them got named twice, but Dean figured it didn’t matter given that he forgot all the names by the time he was done.

Dean snuck into the kitchen at supper and once more helped Kate prepare the meal.

As ever, John had no reason to suspect that Dean was responsible for the harmony within the house. To Dean, it was a sign he had done everything right.

Notes:

» this might be the first time I've been precise about what year we're in, 1997. which makes it fitting to share that this week I lost it over this photo from jarchaeology, an account that unearths pictures of Mr. Ackles from '97-'00, which is exactly the period I've written all my Teen-Deans in (both here and in the "time has come today" series). what a gift

Chapter Text

It happens to me frequently.
You disappear? Yes and then come back.
Moments of death I call them.
— Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red

“I’m glad I got to meet the kid, you know?” Dean said to Bobby as he fit new window glass into the brackets on the Impala’s door. “And it wasn’t so bad, in the end. Just sort of… weird. I’ve had a brother all this time. Half-brother, but… It counts, right?”

Bobby fiddled with the screws on the bracket, adjusting his side of the window glass, momentarily preoccupied. He gave a distracted snuff.

“It counts as much as you want it to count,” said Bobby. “You think John’s fixing to move them out here? Hand me that… goopy stuff, would you?”

“I dunno,” said Dean, passing over a tube of automotive goop. “I mean, he must be to have invited him in the first place. But it’s not a small thing, right? I couldn’t tell what Kate thought about it when she left.”

“What did you think?” Bobby asked, squeezing a layer of goop into the dry window track.

“Not really up to me,” said Dean.

“Maybe it’s not your call, but you can still have a take on it.”

Dean’s mouth twisted in a frown and he shrugged as much as he could while holding the window glass in place. He wiped sweat that trailed from his temple to his cheek against the shoulder of his t-shirt. It wasn’t just that he had no say in it. He didn’t want to hope for something in either direction.

“I’d have to know if they were coming to stay for sure before I knew what I thought,” said Dean. “Way it is, it doesn’t seem real. You done over there yet?”

“You forgotten this is your car I’m helping you with?” said Bobby. He wiped his hand against his jeans before bringing it to the glass and adjusting it one final time. “Alright, let’s screw this window in place.”

They passed the screwdriver between one another as they tightened the pane in place. The door panel still set aside, Dean attached the crank handle to be certain it worked.

“Hey, look at that,” he said with a grin as the window rolled up smooth and straight. “Let’s put this baby back together.”

The window had been the last part to arrive and more expensive than Dean had hoped for. He’d taken care of everything else, from the repairs at the front of the car to repainting her glossy black coat. Bobby backed away as Dean secured the door panel, running a hand over it to see it was stable and even. Dean stood and gently closed the front door, his reflection catching in the shiny new glass. A beaming grin stretched across his face.

“She’s finished,” he said.

“Well, go on,” said Bobby. “Give her a spin.”

Dean had done a few test drives without the driver’s-side window, but there was something else in sitting down in a car that was fixed. He turned the key in the ignition, the growl of the engine better than any serenade.

He drove the Impala through the lot and along Bobby’s road, staying within sight, pressing down the gas to see how fast she’d get to speed, then taking his foot off the brake to learn the way she slowed under the weight of her size and steel.

He tuned the radio to his favourite station. He’d have to move some tapes over from the truck. This car would love Led Zeppelin.

He circled back to Bobby at last and rolled down the brand-new window, leaning his arm over it. “She’s perfect, isn’t she?” he asked. He stroked a hand over the top of the steering wheel. “My baby.”

Bobby half-hid his smile beneath his moustache. “Well, I don’t have champagne,” he said, “but what would you say to sittin’ on the tailgate and having a beer? Just this once.”

High off of success and the smell of gasoline, Dean hardly needed anything—but yeah, this car was worth celebrating.

Bobby brought out a couple of beers from inside, opening them and passing the first to Dean. They clinked the glass necks of the bottles. It suited the Impala better than champagne anyways.

Dean looked over his shoulder at the car while he drank. She wasn’t any good for farm work, that was for certain, but he didn’t love her any less for it. In a week he had to drive to the city and write his tests. That could be her maiden voyage.

Cas planned to come too, even though Dean insisted it wouldn’t be fun for him. Dean would spend almost eight hours writing his tests since he wanted to do it all at once. Cas insisted he didn’t mind, and it turned out that when Cas set his heels in about something, Dean didn’t have much luck talking him out of it.

“Bobby, can I tell you something?” Dean asked.

Bobby shifted his folded arms, giving a half-shrug of his shoulder. “Sure,” he said.

“I failed out of school,” he said. “I didn’t pass twelfth grade. I didn’t write my exams and I missed a lot of class and I… I flunked.”

“I see,” said Bobby. He squinted, looking like he knew Dean hadn’t finished.

“I’m writing my GED next week,” said Dean. “I haven’t told anybody about it. Except Cas, who’s helping me study. And now you.”

Bobby nodded. “You know you’re talking to somebody who didn’t finish high school himself?”

“I know that,” said Dean. “And that you’re the smartest guy around.” Bobby had books in languages Dean never heard of. He had a vast knowledge in all kinds of subjects. He hadn’t needed high school. “I’m not a genius. That’s not what I’m trying to prove. I may not be smart like you or Sam or Cas, but this is something that… I gotta see that I can do it.”

“You’re one hell of a kid, you know that, Dean?” said Bobby. He clasped a hand around Dean’s shoulder, pressing it firmly. “You oughtta go after what you want. You’re gonna get it, too.”

“Yeah?”

“I know it,” said Bobby. He lifted his bottle for a drink, swallowing it down with a swish, then sucking air between his teeth. “You say you’ve got Cas helping you?”

“Yeah,” said Dean, hoping that if a flush rose in his cheeks it could be attributed to the heat of the day or the alcohol content of the beer.

“He’s smart, but I wouldn’t have taken him for much of a teacher.”

“He’s—” Dean didn’t know how to talk about him in public anymore. He wanted to say that Cas was patient, which was true, but he didn’t trust himself to stop there. He’d say patient then he’d say tender and then he’d say generous, handsome, funny, loyal.

He bowed his head and said, “I think people would be surprised if they got to know him.”

“A lot of good ones are like that,” said Bobby. “Hey Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m proud of you,” said Bobby. “Lot of folks in your place would just quit. And times are different now than when I was your age. That high school education, they ask for it a lot more than they ever used to.”

Bobby paused, lips parted: “You thinking about leaving your daddy’s farm?”

“No,” said Dean. He flashed a fast smile. “No, it’s not that at all.” He wanted to reassure Bobby he wasn’t leaving, wasn’t going anywhere. “It’s just something I wanted to have.”

“Ah,” said Bobby, sounding less like it was the answer he hoped for. “Alright.” He tipped his bottle back for a long drink, finishing it off.

Bobby smacked his lips and sighed. “Dean, can I ask you something?”

Dean shrugged in a casual affirmation.

“Does your daddy pay you at all to work on the ranch?”

“No,” said Dean. “Why?”

“Well, don’t you think he should?” said Bobby. “He pays Jo, doesn’t he?”

“Sure he does,” said Dean. Minus the minor boarding charges for Jo’s horse, Buffy. “But she’s not his kid. Me and Dad, well. It all goes to the same pot, right?”

“You mean it all goes into an account with his name on it,” said Bobby. “Do you even have your own bank account?”

“No, but… It’s not like… If I need money, I let him know it. He gives me the money that pays for the groceries every week, and it’s not like we go hungry. If I need new clothes or Sam does, I can usually just say so. And he paid my entry fee for competitions and he got me a good new saddle last year.”

“But you should be able to save for things,” said Bobby. “Your own cash.”

“And when I work for you or harvest for Missouri or something, I do get a little of that,” said Dean. Granted, he’d spent almost all he had on replacement parts for the Impala, lately.

“That’s not near enough to live on. I’m just saying it’s not a crime to ask for a salary, even with family. Hell, it’s not even unusual.”

“If I asked him to pay me for working for him, he’d charge me rent for living with him,” said Dean. “And he’d make sure rent was more than what I asked him to pay me.”

“I don’t like it,” said Bobby. “You need some financial independence. What happens if you want to get your own place, move on from the ranch, or get married and buy a house somewhere? Every cent you’ve worked for has John’s name on it. You think you can just ask him and he’ll help, but what if he doesn’t like the person you’re marrying, or doesn’t like you leaving? He won’t give you a thing and you won’t have any say about it.”

“Bobby—”

“If you did as much work anywhere else as you do for him, you’d be making bank, boy,” said Bobby. “And if you weren’t his kid, he’d have to pay you, even if he boarded you.”

“Bobby, I didn’t ask,” Dean snapped. “The way things are works just fine.”

“You can’t do a single thing he disapproves of but sure,” said Bobby. “It works ‘just fine.’”

Dean stood up, leaving his beer on the back of the car, pacing away. Why did Bobby have to bring it up? When there was nothing he could do, nothing Dean could do. Dean stopped and turned, looked at Bobby, then turned away again.

It wasn’t fair. He knew it wasn’t fair. But what else was he supposed to do?

What Bobby said about Dean marrying someone John didn’t approve of hit too close. Bobby didn’t even know how near he was to the mark. How the hell was Dean supposed to have a life with Cas when John would kill him if he knew about it?

If they moved in together like Cesar and Jesse, John would put together the puzzle pieces in a shot.

But what did that matter, when a dozen reasons why they’d never find that life stood in easy reach? It wasn’t only that Dean had nothing to bring to Cas, nothing to offer. It wasn’t only that John would string him up if he ever found out. It was that everything good in Dean’s life shattered inevitably. Failure was encoded in his DNA. The more he loved something, the bigger the fall; the tighter he held, the worse the damage.

Dean kept himself from thinking of the future chiefly because it was impossible to believe in the one he wanted. He lived in the now because he couldn’t see any further. It darkened at the edges like old film at the end of a reel, images dissolving until the final pinpoint of light vanished.

Every good day they lived and loved was an unexpected luxury. One day they’d be caught and punished. One day they’d be separated forever. This was easier to picture than any happy ending.

“Dean,” said Bobby, “I didn’t intend to rile you.”

Dean focused on a dip in the brown gravel at his feet. He wanted to move, to speak. He looked funny just standing here. He looked wrong. Bobby would start to notice if he kept this up. He should smooth things over. He should smile and prove to Bobby that there was nothing to worry about.

He couldn’t make a finger twitch.

He needed to kick himself out of it. Kick himself out of it.

“Look,” said Bobby with a self-exasperated sigh. “I just… I see how hard you work. And more than that. How much good you do for Sam, for— for me. And I don’t know what it’s like at home, but I don’t think John’s ever understood how lucky he is to have you.”

“Bobby—” He’d made it to a word, raspy from his throat. He might surface.

“Mind,” said Bobby, coming to a stand. “The alternative is worse.”

Dean turned his head over his shoulder, frowning.

Bobby turned and lifted his hat to resettle it on his head, beginning to walk away. Not before saying: “That he does understand it and still sells you short.”




The appearance of the Impala in combination with Dean’s increased and vaguely explained absences had an unexpected consequence in regards to John. He interpreted the car as Dean’s new strategy for scoring chicks, and Dean found himself making extra room in the easy excuses John offered him. He suggested that Cas wanted to pick up girls and brought Dean along to bars and dances to do so, gradually normalizing the amount of time he spent with Cas and laying the groundwork for further deceptions.

John had no reason to suspect that the majority of their time together was divided alternately between increasingly passionate intimacies and extremely focused GED preparation.

It wasn’t a crime for Dean to have a friend and almost looked normal for him to have some company beyond Jo. Most of the guys Dean went to high school with were getting drunk with their buddies in the middle of nowhere, trying to get girls but more often repelling them through their immature antics.

Dean lived in a different reality. Cas drove his bike to the ranch and Dean said they were going to have a bonfire down by the river, which they did. They walked far, far from sight of the house and cleared an area in the evening-damp grass. Dean built up a bonfire, and as it took he fell back with Cas into the blanket they brought, kissing and touching and gasping into one another’s mouths. With the stars above them and the running river beside them and the crickets grinding out a melody all around them. Someone’s dream of a summer night: heavy darkness, unhurried time. Not a moment, but eternity.

Dean lay with Cas, gazing across his chest at the burning campfire. They exchanged lazy kisses and murmured words of affection. The world smelled like a ripening August, like dew and tall grass and the last fragrances of sun-warmed river rocks lifting into the night.

He was only here and only now. He couldn’t imagine the future and he didn’t want to. He turned his nose towards Cas’ chest and breathed in the scent of his skin. He heard and felt the beat of Cas’ heart in his chest. He bumped his forehead against Cas’ jaw, against the dark stubble there. Everything existed only here and nothing would last.

He ran fatalistically. If the end hovered nearby, invisibly in reach, Dean had to take what he had now.

He wanted to be closer to Cas and so he unbuttoned his shirt and kissed down his chest. He let Cas tangle his fingers in Dean’s hair. He tugged down the waist of Cas’ jeans and Cas asked, “Dean?” then Cas begged, “Dean.”

Tonight they were undiscovered, unencumbered. They had not been divided by disaster or time. One day Cas might tire of him, or fate might separate them, or John might kill him for how he loved.

Tonight the taste and smell of Cas overwhelmed him. The new weight against his tongue, the bone-deep gratification of making Cas lose reason. The promise that no one but themselves knew of these secret ecstasies. With every day that he fell deeper for Cas, he turned a corner. Further from the safety net of the familiar. Further from the pretense of predictability.

They would last as long as their subterfuge did.

Chapter Text

We two boys together clinging,
One the other never leaving.
— Walt Whitman, from Leaves of Grass

They were careful, usually.

A few nights after the river, when Sam went unexpectedly to an old friend’s movie marathon and John took himself off to meet the Friday night crowd at Lloyd’s bar, Dean had Cas over. They went for a trail ride, ate dinner together, then Dean brought Cas up to his room.

Desire grew in Dean day by day. Sometimes touching Cas was all he could think about. Memories and fantasies thrilled through him: he wanted to do everything with Cas. He wanted his mouth to know every part of Cas’ body. He wanted to leave no part of him untouched, assailing him relentlessly with lips and tongue and fingertips. He wanted as much in return; he wanted Cas to look at him the way no one had before, to see even those parts he couldn’t bear to have seen. To examine every inch of him mercilessly and to witness Dean as whatever he truly was. He wanted Cas to drive him mad with delay, to tease him till he broke into pieces. He wanted to want, to beg. To feel overcome and sated. He wanted to know what it was like to become one body. He wanted to know how it felt to be inside Cas and he wanted to feel Cas buried in him.

It was the first time they’d undressed completely, bodies made golden and dark by lamplight. In his childhood bed, Cas fucked his thighs. He’d never imagined how it would feel. Desperation rose in him and he reached a hand back to grip Cas’ hip like it might keep Cas from ever leaving him. Cas came and it marked Dean forever, a strange and addictive heat that left him trembling. He wanted his skin to show everything: the lovebites, the come, the handprints stamped across his body.

Their long naked bodies embraced in Dean’s bed, tangled and touching everywhere possible. Dean could fall asleep here with his head under Cas’ chin, Cas’ hand clasping the forearm that Dean stretched across his chest, Dean’s foot sliding down against Cas’ calf like he might still warm to a second round. They were young and the night was supposed to be left to them.

Dean didn’t immediately recognize the sound of an engine growing louder, coming up the long lane to the farm. It struck him later than it should have. He lifted his head, eyes on the open window.

“Shit,” he said, and he’d already started to rise up when he heard the next sound. A crash of metal. An engine still trying to rev, then cutting out.

“Shit,” he said again, rapidly searching for his clothes. He smelled like sex, the whole room smelled of it, surely.

Sound carried on the night. A vehicle door slamming closed. John cursing, like he had some unseen audience to speak to.

Cas didn’t need to be told to move with the same alacrity as Dean, although Dean was faster. Dean didn’t wait for Cas as he raced down the stairs.

John hadn’t come in yet. Dean shoved his feet into his cowboy boots and went outside.

The light over the barn illuminated John’s truck, the front passenger side crumpled around the hydro pole that brought power to the house and barn.

Dean slowed as he came closer. John moved with a heavy swagger, piss-drunk. Even without something to be guilty of, Dean wouldn’t have gone too close.

“Dad?” he called out cautiously.

John cursed and kicked the tire of the truck. He stumbled back to his door and climbed in again. Probably wanted to reverse back from the pole, and even if it didn’t seem wise, Dean wouldn’t intervene. John drunkenly put the truck in drive, foot pressing the gas pedal as far as it would go only to have his back tires shift against the road and the smashed metal grind as he pushed further against the pole.

He’d been lucky not to knock the power out.

He was lucky not to kill himself either. A little faster, a little more to the right, and it could’ve been a different story.

“Dad,” Dean called again. The truck engine sputtered to a quit and the lights dimmed out. Steam rose from the broken radiator. John got out of the truck without making any progress.

“Fuck this thing,” said John. He slammed the door shut. “Always fucking with me. Don’t fucking need it.”

John pitched forward like the ground tossed under him, side-stepping heavily in his attempt to make a straight line for Dean. Below his dark hair, a bloody mark marred his temple. He must’ve hit his head off the steering wheel.

“Dad…” Dean took a few careful steps back, keeping distance as John closed in. He just had to get John into the house, into the kitchen, where he could steer all his focus to the prospect of a beer from the fridge. John was too drunk to entertain more than one idea at a time.

He’d had a bad night. He was back early and he was plastered and he was cursing like the devil. He hadn’t got in a fight or he’d look worse than this, but he’d lost money or been kicked out or ran into somebody he hated. On a night like this, Dean would’ve stayed in his room and pretended to be asleep and let John take out his anger on the walls or the furniture. If he punched a door or broke a table, he’d get it out of his system. They could be replaced.

Dean didn’t know if Cas could see; whether Cas hid inside or had come out.

He couldn’t look over his shoulder.

He could back away, but he could not run away. There was a distinction. If he moved too fast, John would react to it.

John had the luxury of dictating his own pace. He was carried forward by a drunken momentum that closed in on Dean. When he was in striking distance, he grabbed the collar of Dean’s shirt, pulling him in, forearm barred across Dean’s collarbone.

John reeked of beer and whiskey. He leaned his weight into Dean so that Dean tilted back on the heels of his boots. John pushing him back and holding him up at once.

Precariously balanced, Dean half-raised his arms, palms flat and open.

“I’ll take care of that truck, Dad,” said Dean, pulse fluttering in his throat. “You know I can fix it up.”

“Fix it up,” John echoed. He took in a breath and exhaled it carelessly in Dean’s face. He considered whether he’d accept Dean’s words at face value or choose to see them as a gross attempt at manipulation.

In the night, his eyes were dark caverns.

The muscles in John’s face relaxed. He huffed again and let go of Dean’s shirt, patting his shoulder.

Dean sank back from his heels, tension loosening. No fight tonight.

John’s heavy hand stopped on Dean’s shoulder, fingers pressing in.

“Who’s that?” he said. His face turned towards the house, shadowed gaze fixed on a point.

Dean looked over to where Cas stood on the porch steps. Dressed and tidy. If his hair looked messy, well, it always did.

“Cas came over,” said Dean. “We were bored.”

“Nothing wrong with the horses?”

“Nothing wrong with the horses,” Dean said. There were so many lies he had to tell, he spoke plainly wherever he could.

“Huh.” John let go of Dean again and swaggered past. As he climbed the porch steps he said, “Not gonna charge us for a social visit too, are you?” And he laughed and didn’t wait for an answer.

Dean slowly approached Cas at the steps. Cas never took his eyes from him.

“Dean…”

“Please go,” Dean said. The quiet of his voice surprised him, barely more than a whisper.

“I—”

“Please.”

Cas didn’t reach for Dean or kiss him goodbye. It wasn’t safe to. He went to his motorbike and pulled on the helmet, fastening the strap underneath his chin.

Dean wrapped his arms around himself to fight off the chill in the night air.

Inside the house, John bent over a beer at the kitchen table, eyes red and vacant.

In the living room, Wayne’s World played on the TV. Cas must’ve found the tape and popped it in. Some plausible excuse if John went looking for answers. Dean flicked the TV off.

Upstairs, the bed in Dean’s room had been re-made. The window opened a little wider to let in the night air. Dean shut his door after himself.

Dean lay back on top of his quilt and put a hand over his eyes.

The ache of despair that haunted him finally caught up in full. He shook, trying to keep quiet while hot tears rose under his hand.

He turned to his side, the way he had lain with Cas. His legs curled up like he could roll himself small enough to hide from his own inner pain. He wanted to be back to the moments of just before, lying against Cas’ body exactly where he was meant to be. It wasn’t fair that it couldn’t be easy. It wasn’t fair.




Against all better reason, Cas came back to the farm early the next morning, where he knew he’d find Dean in the stables. He wore his leather jacket over an absurd sleeveless tee with a sunset gradient. This did nothing to soften the serious set of his face.

Dean met him halfway up the aisle, wanting to push him back outside and send him home. “What are you doing here?” Dean demanded. While John slept through his hangover, last night had been too close a call. Dean looked around them like John could’ve snuck in and hid behind one of the horses.

“Coming to see you,” said Cas. “Obviously.”

“I’d come see you,” said Dean. “Later.”

“I’m on call later,” said Cas. “And I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Dean scoffed and turned. He walked past Cas to pick up a fresh feed bucket, dumping the grains into a horse’s stall feeder, purposefully occupying himself. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked.

“You know why,” said Cas, trailing after Dean as he walked back for the next bucket.

“Enlighten me,” said Dean.

“Dean, I know what I saw.”

“You saw my dad come home drunk,” said Dean. “And wreck himself against a hydro pole. Wish I could say it’s the first time he smashed up a vehicle while plastered, but he’s more consistent than you’d think.”

“You were frightened of him,” said Cas.

“I was a little worried about him figuring us out, yeah,” said Dean, keeping his hands busy, unable to look at Cas. “But he was too far gone to go all Nancy Drew and start solving mysteries.”

“He grabbed you—”

“He could barely hold himself up, Cas,” said Dean. “Whatever it looked like, it wasn’t.”

Cas turned his face away from Dean, and Dean finally took in the abject expression he wore. He glanced around the barn again, then came closer and traced his hand along Cas’ side, a fond and reassuring pet.

“The important thing is he still doesn’t know,” said Dean. “But it doesn’t do any good to go drawing attention by coming around here like this when he’s just inside.”

“I was killing myself over leaving you last night,” said Cas, not yet turning towards Dean. “The more I played it over in my head, the worse it looked.”

Dean’s heart pounded. They were so close to a land of no return. Cas extended his hand like a bridge, and if Dean took it he would never be able to cross back. The problem was, Dean didn’t know what waited over there, and Cas didn’t know what weight Dean bore.

He never wanted to have to say anything. He wanted Cas far removed from it all. He wanted Cas to be his longed-for saviour. He didn’t want Cas to ever know. He was caught in the contradiction.

“You set up a nice scene inside,” said Dean. “With the movie. It was a good cover. I wanted to say thanks for that.”

Cas tightened his jaw, his blue gaze still distant and turned away. The sunken purple under his eyes was more profound today than usual. He hadn’t slept.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying,” said Cas, “that I don’t think much of your father.”

Dean stepped closer to Cas, enough that he could feel the warmth of his body and get in the way of Cas’ far-off gaze. Cas lifted his eyes to Dean’s, heavy-lidded and serious.

“You aren’t even the first person to say that to me,” said Dean. “Bobby would agree.”

“I like Bobby,” said Cas.

“I was fine,” Dean stated once more, now that he had Cas agreeing with him on something. He had been fine yesterday. Nothing happened. “I’m sorry you thought I wasn’t.”

Cas darted his gaze over Dean’s face, a frown furrowing his brow. With a note of pain he said, “I’m not sure if I believe you.”

It wasn’t okay for Cas to hold onto doubt. It would fester and he would think things over too hard. Dean needed to win him over.

He put his hand on Cas’ jaw and he took a slow kiss. One, then another, hoping to make Cas forget. Maybe they could hide in a stall where Dean could touch him and convince Cas nothing had changed. There was no point in Cas worrying about what Dean had to worry about.

A gasp that came from neither Cas nor Dean carried through the barn. An, “Oh,” quickly muffled.

Dean pulled away from Cas abruptly. At the end of the barn aisle, Jo stood with a hand over her mouth.

“Jo,” he said.

She turned and raced out of the barn.

Dean exchanged a look with Cas, all he needed to say, then went after her.

Jo walked quickly away in no focused direction, speeding up when Dean called after her.

“Jo, hey. Jo, hey, wait!”

She reached a paddock fence and climbed up it a step, stopping at last and putting her face in her hands.

“Jo,” said Dean, slowing as he reached her. He stood up on the bottom post, hooking his arm over the top of the fence. “Jo, I can explain.”

“Explain what?” Jo said, her voice thick.

Dean didn’t really know what he meant to explain. How he’d put it into words. He hadn’t had to say it to anybody yet.

He couldn’t lie to her. He couldn’t say that it wasn’t what it looked like.

He looked out into the paddock. Two horses had taken notice of them and slowly made their way over. One was a mare with a foal who trailed after her, running through the grass.

“You’re gay,” said Jo, filling it in for him, her hands dropping from her face so she could look at him.

Dean squinted out at the horses. “Yeah,” he said. He almost added more, just for the sake of talking, but there was nothing else to say.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” said Jo.

That surprised Dean. “Well, this was a kinda recent thing.”

“How recent?”

“Since Hearts & Spurs, I guess,” said Dean. It was three weeks tomorrow. Sneaking away with Cas nearly every day, it sometimes felt like longer than that. They’d sustained this for a mere three weeks, and their track record for hiding their affection was rapidly flagging. How could they do this long-term when they could barely keep a secret for a month?

“You should’ve told me,” said Jo, hands gripping the top of the fence.

“You’re not—” said Dean, struggling with how to phrase it. “You’re not bothered by me…”

Jo turned her face away, planting her chin in a hand.

“Are you—” Dean tried to ask. “I wasn’t sure if you liked Charlie.”

Jo hid her face briefly behind her hand again. “You should’ve told me,” she said, her voice strained. “You could’ve told me. I’d— I’d understand.”

Dean bumped his arm against hers. She was turning pink and blotchy like she was going to cry so he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him, both of them perched up on the fence. He rubbed his hand against her arm as she sniffed into his shirt.

“I held her hand,” Jo said, voice tiny. “We didn’t even kiss.”

“Oh, Jo,” said Dean. “Charlie definitely wanted to kiss you.”

“This is why,” said Jo, hiccupping through her fast tears, “you should have talked to me.”

Dean dropped a kiss against the top of her head, wondering how on earth they got here. From back by the barn, he heard the motorbike start. Cas leaving. When Dean saw him on the road, he raised one arm in goodbye, not sure if Cas was looking.

Cas raised an arm back.

“I’m crazy about him,” Dean confided. “You’re the one who first told me he was coming back here and I— I was just so miserable before then and I didn’t even know why.”

Jo wiped at her face, still pink-cheeked, then laughed at something. “I thought you were so stupid for breaking up with Lisa,” she said.

Dean laughed too. His arm slid down from around Jo’s shoulders as she pulled herself slowly together.

“I thought, ‘He doesn’t know a good thing when he’s got it.’”

Dean looked down toward the road where Cas had disappeared. “I do, though,” he said. “I’m gonna hold onto this thing as long as it lasts.”

“You don’t think it’ll last?” Jo asked.

Dean paused with his lips parted. If he looked only at the present moment, his reality had never been brighter. But the future hung over him like a death sentence. A dark cloud in the distance. One day the wind would pick up and it would break over his head.

“How can it?” Dean asked. “Not ‘cause of me changing how I feel about him. Or him with me. But I don’t know how we’re supposed to—” He cut himself off and shook his head. “Cesar told me once that… that I’m not doomed. I believed him for a minute. Now I don’t know.”

Jo wore a perturbed expression, studying him for a moment, then looking out at the paddock. She reached her arm out as one of the horses came by, stroking its head.

It affected her, too. If Dean was doomed, he wasn’t the only one.

“You think you’ll ever tell your mom?” Dean asked.

Jo scruffed her fingers under the horse’s chin. “I dunno,” she said. “I want to. One day. I think I would. But I never know with her. What’s alright for somebody else isn’t alright for me.”

Ellen had always been that way with all the dangerous stunts Jo wanted to do. All the places she wanted to travel to for meets and rodeos. Jo sighed. “To her, I’m always just a little girl. She’s not ready for me to grow up and make up my own mind.”

“Maybe it’d help her see,” said Dean.

“You won’t ever tell your dad,” said Jo.

Dean cast his gaze quickly down to the ground. He shook his head once. “No,” he said. “I wouldn’t.”

“What about Sam?”

“Maybe Sam,” he said. “Charlie’s out to him. Something I’ve been thinking about more.”

“Well I’m glad I know,” said Jo. “But Dean, you oughtta be more careful. What if it was John instead of me?”

Dean knew it. He’d been so desperate about keeping Cas from thinking about John that he’d critically stopped thinking about John. He couldn’t afford to slip up like that.

He looked over his shoulder at the glimpse of movement from back near the house. John exiting the front door and making for the place Dean moved his truck to so he could examine the damage.

It was a lucky thing that John slept late. It was a lucky thing that Cas had already gone. It was a lucky thing it had been Jo and that she arrived when she did.

It was more luck than he could count on sustaining. He had to be lucky every single time. He’d only have to mess up once.

“We should get to work,” Dean said. John wouldn’t be in a good mood. He stepped down from the fence. “You ever want to talk about this stuff…” he offered.

Jo joined him at the level of the ground. She stepped in for an unexpected hug, her arms around his middle.

Dean returned it. He was getting better at this kind of thing.

Over her head, he saw John watching them.

There was a murmur of fear under his skin, but also a thrum of sharp delight. If anything, John would misread what he saw, with no idea these two teenagers were talking treason right under his nose.

Chapter Text

This, too, is an old story, yet
It is not death. Still,

The waters of darkness are in us.
In fact, they are rising,

Are rising toward our eyes.
— Charles Wright, “In the Midnight Hour”

The night before his test, Dean went to Cas’ place for a final review. Since the last time he was here, Cas had hung up a few pictures, including the drawing Dean made him six years before. Emptied a moving box or two so that there were more books around than before. The place looked settled.

He’d uncovered a stethoscope. After food and review and frequent distractions, they lay in Cas’ bed in his tiny bedroom, undressed to their underwear. At Dean’s playful urging, Cas pressed the bell of the stethoscope to Dean’s chest and back and listened to his heart, his breath.

“I had a dream about this once,” said Dean. Cas lifted the bell just before Dean spoke and tipped his head. “A dream I was sick and you were my doctor.”

“Was it a good dream?”

“Oh man,” said Dean, shaking his head. “It was confusing. Because I was trying not to think about you the way, uh, my dream really wanted to think about you.”

That made a smile crack across Cas’ face. “I see,” he said. “That kind of dream.”

“I had a fever,” said Dean. He smiled, self-aware, even as his cheeks darkened to pink. “There was just one cure.”

“To be clear, you had this dream before you kissed me?” said Cas.

“At least a few weeks,” said Dean.

Cas lifted his gaze to the ceiling and shook his head. The very image of long-suffering patience. Dean laughed.

“Are you saying you want to play ‘Doctor’?” said Cas.

Dean couldn’t even think of an answer, chest rising on a breath, eyes fixed on Cas. He’d had a lot of time to kill when his arm broke, which meant a lot of bad TV soaps. Days of Our Lives and medical dramas, mostly. There’d always been something missing in them, a gap that frustrated him all the more due to its absence.

The way Cas asked wasn’t in any way loaded, giving Dean permission to answer either way. Permission to want, to explore. What had he done to deserve Cas?

Cas placed the bell of his stethoscope over Dean’s heart, listening to the quickened pace. “That sounds positive,” he said, lowering the earbuds to rest around his neck again.

“Doctor,” said Dean with a nervous thrill. “I’ve been feeling kinda funny…”




The GED would take him all day to write. It fell on Thursday, a workday like any other. Dean had weeks to think of an excuse for John, but he never came up with one. He arranged with Jo to make sure everything at the farm was done. Her weird cousin Ash was up for a visit and could provide an extra hand. He’d worked at the stables before.

There was nothing Dean was needed for especially. He’d made no commitments or promises. He didn’t risk bringing up his absence with John for fear of it being forbidden, even if he courted trouble by not being present when expected. In the end, Dean left a note that said, Back late.

If there were consequences, he’d deal with them later.

He took the Impala, not just to enjoy having her out on the road, but so that John would have the truck Dean usually drove while John’s busted-up truck was under repair. Dean stopped outside the laundromat to pick up Cas, who told Dean to shove over into the passenger seat so that he could drive and Dean could think about his exams. He brought the library’s study book with him, although Dean didn’t open it on the drive. It sat between them on the seat like a talisman.

The nearest testing centre was just over an hour’s drive away in a small city that barely warranted the name. It was larger than any of the surrounding towns but hardly impressive. Still, it had a respectable downtown with old buildings and a river running through it. Dean, who had a good directional sense, navigated Cas down the streets till they found the right address.

Cas pulled up by the sidewalk under the shade of an oak tree. The Adult Learning Centre was attached to the back of a high school next to an old Carnegie library. Nearby, a bridge lined with flower boxes connected them to the rest of the downtown, but here it felt hushed and quiet. Ivy covered the library and lined the flat awning of the otherwise no-nonsense learning centre entrance.

“What will you do while I’m in there?” said Dean. “You really didn’t have to come, Cas.”

“I wanted to,” said Cas. “And I’ll likely be in there.” He nodded his head at the library. “Dean. You’re going to do well.” He reached his hand across the seat to Dean’s and squeezed it. Dean wanted a kiss for luck, but he couldn’t take it here. The ones they shared last night would have to last him. He pressed Cas’ hand in return.

“I’ll see you on the other side,” he said. “Five-thirty.”

The Adult Learning Centre smelled more like an office than a high school. The furniture was old, the plants fake, and the building underfunded, but the staff were nice. They offered Dean extra supplies if he needed them, although Dean came meticulously prepared. Cas had given him what he called his ‘lucky’ pencil sharpener, but Dean was fairly sure that he’d tacked on the epithet at just that moment.

The exam room would’ve looked on to diagonal parking at the side of the school, but burgundy blinds closed out the scene. Sunlight slotted through the gaps and made lines against the speckled brown floor tile. Wooden desks with chairs attached scattered singly through the room for a few other test-takers, some of whom already sat waiting and watching the clock above the large desk at the front of the room. Dean took his seat as the proctor came in, taking a seat at the desk and shuffling her papers, announcing that they’d begin in a few minutes. Dean looked between the clock and the proctor, sure that time had never moved so slowly.

The first test in Writing Skills was the longest. Dean’s leg bobbed through the multiple choice section and he chewed on the metal end of his pencil. He had time to go through all the questions and answers once more before the first session ended, feeling a sense of anticipation as they took away the paper. He kind of thought he had most of it right.

The multiple choice questions were followed by an essay, which Dean wrote and erased and wrote and fixed up till the very last minute.

Lots of people showed up only for one test, and Dean seemed to be the only person who stuck it out for all of them. A nice girl named Robin showed up for three of them in a row, and on the brief breaks between tests she shared her granola bar with Dean, and Dean gave her half his muffin. She wished him luck when she finally left and he headed into his last test.

Math. Not a great subject for him. He was exhausted, his brain overtaxed, and the algebra questions swam on the paper. He rubbed the heel of his palm against his eyes.

He needed to smarten up and figure this out. He had to. Because if he didn’t do this now, he wouldn’t have another chance. He didn’t know what he faced going home. Being out of contact all day like this with no explanation. John wouldn’t like that he was here. He’d see it as defiance, as a step towards mutiny. If Dean was going to face his wrath for this, he had to make it worth it. He had to pass this test. If he fucked up today, he was never going to have another window.

The sheets in front of him made less sense than before. He couldn’t look at them, couldn’t focus. What was John doing right now? Pacing the kitchen like an actor on stage, barking out a demand to know where his son had gone in front of an invisible audience. Would he be tearing into Jo? Gripping her arm and shaking her and asking her where Dean had gone when she honestly didn’t know? Would he hound Bobby for answers, turning up at his doorstep with threats, spit frothing at the corners of his mouth?

Dean dragged his hands away from his eyes, left strained and red.

He swallowed back the disturbing thoughts that made him want to stand up and leave the room. He frowned at the problem on the page and gave it a good, hard look.

He’d gone over this with Cas. It was before they ever kissed. One of their earliest study sessions. Cas had been tired from a long night with a sick animal, but he sat on the floor and leaned back against the futon and explained the math problem more clearly than any book or teacher ever had. He made Dean practice it twice.

Dean put his pencil to paper and worked out the answer. He tested the equation a second time just to make sure and ended up with the same result. He knew this.

He was tired, but he plodded through every single math question. Some were iffy, but most looked and felt right to him. He answered the final one in time with the session’s end.

The test room and hallways had been dim and stale, with weak fluorescent lights and lowered window blinds to prevent outside distractions. When Dean stepped outside again, it was to a beautiful August day. Sun on deep green leaves that stirred with a breeze that smelled like the river that cut through town.

Cas stood up from his place on a bench under the oak tree, tucking a newspaper under his arm.

Dean barely had to look for his eyes to find Cas, always drawn to him before anything else. He could barely believe Cas was still here, the long hours of test-writing passing like geological ages. The world couldn’t possibly be the same.

The day caught up with Dean all at once. He ran to Cas and barrelled into a hug, swept up with relief and dizzy with the feeling of everything changing. Cas’ arms held him tightly in turn, their steady strength the only thing keeping Dean on the ground, both of them taking everything they could from this moment.

Dean squeezed his eyes closed. “I finished,” he said.

It would be weeks before he knew the results, but he’d done everything he could. He’d studied and practised and given it his all. He’d done well on his practice tests with Cas. He had to hope that counted for something.

“I’m so proud,” said Cas, chin dipping down against Dean’s shoulder. It was an effort not to kiss him in celebration. Voice lower, he said, “You did good.”

Dean slowly let go of Cas, a faint flush in his cheeks. He cast a glance around them, not sure if he’d shown too much of his hand. Men rarely hugged like that. He couldn’t tell that anyone noticed. The man a good ten years older than Dean who’d been at the desk behind him met his wife and kid outside with the same kind of hug, caught up with them.

“I found somewhere for supper,” said Cas, getting Dean’s attention back. “Let me take you out.”

Dean smiled, head bowing. “You know I don’t need to be wined and dined,” he said.

“We’re celebrating,” said Cas.

Dean, who seldom got taken out for celebrations and made his own cake on birthdays, stopped fighting it.

They left the Impala in the shade and walked across the bridge towards the main street. They didn’t have Cas’ beloved Indian food here, but Cas made do. He took Dean to a place that wasn’t too fancy, with ragtag furnishings, but it made good steaks. Dean would never be a white-linen tablecloth man, even if he were celebrating his own wedding. Still, he saw the prices on the menu when they sat down and had to ask Cas if he was sure.

“First,” said Cas, “you did something remarkable today, and we’re honouring it. Second, I don’t ever get to take you to a restaurant, so this has to count for all the dates we haven’t had.”

Dean eyed a passing server, but no one appeared to have marked what Cas said.

A date. They were on a date in public and no one suspected it. Nobody around here knew them and word wouldn’t get back. He wanted to imagine they could do this often. That they could sit beside one another at the Roadhouse counter or drive away to a city for dinner whenever they pleased.

“So who took you out?” said Dean. “When you got into vet school? When you graduated?”

Cas hummed and looked at the menu with unnecessary focus, brow furrowed in concentration. Vaguely he said, “There was some kind of party at the end of veterinary school. With a keg.”

So no special dinner. Not a select treat like this. Dean let his foot knock against Cas’.

“I’m gonna take you out one day,” he promised. “Fair’s fair.” He leaned forward and rested his chin in his hand, eyes catching the subdued light from the Tiffany lamp hanging above their table. He looked across at Cas, wrapped up in him, and feeling relaxed for the first time in ages. A smile quirked at his mouth. “Dose of your own medicine.”

Cas looked uncertain, thrown off for the first time today. He was fine when it came to the prospect of spoiling Dean, but didn’t know how to react when the same attention was put on himself. Honestly, Dean loved being the one to make Cas wide-eyed for a change. He smiled a little wider.




It was getting late when they drove back into town. Dean felt giddy, high from his sense of accomplishment and keyed up with having to look at Cas so long without kissing him. It was unfair to go on such a good date—eating good food and making each other laugh—and not get to make out under a streetlamp by the river. Not get to show his appreciation for Cas being there today and waiting for hours just to support Dean.

He followed Cas up to his apartment and they were lost in kisses before the door closed, before Cas’ hand could seek out a light switch.

Dean wanted to celebrate. He unfastened the buttons of Cas’ shirt rapidly, trying to focus on this and receiving Cas’ kisses in equal measure. Nearly tripping over one another as Cas pulled Dean’s hips towards his own.

Behind Cas, the phone rang.

“Ignore it,” Cas said against Dean’s mouth. It rang another three times before Cas’ answering machine kicked in, and Dean had his hands below the fabric of Cas’ undershirt. The person on the phone hung up before the recording ended. Then the phone rang again.

Cas finally looked over. A red light flashed on the answering machine, indicating someone had already tried to leave a message.

Truth be told, Dean had never heard the phone ring here before.

“Sorry,” Cas said. “I’ll just—”

He reluctantly dropped his hands from around Dean and picked up the phone.

Dean heard only his side, from the flat, “Hello?” to the quiet, “Oh.” Cas searched around himself and picked up a pen, clicking it open, saying, “I see. Of course,” and, “I just got in, but… Yes. Of course.” He scrawled a few notes on a paper pad before wrapping up the call.

He hung up the phone and looked at it for a moment.

“Cas?” said Dean. “What is it?”

“Doc Benton,” said Cas. “He’s had a heart attack.”

“Another one?” said Dean. This was the fourth, by his count.

“He’s dead,” said Cas.

Dean slackened at the news. He always thought old Doc would be around forever. His was the only practice in town and everybody relied on him. John always joked that it would be Doc, Keith Richards, and the roaches left at the end of the world.

“Man, Cas, I’m sorry,” said Dean. That was his boss, his mentor. Doc never sounded particularly warm, but he must not have been bad to work for either.

“I have to go into the clinic,” said Cas.

Dean jerked back to attention. “What do they need you for? What can you do at this time of night?” Cas couldn’t bring him back from the dead. It wasn’t fair to call on Cas at this late hour.

“Unfortunately, plenty,” said Cas. “I’m the only veterinarian now. There will be a lot to sort out.” He crossed the room to Dean, his hands raising to his face as Cas kissed him. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he said. “I’ll call you when I can.”

Dean had to understand. Cas was important, he was needed. There was more to his world than Dean’s small wins.

And of course there should be. Dean liked that Cas was so smart and good at his work. He liked that Cas had such a useful and important job. He wouldn’t like Cas as much as he did if Cas didn’t care about it and all the animals in his charge.

Dean turned his head and kissed Cas’ palm, eyes closed, a tender gesture. He nodded his head. “Yeah. Okay.”

Cas followed him outside and waited for a moment at the end of the alley. Dean looked at him over the top of the Impala before getting in.

He had a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach like he’d never see Cas again.

Chapter Text

GUILDENSTERN
There must have been a moment, at the beginning, where we could have said — no. But somehow we missed it.
— Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead

The house was quiet when Dean got back. He cut the engine of the Impala. There were a few lights on inside, but the truck Dean used wasn’t in the lane. John must have taken it out.

That was good. Dean was so worn-out from the day that just passed, it was a mercy not to have to think further about it now. Commuting his inquest to another day.

He went upstairs and paused in the hall. There was light from under Sam’s door, but it was shut. Dean started back towards his own room.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice said. “That you?”

“Yeah,” said Dean. He thought that might be all there was to it, but something made him turn. He knocked a knuckle against the door before opening it. Sam sat on his bed with his back to Dean, looking towards the dark window.

“You were gone a long time,” said Sam.

“Yeah,” said Dean, looking away. He should just tell Sam. It was over now, the exam written. He’d kept silent less as a point of pride than for fear of jinxing himself with nerves. He wouldn’t know the outcome for weeks, but talking about it now wouldn’t change his answers or the result.

Sam spoke again before Dean could say it.

“No one knew where you were,” said Sam. “I asked Jo and she said maybe you had a doctor’s appointment. You know. A follow-up. From your broken arm.”

Dean closed his eyes.

He wanted to rewind himself down the hall. Drive his car in reverse to the laundromat, give back that kiss to Cas, take back dinner, take back the long day in the exam room with the slanting sun through the blinds moving west to east. Go back further to any of Sam’s phone calls over the time between. Back to the night Dean fought with John.

“She said a horse threw you. Jagger, apparently. Better riders than you have been thrown before, that’s true at least.” Sam looked down at his hands. His mouth twisted. A bitter, humourless laugh left his mouth. “And I guess she believed you. And I wish I could.”

“Sammy—”

“But I know Dad too well. And I know you too well. He could hold you at gunpoint and you’d still make his excuses.”

“Sam.”

“What gave it away is that you never told me. We would’ve talked on the phone the next day and it never came up. Because you knew I’d know. Dad never stopped, did he?” Sam looked over his shoulder. He’d been speaking through such a clear distillation of anger that Dean didn’t expect to see the tears blurring Sam’s eyes.

Dean stood in Sam’s doorway, unmoving. His jaw ticked with the tight clench he held it in. How did Sam expect him to answer that?

“Dean,” said Sam, “I don’t think I can keep coming back here.”

“Sam.” Dean’s face fell and he took a step into the room. “Sam, don’t say that. This is home. It’s always gonna be your home.”

“I don’t want it,” said Sam. “I don’t wanna be part of it anymore.”

“He won’t hurt you,” said Dean. “Now just—”

“But he’ll hurt you,” said Sam, standing up from his spot. “You always putting yourself between him and me— is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Dean stood taller with a flash of anger. “Yeah, actually. It is.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” said Sam. “I’ve seen him treat you like a punching bag. And I don’t even know how bad it could be because you hide everything. He broke your arm and I didn’t know it for months. Like, what else have I missed?”

Dean looked away, anxiously wetting his lips. He was so used to coming up with convenient evasions. Never had anyone torn back the curtain quite like this.

“So there is more,” Sam concluded. “Go fucking figure. Why are you still here, Dean? Why don’t you just leave?”

“And go where?” Dean asked. “You have your fancy school and you have a future. You have scholarships and residence and college recruiters just waiting to snap you up. I don’t have any of that. I’ve got a horse that’s half-blind and if I get turned out, I don’t even have the money to feed it.”

“Go to Bobby’s,” said Sam. “Go to Ellen. Anybody but Dad.”

“It’s not that simple,” said Dean, shaking his head. “Dad would kill me if I left. And they might listen, but they don’t want me. I’m not some puppy that turns up on a doorstep. I’m—” He was a disaster. He’d be a burden. He was too old to be looking for the comfort of a new family. Too old to expect coddling and sympathy. And if they got to know him too well, they’d realise, as John did, that Dean was more trouble than he was worth.

“So you’re gonna stay,” said Sam. “You won’t even consider leaving. He’s never going to change, you know that? Assholes like Dad never do. He could keep this up your whole life.”

“Maybe you don’t know everything, Sam,” said Dean. “Maybe you’ve got it wrong.”

Downstairs, the front door shut after the sound of John coming in. Dean froze in place.

Sam looked at him with vicious accusation.

“Stay in here, Sam,” said Dean.

He needed to head John off. He needed to find out if he’d brought down anger by being gone all day, and he couldn’t have Sam anywhere nearby. Sam was too charged up. Dean wouldn’t be able to control the situation if Sam put himself in the way.

It could be nothing. Nobody said that John had to mind Dean being gone today. All the work was done. John had a set of wheels. Most days, John didn’t want to be bothered by the details of what Dean was up to if it wasn’t related to the farm.

Dean stepped quietly down the stairs, listening for Sam in his room as much as for what John’s footfalls and pathways through the house might confer about his mood.

John had gone into the kitchen, opening the fridge and taking out a beer. Dean made himself walk there. He shouldn’t stop outside the door or he’d look like he was hiding. He took two steps in. He found a clear, easy voice from somewhere in his throat. “Hey, Dad,” he said.

John looked over with an impartial expression. “Dean,” he said. He snapped open his beer can. “You were gone for a while today.”

Dean nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“Feel the difference when you’re not around,” said John. He leaned back against the counter and took a drink from his can, one arm loosely crossed over his chest. “Jo’s cousin Ash was here half the day. Weird-ass kid.”

Dean gave a huff of agreement, tipping his head. “That he is,” he said. “Jo mentioned she might bring him.”

Dean knew better than to think the word safe, but John wasn’t in a high temper and wasn’t fixing towards it. Right now, he looked like the father Dean preferred to think of. His eyes fairly clear beneath his dark brows, his posture relaxed after a day of work. He wasn’t coming from or looking for a fight.

“Did you hear?” Dean asked, keeping the course smooth and impersonal. The further they got from the topic of his absence, the better. “Doc Benton died.”

“Doc, really?” John asked, lifting a brow.

“Heart attack.”

“No shit,” said John. He lifted his beer thoughtfully. “Guess your buddy Cas is sticking around, then. They’ll want him to take over the clinic.”

Dean hadn’t thought of it like that, even though he’d been there when Cas got the call. He thought they were just summoning Cas to look after the animals that Doc was supposed to attend to. But it was going to be so much more than that.

Dean turned his head at the sound of Sam coming downstairs.

He had a terrible feeling. Things had been fine. He’d been so close to keeping the peace. The rhythm of Sam’s steps betokened disaster. Dean wanted to turn around and shepherd him back upstairs, but Sam marched past Dean and into the centre of the kitchen.

“I thought you should know,” said Sam, “that I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

John fixed his gaze on Sam, not giving anything away. “Thought your school didn’t start for another week,” he said.

“I’m gonna stay with Charlie,” said Sam.

“Like hell you are,” said John.

“I’m taking the first bus out of town.” Sam looked between Dean and John. “And I might not be coming back. Ever.”

John’s gaze switched to Dean. “Did you know anything about this?” he asked. This was the critical question that could flick John’s rage on like a switch. To have two sons against him would be treachery.

“No, sir,” said Dean. He felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. Sam was going to leave tomorrow. It felt like he just got here.

Dean’s answer satisfied John as true. He turned his face back to Sam, eyes narrowed but chilled. “Did we do something to offend you, your highness?” John asked. “Or are we just not good enough company anymore?”

“Dad, don’t—” Dean started to say.

“If you can’t figure out why I’m leaving, that’s on you,” said Sam.

John kept a placid expression. Dean couldn’t figure out why he was so still. Dean held himself tightly coiled, prepared to pull Sam out, prepared to leap in his way. His body jerked back when John finally moved, but it was just so that John could slink to a stand. He finished off his beer with a long drag, crumpled the can in a fist, then left it behind him to fall over on the counter. He sauntered between Dean and Sam to open the fridge, leaning down to pull out another beer.

“You’re lucky,” he remarked. “I’ll let you sleep under this roof tonight as long as you’re out of my fucking house by morning.” The fridge door closed with a thud that made the kitchen jitter. “Once you walk out that door, you don’t ever come back.”

They saw only his back walking out to the porch as John said, “Good riddance.”

The wild tension in the room broke. Sam turned and rapidly went back upstairs

“Sam,” Dean called after him, following. “Sammy.”

“I have to pack, Dean,” Sam said in a strained voice.

“He didn’t mean it,” said Dean. “Neither of you did.”

“I did,” said Sam, pulling up a suitcase from under his bed. “I’m not coming back.”

“You wanted him to blow up at you. You wanted an excuse to leave. And now… I can fix this, Sam. You don’t have to go—”

“I’m going.”

“—and he’ll cool off by the time holidays roll around. I can talk to him. Maybe if I could get him drinking less—”

“He hates me almost as much as I hate him,” said Sam. He shoved clothes from his drawers into his bag. “You remember the first time I left, when I told him I was going to school in California? Big fight. Shouting match to end them all. This time? Nada. You know, it’s almost better not to be cared about.”

“I still care, Sam,” said Dean.

“I know,” said Sam, pausing with a pair of jeans in his hands. He turned towards his bag and started rolling them. “And you’ll always be my brother. And this won’t be the last time I see you. It won’t. But never here. Never again.”

“You can change your mind, Sam,” said Dean. “Maybe you need to go away early. For both your sakes. I can make peace with that.” It stung. He was supposed to have another whole week at least. He never got to take Sam for that back-to-school shop. Never brought him out for his favourite burgers. “But Dad doesn’t hate you. He’ll want you back here.”

“You wanna know why he didn’t get mad, Dean? Because he already wrote me off a long time ago. Can’t you see it? He’s got a new family,” said Sam. “He’s more interested in them than either of us. Maybe it’s better to hand him off now and let them deal with his crap. I wish ‘em good fucking luck.”

Dean backed against the door with a hollow feeling in his chest.




Friday morning, Dean drove Sam into town with his bags. Not because he wanted to help Sam leave, but because Sam would go either way. He would’ve walked with his heavy suitcases for miles to reach the bus pick-up.

They didn’t say much to each other as he drove. Sam didn’t even look at the front door when it closed behind him; the door that John said he’d never walk through again. It was like he didn’t even care.

Dean helped Sam load his bags into the bottom of the bus. Checked that he had cash for food, reminded him not to talk to anyone at the creepy bus stops along the route. The short line to board the bus was moving, and Sam made Dean shut up by reaching out to hug him goodbye.

Sam was still a few inches smaller than him but catching up. He might not be Dean’s little brother for much longer.

Dean sat in the Impala and watched the bus depart until the tears in his eyes made it impossible to see. When he pushed past the rush of emotion enough to drive again, he made a slow circuit through town. Debated stopping at the laundromat or the vet clinic.

He wanted to hold on to Cas, to have something that might finally anchor him amidst all of this. But Cas would be busy, and if he wasn’t busy he’d be exhausted from all the additional demands.

He returned home instead. He pulled up at the house, already looking emptier, finding John on the porch with an early-morning beer. Dean didn’t try to conceal the fact that he’d been crying or that he’d just come from dropping off Sam. As he passed John on the porch, John stopped him with a word.

“That’s it,” said John. He squinted out at the lane, not bothering to turn his head towards Dean. “We’re done with him. You don’t call him. You don’t see him. He’s fucking dead to us.”

Dean didn’t say anything. He went inside and changed into his work clothes.

Around lunch, John went into town to load up on feed and run a few errands. Dean picked up the phone in the house and found the number for Kate Milligan in John’s address book.

The long-distance call rang a few times before she answered.

“Hello?”

“Kate? This is Dean.”

“Dean? This is unexpected. How are you?”

“I’m okay,” said Dean. “Hope this isn’t a bad time.”

“Not at all,” said Kate. “I wanted to tell you, you made a real impression on Adam. He talked about you most of the drive home.”

“That so?” said Dean. “He’s— He’s a great kid.”

“I sure think so,” said Kate. “But hey, what’s up? Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” said Dean. “Or… I don’t know. Uh. There’s no easy way to say this.”

“What is it? Is John okay?”

“He’s fine,” said Dean. “But… You might want to sit down.” He didn't know how much he’d need to explain or how long it would take. “And hear me out a bit.” He wet his lips. “I, uh, don’t know how serious you are about my dad. About coming out here or having a future with him or whatever. But there’s some things you gotta know about him.”

“Dean,” said Kate, her voice sounding closer to the receiver. “What is it?”

Dean frowned. His voice caught in his throat. He’d never said it. “He’s not a good man.” He swallowed hard. “Matter of fact, for as long as I can remember, he’s beat the crap out of me.”

If he hadn’t heard her breath hitch, he’d have thought the call dropped. A long silence carried on between them.

Dean spoke again, gripping the phone tight in his hand as he fought off his own trembling. “I don’t know if he’d be like that with you and Adam. I don’t know. I don’t want to think he would. Adam’s just… Adam’s just a little kid. But… So was I. And I know you care about Adam and I thought maybe if I told you, it would make you reconsider. If this was something you were getting serious about.”

“Dean, are you okay?” Kate asked.

“For the minute, yeah,” said Dean. He felt disconnected from himself. He didn’t feel anything. “I’m fine.”

“Can you tell me… I just want to understand. What he was like. When you say that, what do you mean?”

Dean leaned back against the wall and sank down to sit on the floor. He was the one who brought this up. And he wanted her to see the truth. So he fought against the dread and shame that rose in him and he started to talk. Recent years, distant years; the violence, the fear. Not every single incident and not his life story, but enough for her to understand.

“I never imagined,” Kate said. “Sam, too?”

“Not Sam,” said Dean. “But Dad… Dad’s kicked him out. Sam says he won’t come back here again.”

“Have you told anyone?” Kate asked. “Have you ever gone to the police?”

“You’re the first person I told,” said Dean. Not the first outsider who’d guessed it, though.

“It’s so hard to believe,” said Kate. “He’s not at all the man I thought he was.”

“I’m sorry,” said Dean, “but I had to let you know. You get to have a choice. I never did.”

After they said goodbye, Dean tried to call Cas. He ended up on the answering machine and hung up, returning to his work in the barn. When he tried to call again later that night, Cas still didn’t pick up and the answering machine was full.

Chapter Text

The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.
— Theodore Roethke, “My Papa’s Waltz”

It was the worst time for Cas to vanish from the face of the earth. Dean tried to drop in on him on Saturday morning; the motorbike was there, but no one answered. He went down to the Roadhouse and ordered a coffee just for an excuse to talk to Cesar. There weren’t many people in and Cesar discreetly turned the radio up a couple of notches.

“You look like you’re having a bad day,” Cesar said. “Can I get you some pie?”

Dean shook his head, resting his cheek on his fist. He looked around quickly, but there was no one he knew well enough to worry about around. It helped that John did such a bad job of keeping friends.

“You seen Cas lately?” he asked. “I haven’t been able to get through to him.”

Cesar lifted his eyebrows. “You on the outs?”

“No,” said Dean. “Just keep missing him.”

“I saw him yesterday,” said Cesar. “Old Doc dying is keeping him busy. Did you try calling him at the clinic?”

Dean shook his head and slowly unfurled, wrapping his hands around his coffee. “I don’t wanna bother him at work,” he said. “When there’s so much going on, he doesn’t need my stuff—”

“He looked about as miserable as you do if I’m being honest,” said Cesar. “He probably wouldn’t mind hearing your voice.”

Dean looked up from his coffee to Cesar’s honest face.

“You alright, Dean?” Cesar asked.

Dean didn’t know the answer. He parted his mouth to start, then dropped his gaze to his coffee again. He shook his head.

“I’m all over the map,” he said, voice so quiet only Cesar would possibly hear it. “This summer… Some of the best things that ever happened to me. And some of the worst. I can’t make sense of it and… and the world only makes sense lately when I’m with him.”

“He’ll get ahold of you or you’ll get ahold of him,” said Cesar. “I’ve known the guy a while now and you’ve done him a world of good. The clinic’s going to tie up his time for a bit, I think, but he’s not gonna let you slip away just because of that.”

It was some reassurance, but it wasn’t the same as talking to Cas.

“I’m rooting for you,” said Cesar. “Both of you. Figure you oughtta bring him around one of these days to dinner with me and Jesse. What do you say?”

It was a nice idea. “If I can get away,” said Dean. “If he can. Then yeah. I’d like that.”

“Then we’ll make it happen,” said Cesar. “That coffee’s on the house.”




As badly as he wanted to find solace with Cas, he couldn’t just tell him everything of the recent days. Dean had to sort out what he’d say when they met up, how much he could reveal about Sam leaving without saying why.

Or maybe the gig was up. Maybe Cas ought to hear the whole tragic story. Cas shared some of his family dramas but, Dean suspected, not all of it. Maybe he understood better than Dean expected.

Averse to being in the house, and with so much on his mind, Dean took Zeppelin out for a long ride. Over the course of the summer, Dean gradually trained away much of the skittishness Zepp developed when he first started losing sight. The horse trusted Dean through things that used to make him tense up, like when he asked him to run, when they forded a river, when they passed through a narrow path of brush. There were verbal commands Dean only used with Zepp, who could follow them with the confidence that Dean would be his eyes and never lead him wrong.

They stopped under an old beech tree that Dean spent numerous childhood days climbing, imagining adventures and different futures. He could be a prince on horseback, he could be Robin Hood, he could be an outlaw in the old West. Today he lay on his back on the lowest branch, stretched out with his boots steady against the trunk of the tree.

He reached a lazy arm out to stroke Zepp’s nose and talked it over with him, the way he’d long done. Explained his problems out loud to the horse, who could never understand but whose attention was held by Dean’s voice. Occasionally, Zepp would answer with a snuff.

Dean had more problems than he thought. Not just what he’d say to Cas and how, but what he should do about John. What he should do for himself. Maybe Sam had a point about leaving, but where would Dean go when he had no real money? Sure, Cas might take him in if Dean were stuck, but they couldn’t live as two bachelors in a one-bedroom apartment above the laundromat. People would notice.

Bobby was right. Dean had nothing to his name and would never get John’s blessing to leave. He didn’t know any other way of living or working than what he was brought up with, and he never imagined it would spoil so fast. If there were steps to follow for making a new life, leaving the ranch would be the last.

Above him, the beech leaves rippled with the breeze. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye to this tree, these trails, the section of river he grew up with. Why did growing up take so much losing? He’d worked hard and he tried his best and he sought to be honest with himself, and he had to sacrifice his life’s foundations because of it? He wasn’t perfect, but he’d never done anything so wrong to deserve that punishment.

Dean slid down from the tree when the long-held posture began to ache. He walked next to Zeppelin for a while, holding his reins and still mulling things over.

“You can’t turn your back on family, I always thought,” Dean said, still musing aloud. “Except Sam did. Dad says he’s cut off and we’re not talking to him, but that’s bull. Sam’s still family. And Dad’s family.” He reached up and stroked Zeppelin's soft nose. “You’re family,” he said.

He looked down at his boots parting through the deep green grass. The sky over him had turned pale grey, taking away the sun but not yet bringing rain.

“I want Cas to be family,” he told Zepp. “If I stay with Dad, Sam’s dead to us. I’m dead if he finds out about Cas. You’re dead if he learns about you.” Worried he troubled his horse with these words, he stroked Zepp’s cheek and said, “I would never let that happen to you, though.”

He paced on a bit longer, then lifted his chin to look ahead. “Maybe Sam was onto something. What do I get for sticking around? You and me both know.”

Wind blew lines through the grass and stirred at his clothes. It was the land that he struggled to say goodbye to.

It wasn’t his first time considering this. Sam didn’t know it, but there were many times Dean imagined running away. Who he’d live with, how he’d grow up. Working on a rodeo or hopping trains across the country. Becoming Bobby’s adopted son. It wasn’t news to him that his situation was no good. But working up the will to make a change was another thing altogether.

He still didn’t feel ready.

When he mounted again, he rode Zeppelin at a brisk pace back to the stables. Zepp was still a young horse, glad to get his extra energy out when he trusted his rider to lead him safely.

There was comfort in the routine of turning Zepp in and spoiling him with extra attention. Dean moved through the barn without having to think. He brushed Zepp down and brought him to his stall for the night. Evening settled in and Dean fed the horses their supper, sometimes thinking of what he’d make for him and John to eat, but more often thinking of Cas.

When he finished his chores, he thought he might try giving Cas another call. First at his home number, then at the clinic like Cesar suggested.

He wouldn’t use the phone inside, where John might overhear. He picked up the barn phone instead. He’d brought it to his ear before he realised the line was already in use.

“... don’t understand why he’d lie about it.”

He’d heard that voice just the day before. Kate Milligan.

Dean froze.

“It’s like I said.” This was John. Rough and direct, but with his anger tightly fastened down at the edges. “Whether I liked it or not, he was a sensitive kid. He was a little older. Took his mother’s death pretty hard. He’s had trouble with the idea of me moving on. But I didn’t think he’d go that far.”

“I don’t know what to think, John. Either he’s a sensationalist or you’re not telling me…”

“Your instinct said it couldn’t be true,” said John. “Isn’t that why you asked?”

Dean didn’t listen any further. He moved the phone towards the cradle, hovering so he could be sure his hand was steady. He set it down slow and careful so that it wouldn’t click.

As soon as he let go of the phone, he shook all through.

He couldn’t stay here. John would hang him for this. It was done. This was it. He could never come back.

He’d take the Impala. His keys were on top of his bedroom dresser. He’d have to sneak into the house. Back door, up the stairs, barely out of sight from the phone table, but enough if he was lucky. He had a little bit of money in a tin in his bedroom. He’d need that, too. He’d pack a bag, essentials only. Clothes, cash, whatever he didn’t want John to burn.

He’d come into the house by this quiet way before and just as scared, or nearly so. John continued his conversation with Kate on the phone. Saying Sam hadn’t been kicked out, he just went back to school. They started early there.

The stream of excuses gave Dean some small reassurance. The chances were good he’d be a while, easing her worries until she was won over to his side. John wouldn’t risk leaving her with doubts, with unanswered questions.

Dean crept upstairs, carrying his boots, and took down a canvas duffel bag. His hands shook and he had to gather himself. He had to be deliberate about this and fast. He went to his drawers. Only essentials. A few changes of clothes; underwear and the things he wore most. The tin of money. His mother’s rodeo buckle. Photographs of him and his mother, him and Sam, still in their frames. No books, no drawings. He zipped the bag closed.

He stepped carefully into the hall. He should grab his toothbrush, a razor. He slipped into the bathroom to stuff these into the side pocket of his bag, leaving the light out and listening for noise downstairs.

There was no noise.

The phone call ended.

Dean went to the steps. He didn’t see John. He might still be able to get away through the back door of the house. If he was very lucky.

He slipped on his boots but kept his weight to his toes and his steps deliberate as he went as fast as he could down the stairs. He looped his duffel bag strap over his chest so that if anything happened, he wouldn’t have to drop it.

“Dean?”

The voice sounded through the house. John would round the corner and see him in a moment. Dean stopped trying to be quiet, racing towards the bottom of the stairs.

“Dean! Don’t you even think—”

John didn’t care for strategy, only momentum. Dean wouldn’t get away. When Dean tried to run, John slammed into him bodily, crashing him into a wall.

“I oughtta kill you. I oughtta fucking kill you.”

“Get off me. Let me go.” Dean thrashed until he’d whipped around, trying to push back. It reminded him of that night in May, just after prom. Being thrown around the house, making the mistake of trying to get up the stairs. It wasn’t that he didn’t fight back. Of course he did, when it was like this. But he was always sure to lose against John. The difference was he only wanted it to stop, John wanted it to hurt. “I’m leaving. I’m leaving, let me go.”

John didn’t hesitate the way Dean did. An accustomed brawler, he didn’t fight fearing consequences and used any advantage he had. He gripped Dean’s face in his vicious hand and slammed Dean’s head back against the wall. Once, twice before Dean could push hard enough to scramble out of the hold. John’s blunt nails scraped skin from his cheek.

Dean wasn’t here to fight. He was here to run. When he was out of John’s hold he sprinted for the door. He made it outside before John caught him again, grabbing his right arm and pulling hard, which flamed up with old pain. It became a full body take-down that pinned Dean to the floor of the porch, his duffel bag half under him. The strap strained against his chest as he tried to raise his arms against John’s assault.

“You try to ruin the one thing I ask for,” John accused. Crazed blows landed with his words. He weighed too much for Dean to buck. “You ungrateful son-of-a-bitch. You think you had it so bad? You have no idea what I could do. What I oughtta do.”

Dean wedged a knee under John. Deep enough into his gut that he could get John off him, wrenching them apart. He tried to get up to his feet, staggering and shaky, reaching for the rail of the porch. He was nearly to the car.

John charged him again, wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist, careless that they both rolled down the wooden steps in a hard tangle.

The stairs hit Dean in a bad way, but they got John worse. He let go of Dean to press a hand against his back, heaving and grunting as he made himself stand up.

Dean wasn’t going to wait around and see if he was okay. He limped to the Impala, holding his ribs, and tossed the duffel bag into the passenger side closest to him.

Something solid hit against the car’s black paint. The siding crumpled in next to Dean’s left leg. A heavy stone fell at his feet.

He looked over in time to see John throw another stone from those that bordered the garden. He made his body a smaller target, but it struck him in the side. The next one passed by Dean’s right ear.

Dean couldn’t register the pain. He made it to the driver’s side, jamming his keys into the ignition. A rock broke through the passenger window and rolled to his hip.

The tires of the Impala fishtailed out of the dirt laneway.




John would look for him at Bobby’s or Ellen’s. He couldn’t bring them into his mess.

At Cas’ place, there was a note in the door. A sealed envelope with Dean’s name on the front. Dean brought it back to the sidewalk and read it under the streetlight, blinking a few times to make sense of it with his swimming head.

Meeting with lawyers in the city. Gone a few nights. Tried to call. X

Dean didn’t have a spare key for Cas’ apartment. He’d never needed one before.

Every shop on the street was closed and had been for some time. A few orange street lights illuminated the road. Dean’s was the only car parked on it.

It wasn’t a good idea to leave the Impala here where it could be seen. It stood out too much, and even if it didn’t, John would have no trouble tracking down Dean’s car in a town this size.

Dean got back into the driver’s seat. He couldn’t think of anywhere to go, but he couldn’t wait around here. He put the car into drive.

He didn’t have a direction in mind. He drove a ways out of town, then thought better of using up gas and circled back before he ran low. There was nowhere in town for him, but there was nowhere outside of it either.

He found himself following the same tire-track road that led him to the place he and Cas first kissed.

The moon was almost full again, hiding in the corner of the sky, smudged over by grey clouds.

It was quiet here and no one would find him.

The front seat was full of glass. The sound and chill of night came through the empty window.

Dean crawled into the back seat and pulled another flannel over himself from his bag. He hadn’t eaten, but food would be tomorrow’s problem.




Dean slept poorly, shivering through the night. It got worse as the dawn came. Rain fell lightly for about half an hour. His breath fogged the windowpane above his head.

He hadn’t quite been asleep when he heard a rapping on his window.

He jerked to sit up, holding his flannel more tightly around himself. His skin felt clammy and cold. He squinted blearily at his window, then rolled it down.

“Missouri?”

“Dean Winchester.” She folded her arms over her chest and looked up and down the length of his car. Taking in the broken window, the open duffel bag, the shivering young man in the back seat. “I have just one question,” she said. “Have you been drinking?”

“No,” he said. His throat felt sore, though it hadn’t suffered injury. The rest of his body was fully aware of what blows had been dealt.

“I didn’t think so,” she said.

“I didn’t know this was your property,” said Dean. “I’ll go.” He dragged a hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes. It made sense, now that he thought about it. If you turned around town the right way, of course this was Missouri’s land.

“It’s no kind of place for overnight parking,” said Missouri. “You need a place to stay?”

Dean paused. “No,” he said unconvincingly.

“You can follow me out,” she said. “And keep following me until we get where we’re going to.”

Dean sat up with a wince, holding his left side. Missouri returned to her car and started the engine. She looked over and waited for Dean to get in the driver’s seat before she started the way out.

Dean didn’t know what she was doing, where she was leading him. He thought she’d take him to her house, where he might accept a bit of breakfast but otherwise decline further hospitality. He’d sort out somewhere else to sleep tonight. If Cas wasn’t back, he’d find a new place to park.

She didn’t turn towards her house. Instead she aimed north of town on a twisting road he couldn’t remember driving on before. He followed her for another five or ten minutes, their cars descending into a rolling valley surrounded by hills. He slowed after her as they took a curved gravel lane. Missouri signalled a turn through a weathered gate that opened inward from the road. The tidy sign affixed to the gate read ‘Hollyhocks.’

They stopped in front of a stone cottage with a front door of heavy wood. Dean got out of the car, still tired and narrowing his eyes against the pale morning light.

Tall hollyhocks in shades of pink and yellow surrounded the cottage fence. The surrounding gardens were rustic, not too fussy, and ivy climbed up the stone walls. The land sloped down from the cottage towards a large weeping willow that stretched out its arms above a small pond.

“What is this place?” asked Dean.

“It’s mine,” said Missouri. “I rent it out. The past few years there’s been a writer here, always in and out though. Not very reliable, writers. Since it was given up at the start of the month, I hadn’t got around to letting it again.”

“It’s a real nice spot, Missouri,” said Dean, “but I don’t have much for rent.”

“I don’t recall asking for that,” said Missouri.

“Missouri…”

“Come help me with the harvest in a week and we’ll call it even,” she said. “If you’re available.”

He’d be available. No one else wanted him. “Okay,” he said.

Missouri looked him over, then glanced at the cottage. “You don’t remember this place?” she asked. “You’ve been here before.”

Dean frowned, sure she must be mistaken. He shook his head. “I don’t,” he said.

“You stayed here for a little,” said Missouri, walking towards the front door. She took a key from out of a planter box. “Sam too. You came with your mother.”

She unlocked the door and opened it up.

If Sam was around as well as Mary, Dean would’ve been three or four. Surely he’d recall it. He wandered in after Missouri, head turning to take the place in.

He didn’t remember it, yet there was something familiar. Like he knew that there would be cookbooks stored on the other side of the kitchen island and that the daybed in the living room could extend out. Exposed wooden beams met above his head and if he were to look at them lying on his back, they’d make a pattern. The old woven blanket draped over a ladder on the wall just looked like what blankets were supposed to look like.

“There was…” Dean made a gesture with his hand, the curving of a wicker canopy. “A white bassinet,” he said.

“You do remember,” said Missouri.

“My mom used to come here?”

“She needed some time to think things over,” said Missouri. “She didn’t say much to me about why. That wasn’t her way.”

Dean walked deeper into the cottage. He passed a pale blue bedroom with a white crocheted afghan laid across half the bed. Mary would’ve slept there. Dean couldn’t make himself go in. He looked through the door of the bathroom. A deep, freestanding tub sat centred under a clear window that looked over a section of garden and trees. There was no other dwelling in sight, and no one would guess he was here.

“There are some pantry staples left behind,” said Missouri. “I checked on them when the writer left—all good. I can bring in some basics from the store. Milk, bread, eggs.”

“You don’t have to do that, Missouri,” said Dean.

“Hm.” She didn’t sound as if she cared for Dean’s response. “Dean, is there anybody you’d like to know you’re here? I could ask Bobby to drop in, or…”

“No,” said Dean quickly. “I don’t want it getting back— Thanks, but I— I just—”

“Well, there’s a phone if you need it,” said Missouri. “You should get yourself warmed up again. It was a cold night. I’ll be back with those groceries.”

“You don’t need to—”

“Be about half an hour, no more.”

Dean didn’t think he’d ever win an argument with Missouri.

When she left, he went into the bathroom to clean up. His clothes stuck to him with a clammy, cold sweat. He scooped water in his hands to wash over his face, the tender stinging he felt causing him to look up at the mirror above the sink for the first time.

He suddenly understood why Missouri insisted on helping him.

Below the cool water that dripped from his face, the evidence of last night’s fight was clear. Three red, puffy lines scraped across his cheek towards his mouth and bruises darkened his jaw where John’s thumb and fingers pressed. A mottled bruise around his left temple framed his eye. He barely remembered the details; in the moment he only thought of getting away.

He stripped out of his damp clothes, twisting gingerly. The general aching numbness from sleeping in the car gradually came into focus on his ribs. He tested the bones to see if they moved at his touch, grimacing against the shooting pain. Not broken, hopefully. One prod at a tender spot nearly made him black out and he pitched toward the sink, holding himself up there. The nausea passed; that was enough examination. He straightened up and shifted his stiff right shoulder in a careful circle. He’d try to move it more under the shower, if his muscles loosened up.

He took a warm but brief shower. He was too tired to linger in it. He put on fresh clothes just before Missouri returned with a brown bag of groceries to load in the fridge.

“You alright?” she asked him. “You don’t have much colour.”

“Just tired,” said Dean.

“You sure there isn’t anyone I can call?”

Dean shook his head. He didn’t even have the number for whatever hotel Cas stayed at, or what city he might be in. ‘Gone a few nights,’ he’d said. He should’ve said where.

He looked up from the floor. “I’ll get some rest,” he said. “That’s all I need. Thanks, Missouri. I just— Thanks.”

“I’ll call you here tomorrow,” she said. “Just to check in.”

Dean nodded.

When Missouri shut the door after her, Dean stumbled towards the daybed in the living area. Too exhausted to explore further, body following a faintly-remembered path. He collapsed into it.

The day warmed, but he began to shiver.

 

The dreams that came to him were bittersweet and troubling. In the mirror he saw his mother marked by the same bruises and scars, their reflected hands meeting when they touched the glass between them. John gave Dean a shovel and instructed him to dig out a hole for Doc Benton, but something was wrong because the pit was just his size and in the family plot. Cas rode Zeppelin over the farm, every place they’d visited, looking for Dean but unable to find him. Cas’ vision faded like Zeppelin’s until he couldn’t see Dean even when Dean stood in front of him.

The fever dreams were punctuated by waking fits, coughing and sneezing, something terrible working through his system.

He dimly heard the phone ring without knowing what time it should be. He pulled himself out of bed. Cas had found him, at last. He was calling to say that he was on his way.

“Cas?” said Dean when he picked up the phone

“No, honey,” came the slow answer. “It’s Missouri.”

“Oh,” said Dean, sinking back. Blearily he said, “I wanted it to be Cas.”

“You want me to get in touch with him for you?”

Dean didn’t know why the question made his eyes sting. He raised the back of his hand to catch the tears on his cheeks.

Everything had changed. He could never go home. He didn’t want to be alone.

“Dean? Would it be okay if I sent your friend over to check in on you? You don’t sound well.”

“I’m fine,” said Dean. There wasn’t a number to call. It wasn’t like she could divine his location through powers of premonition. “That’s fine. It’s okay. I’m just tired. Bye, Missouri.”

Dean hung up the phone. Dizzy, he drank a glass of water. He put peanut butter and honey on a piece of bread just to get something in his stomach. He drank another glass of water and stumbled back into bed. He knew, vaguely, that something was wrong with him. He had to hope it would pass.

Chapter Text

THE FARMER   I always thought that being alone was just something that a man had to put up with. It was like... I just got used to it. Sometimes... Its like... you’re right inside of me. You know? Like I can hear your voice and feel your breath and everything.
Days of Heaven (1978), dir. Terrence Malick

In his dream, Cas stood in the alley next to the laundromat and Dean looked over the top of the Impala, sure he would never see him again.

Rain fell between them. Light to start, like tears from Heaven, then falling heavier. It sounded against the top of the Impala. Cas became hard to see. Streaks of rain fell and he disappeared piece by piece.

Dean tried to come around the car, tried to shout ‘No!’ through the downpour of rain. It was one thing to dread Cas leaving him, another to watch him disappear.

When Cas wasn’t in the alley, Dean pounded on his door. Knocked his fist again because Cas had to be inside and had to answer.

The knocking wasn’t in his dream. Dean woke out of a fugue.

He sat up in bed at the same time as the door opened.

He expected it to be night outside, the middle of a snowstorm, some traveller coming in from the tempest. The roaming vagabond seeking shelter, a harbinger of dangerous and inevitable transformation.

Gentle rain fell steadily on the windowpanes and on the wet-dark stone of the front step, the sky palest grey. In the door, he saw a dark figure surrounded by light, by the green of trees and grass and the pinpricks of colour from the hollyhocks.

“Dean?”

The door closed after Cas. He wore a tan trench coat splattered with rain, although he shed this as he crossed the room and draped it over the back of a chair.

“Cas,” said Dean, extending one arm out. He was too tired and weak to rise up further.

Cas swept to Dean’s side, sitting at his hip, frowning and reaching his hand for Dean’s face. Dean was too far gone for that kind of simple caress and bypassed it. He wrapped his arms around Cas and slumped against him, chin heavy over Cas’ shoulder, releasing a sigh and the ache he’d held too long.

Cas’ arms wrapped securely around Dean. His body still, but not stiff.

“Missouri told me where to find you,” said Cas, hesitating over every other word.

“You’re here,” Dean murmured into Cas’ shoulder.

Cas combed his hand through Dean’s hair. He would’ve pulled back, but Dean didn’t let him. “Dean, you’re very warm. You feel fevered.”

“Had a bad night,” said Dean. He didn’t know which night it was anymore. He didn’t know what day it was.

“Will you take an aspirin?”

Dean hummed, leaning his weight against Cas’ chest. Cas gently extricated himself from Dean’s hold, rising to a stand as if he knew full well that to stay within reach would mean Dean clinging to him like a baby koala. Cas looked at him for a moment, then touched Dean’s chin before he turned.

He left his black blazer over the kitchen island and loosened his tie. He started rooting around the kitchen cupboards. He took out the First Aid Kit under the sink, setting it aside. In the cupboard over the fridge, he found a box of band-aids, a half-empty bottle of tequila, and a few bottles of basic medications.

Cas brought the aspirin over with a tall glass of water. He watched Dean take them while he loosened the cuffs of his dress shirt and rolled them up. He set aside the water glass when Dean was done.

“You should rest,” said Cas.

“I’ve been resting,” Dean said, but he yawned and lay back again. He didn’t have the energy to rise. He looked up at Cas, afraid this was just a mirage. Afraid Cas would be gone if he fell asleep. Washed away by the rain.

Dean took Cas’ hand. “Stay with me,” he said, voice quiet. “Stay here with me.”

“Dean,” said Cas. “I’m staying.”

Dean tugged on Cas again, and this time Cas followed his pull. Dean turned to curl up on his side and dragged Cas’ arm over him to spoon. Cas lined his body up against Dean’s, solid and comforting. It didn’t take him long to fall asleep again.

This time he slept for an hour, untroubled by dreams. He drifted back into awareness knowing the fever broke. His body didn't hurt like it had. Cas still lay at his back.

It was his first time waking up with someone.

He twisted in Cas’ arms, which lifted then settled around Dean again when he had found his place against Cas’ chest. Cas stroked a hand up and down Dean’s back.

“What happened?” Cas asked.

Dean took in the scent of Cas’ collar. A faint remainder of aftershave, his laundry detergent, the way his skin smelled when it warmed. He shifted his hand to play with the buttons of Cas’ shirt.

“Sam left,” he said.

“Sam left,” Cas echoed in a lower tone, prompting Dean on.

“And I knew it was all over. Things were never gonna be the same. He wouldn’t come back.”

“You… fought… about this?” Cas said. He knew it wasn’t the right word.

“No,” said Dean. “Adam. I didn’t want him to hurt Adam.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sam said he’d move on to his new family,” said Dean. “Like he’d leave us for them and it’d set us free. But they wouldn’t know… know how bad he can get. So I called Kate. And I told her. But then she asked him if it was true.”

“He found out what you said,” Cas concluded.

“And I tried to get away before he knew I knew,” said Dean. “I almost did.”

Cas sighed, fingers splaying out across Dean’s back. “This wasn’t the first time,” he said.

Dean circled his thumb over a button. He shook his head. “Not even close.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Dean didn’t say anything. Didn’t nod or shake his head. After a moment he dropped his gaze and nestled closer to Cas again.

They remained like that, wrapped up in each other. When Cas eventually stood up it was with a kiss to Dean’s hair. Dean drifted again, less afraid that Cas would leave him than before.

Cas moved around the cottage. Dimly, Dean heard him make a call. “Is it possible for you to come sooner? Something’s come up and I can’t spend all my time at the clinic. A personal matter. Yes, Balthazar, I have a personal life. Yes, and—. No, you can’t meet him. Thank you, Balthazar. I owe you.”

Cas walked by the bed and Dean murmured in a haze, thinking he dreamt it, “Who’s Balthazar?”

“A friend from vet school. He’s going to join me at the clinic to help with the transition.”

“Funny name,” said Dean, drifting again.

“Is it?” said Cas. “I never noticed.”

Cas departed again. Dean rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. He could hear something in the background—a kettle or a stove or running water. It struck him that Cas might be making food, which would be a sweet gesture but would lose something in the execution. More alert than before, Dean finally sat up and brought his legs over the side of the daybed.

Cas came out of the bathroom, casting an awkward glance over his shoulder.

“I drew you a bath,” he said.

“A bath?” said Dean, squinting up at Cas from under his bedhead.

He didn’t remember the last time he took a bath. He used to fill the tub for Sam when he was little, back when his brother still took a bath with a rubber ducky. He knew it was what you were supposed to do for kids.

“You’ll feel better,” said Cas.

“Do I stink?” Dean asked, standing and drifting towards the bathroom.

Cas caught him, a hand on his stomach and his lips on Dean’s cheek. “You don’t stink,” he promised.

Dean took Cas’ hand so that Cas trailed in after him. The tub looked tempting, a luxury rather than a practicality. Dean brought his hands to the bottom of his shirt, pausing with his hands below the hem.

“I don’t look good,” he said. He faced away from Cas. It was easier not to look at him. “Maybe you don’t want to see.”

“If you ask for me to go—”

“You don’t have to,” said Dean. He paused, then lifted his shirt up over his head, wincing at the way his ribs strained. That would be the worst of it. He didn’t look at Cas. He slipped his boxers down his hips to the floor and stepped carefully into the bath. He lowered into the warm water.

Cas pulled a wooden stool from the corner and sat at the other side of the bath, facing Dean. His eyes flicked over the bruises visible through the surface of the water, but he didn’t say anything.

Dean wasn’t used to the way warm water could ease out his muscles. The way it worked into the aching parts of his body. He leaned his back against the slope of the deep tub. His knees poked out of the water, arms and shoulders remaining above the round edge, but it held him with room to spare.

He spread out his fingers and let them rise to break the surface, tracing out a pattern from below. He trailed off, sank deeper, and slipped once below the water. He rose with his hair darkened and slicked back, water in his eyelashes and forming drops over his face.

This was the bath that Cas drew, and submergence was a way of erasing everything else that had happened to his body. He released his held breath.

Dean wrapped his arms loosely around his knees and looked out the rain-streaked window with Cas in the periphery of his vision.

Cas didn’t say anything, so Dean did.

“I always thought it would stop,” he said. “When I got bigger. When I learned the lesson. When I turned eighteen. When I was out of high school.” He rested his mouth against his arm, the skin warm and damp. He lifted it again. “I don’t know when I was going to figure out it wouldn’t stop.”

“You can’t blame yourself for that, Dean,” said Cas. “You never should’ve had to go through it.”

“I let it go on so long,” said Dean. “Because I didn’t want to lose the good things I had.”

“You believed he’d change,” said Cas. “You were hopeful. Despite everything.”

“I was dumb,” said Dean, passing the edge of his hand across his forehead. Water dripped across his brow. “And ended up here anyways.”

“Dean, you never have to go back,” said Cas.

“That part scares me too,” said Dean. He dragged his gaze away from the window to look at Cas, eyes clear as sea glass.

Dean shifted his knees to one side, eying up the opposite end of the tub. “There’s room for you,” he said.

“I don’t need—”

“Get in, Cas,” said Dean. Suspecting that right now Cas wouldn’t deny him anything, and wanting to see if it was true.

Cas failed to come up with a counter-argument, so he stood up. Dean didn’t look away when Cas unbuttoned his shirt and left it crumpled on the floor. Pulled his undershirt off over his head, leaving his hair messy. Dean never got to see him like this. In the daylight, not in shadows, not cloistered in some private room.

Cas slid his pants and briefs from his hips and Dean leaned back a little, like Cas’ nudity calmed him, put them on an even playing field. He slid his feet out of the way as Cas stepped uncertainly into the tub. Dean reached out a hand for Cas’, which was perhaps less helpful than intended. When Cas lowered into the tub, off-kilter and slipping down in the last moment, the water rose and washed over the edges to the floor. Dean laughed, even though a soaking puddle quickly formed under the tub and found its way to Cas’ clothes. It wasn’t smooth, it wasn’t romantic, but it eased Dean’s heart all the more.

“This might’ve been a bad idea,” Cas said, voicing aloud what was quite apparent as they tried to find the right way to tangle their bodies, wet legs sliding against each other and more water splashing over the edge. Dean uttering a ‘whew, careful’ as Cas shifted his feet a final time a little too near his jewels, then found his place.

Perhaps they should have settled in differently. With Cas behind Dean, bodies lined up. It wouldn’t change the fact that they were two fully-grown men, both tall. It might just be a different kind of cramped. But Dean liked being able to look at Cas. He wrapped a hand around the ankle that rested next to Dean’s hip, just to touch him. He eased down a little deeper in the water.

“Your parents,” he said, tipping his head to the side, letting it rest against the rim of the bath. “What were they like?”

Cas skimmed his fingers across the water. He lifted his hand and let water fall in warm drips up to the crest of Dean’s knee. For a moment he didn’t say anything. Dean thought he wouldn’t answer.

“Cold,” said Cas.

He lay his palm over Dean’s knee, the broad span of his hand warm everywhere it touched.

“So, not like you,” said Dean.

Cas lifted his gaze from the surface of the water. He tipped his head, lips parted. “Most people don’t say that.”

“Cas, I’ve seen you deliver a distressed mare’s baby foal. The work you do? The way you do it? That’s not cold.”

Cas dipped his head, glancing away, terrible at accepting praise.

“You brought a lost-cause mustang to Cesar. You helped this lost cause with his GED.”

“You were never a—”

“Charlie liked you right away. Sam likes you. Jo likes you. They’re the people who count.” Dean reached forward, fingers spread to fit Cas’ hand with his own, interlocking. “The way I feel around you? Since forever, as long as I’ve known you… it’s how home is supposed to feel.”

Cas bowed his head further. Dean didn’t know if he’d made him cry. Cas brought their joined hands to his mouth and kissed the back of Dean’s hand, then brought them to his cheek. Dean unclasped their hands so that he could stroke against the dark stubble on Cas’ face. His fingers trailed back into Cas’ dark hair, dampening it to black where he touched.

Cas traced his hand along Dean’s arm, travelling over wet skin from his wrist to his biceps.

“My mother was barely there,” said Cas. “Emotionally. Benzos; ‘Mother’s Little Helper.’ Although maybe she was better on them. Fewer of her fits and manias, that way. Which were usually religious, though hardly orthodox.” He slid his thumb against Dean's damp skin. “She liked psychiatrists because they gave her pills. She sent me to many, many psychiatrists.”

“But why?” said Dean.

“I was very emotional,” said Cas. With the flat tone of voice he said it in, it was hard to imagine. “Everything I felt was too big. Anger. Sadness. Excitement. I was supposed to be… less. Of everything.”

“You aren’t really like that now,” said Dean. “You don’t give much away.”

“I learned how to regulate,” said Cas. “Some of the therapists I had were very good, even if most weren’t. And the farm camp I went to, where I met the horses… When my environment changed, I changed.”

“That’s why you figured it out so early,” said Dean. “And got out.”

“Not—” Cas’ gaze disconnected from Dean’s, seeing something else for a moment. He heard what Cas didn’t say, like they spoke telepathically. Not early enough. Dean waited, his silence an invitation for Cas to say whatever it was he hesitated over.

“When I was twelve, my mother tried to perform an exorcism on me,” said Cas.

“What?” said Dean.

“She thought I was possessed by an ‘evil angel.’” Cas swallowed, rubbed the knuckle of his thumb against his cheek, leaving a streak of wetness. “She made my siblings hold me down on the kitchen floor. They… they didn’t have much choice. They were young, too. She told them not to listen to me. That it was only the evil angel begging to be let free.”

“Cas, that’s horrible.”

“She kept striking me, telling the evil to leave. She tried to ‘purify’ me with ‘the blood of Christ.’ It was choking me but she said... She said the angel corrupted me and that if I died it was the will of God. I still can’t drink red wine.”

“I used to think I knew…” Dean hesitated. “I always thought you understood. You know? That we had things in common. Even when I was just little, I wondered. But Cas, that’s… You didn’t leave then?”

“One of my brothers finally made her stop, but she made herself the victim. Since the ritual wasn’t complete, the evil spirits latched onto her as well as me. She said that the exorcism took something away from her. That the devil himself was trying to weaken her. I knew it wasn’t true, yet still thought it was my fault for afflicting her. I ran away for… no more than a day, really. I don’t know if I was missed.”

“Well, what about your dad?” said Dean. “Where was he in this?”

“He was almost never there,” said Cas, frowning as he looked away. “But he might have encouraged her. He was very religious too. And, when he was around, controlling. We had very narrow conditions for living.”

“That I can relate to,” said Dean.

Cas turned his head back towards Dean. He placed his hand on Dean’s chest, just over the top of a bruise on his ribs. “When I saw you, I thought John had found out about us.”

“I think he’d have killed me for that,” said Dean.

Their eyes met, Cas’ looking for the casual detachment of exaggeration, but not finding it.

“He was getting worse,” said Dean. “He tried to throttle me this summer. I think you saw, when we were swimming in the river. You called it motor oil.”

Cas looked at Dean’s throat like he was seeing it over again. His hand slid up from Dean’s chest, intending to caress the place that had once been bruised. Dean’s heart seized when Cas’ hand reached the column of his throat. He swiftly covered Cas’ hand with his own and brought it to the back of his neck instead. Safe.

“Not there,” he whispered.

Cas looked serious, body still. “I’ve kissed you there,” he said, trying to understand what was okay. What might have caused harm unknowingly.

“That’s different,” said Dean. “It’s okay. I’m… complicated.”

Cas stroked his fingers through the back of Dean’s hair, keeping that reassuring touch to the back of his neck, his body bent forward.

“When we were at Missouri’s…” said Cas.

“Nothing happened,” Dean said. “Jody, the sheriff? I overheard her and Ellen talking and freaked out. She’s… she’s been suspicious of my dad ever since he broke my arm. Maybe even before, I dunno.”

“He broke your arm,” said Cas.

“Sam figured it out,” said Dean. “Knew it wasn’t Jagger’s fault. That’s why he left this time.”

“He left you with your father, knowing what he’s like—”

“Sam’s a kid,” said Dean, shaking his head. “And he told me to leave too, only I wasn’t there yet. I hadn’t caught up with him. And then… I should’ve left when I called Kate. I should’ve known something would happen.”

“I should’ve been here,” said Cas.

“You didn’t know,” said Dean.

“I tried to call you.”

“I got your note,” said Dean. “What are the lawyers for?”

Cas could see it for the obvious diversion it was, but he didn’t stop Dean. He sighed. “I’m taking over the practice,” he said. “It’s very disorganised.”

“You’ll be good at it,” said Dean.

“I’ve called in help,” said Cas. “I’ll need it, to start.”

“So I didn't dream up some guy named Balthazar?” said Dean, which earned a small laugh.

Dean tilted his head faintly to the side, eyes growing playful. “If you ever wanna hire your lame boyfriend with no skills, I’m on the job market. I could fuck up some paperwork for you.”

Cas smiled. Dean let his teeth catch on his lower lip. He knew what that smile was for. “You like me calling myself your boyfriend?”

“Very much,” said Cas. He leaned forward to kiss Dean.

The water lapped against the side of the tub when he moved. Cas had to hold onto Dean to keep from slipping against the ceramic.

Every plucking kiss echoed, carried by the water. Intimacy heightened by the warm slide of their bodies, their impossible nearness in the tub.

Dean shifted, bringing his body towards Cas so that he rose up to straddle Cas’ thighs, lifting a hand to Cas’ jaw while his head tipped down to kiss him. Water made Dean’s skin gleam, his hair slicked back from his face, every feature drawn into sharper focus. Cas’ hands slid over Dean’s body, gripping him so that he wouldn’t slip.

Dean kissed Cas desperately, unable to bear how badly he needed this. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin and into Cas. To be separated from him would break him at the sternum and crack apart his ribs, leaving his chest a gaping wound.

He kissed away, needing to say something before it killed him.

“I love you, Cas.”

The heavy focus of Cas’ eyes lingered on Dean’s mouth as if he could find the proof of the words there. His gaze flicked up to lock with Dean’s, his lips parted like Dean was something holy.

Cas brought his hand to Dean’s cheek, his touch heavy with adoration.

“I love you,” he said in return. Voice weighted, “Dean.”

He kissed Dean again, pulling Dean’s hips against his own so they could be closer. Water splashed over the edge of the tub to the floor as Cas chased hungry kisses, tongue tasting Dean’s mouth.

Every sound that escaped their lips—Dean’s hums, his worked-up moans—echoed back from the corners of the room. No one was here to stop them or suspect them. For the first time, Dean felt that he could have everything. There would be no restrictions in a place where he and Cas could be themselves.

Their bodies lowered to lean against the incline of the tub, turned towards each other, bare legs overlapping and arms holding one another up.

“Please, Cas,” he begged. He needed something. He needed Cas to know what.

Cas brought their hips flush to wrap a hand around them both, groaning into Dean’s mouth at the rush of contact.

He brought them off like that, caught up in one another. Dean hid his face against Cas’ neck, flushed warm again but not from fever. Just from this: living at the heighth of desire and destiny.

They needed to get out of the bath, rinse off, dress again and act like decent people for a few moments. But Dean trailed his hand over Cas’ collarbone and said, “Will you tell me again?”

Cas didn’t have to ask what. They were alike enough to know. He kissed the ridge of Dean’s cheek. “I’m in love with you.”

Dean held on tight to the moment, but he didn’t have to wonder if it would be the last.

Chapter 31

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

If my devils are to leave me, I am afraid my angels will take flight as well.
— Rainier Maria Rilke to Baron Emil von Gebsattel, January 24, 1912

Hollyhocks Cottage might as well not exist. It was so disconnected from Dean’s day-to-day reality that time froze in place and only moments mattered. That day and the next passed like a fantasy. Cas went out with a grocery list Dean made and came back and stayed the night. They slept in the same bed and woke up together with the dreamy dawn. When Cas had to leave for work, Dean baked peach pie. He cleaned glass from the Impala’s seats and taped the window over with plastic. He acquainted himself with the cottage and its surroundings. He went slowly through these tasks, often tired and needing to move with care.

When Cas made it back at the end of the day, Dean offered him the first slice of pie to taste, whether or not it would spoil dinner later. Dean sat up on the counter and watched Cas take a bite. He always liked seeing Cas eat his food. Cas hummed with pleasure.

“Dean, this is…” said Cas. “You really make this?”

“Cas, you’ve had my cooking before,” said Dean.

“And it’s always amazing,” said Cas. “But this is pie. My favourite thing.”

“I didn’t even know it was your favourite,” said Dean, smiling.

“You could sell these. You could have a business.”

Dean shook his head. “I don’t want to make it a business,” he said. He knew he had to have some kind of future, and he was thinking of it often, but it wasn’t this. “I just wanna cook for the people I like.”

Cas carried his plate and crossed to Dean’s spot on the counter, fitting his hips between Dean’s knees. Dean leaned back against the cupboards behind him so that he could keep looking at Cas, lashes low over his green eyes. Cas looked a little tired from a long day. Probably in need of a shave. Dean stroked hair back from his temple. Still unbearably handsome, as far as Dean was concerned. His mouth needed kissing.

Cas lifted his fork with a bite of pie for Dean. He accepted it and considered as he chewed.

“Not bad,” he conceded. He rolled in his bottom lip, tongue tracing away the last few crumbs. “Can think of something better, though.” He drew forward to meet Cas’ lips, their kiss tasting sweet.

Supper could wait. It could marinate in the fridge until they were hungry for it. Their hunger lay in another direction. The night of the peach pie was the first night they joined their bodies, deeper than any other touch. Dean had been attached to Cas before, but now he felt bound to him, having shared something he didn’t want to do with anybody else. Everything he did with Cas brought new cravings and new realisations. Mind and body cognizant of wants he’d never voiced before. He’d only just begun waking up.

 

Reality caught up with Dean the next day. He thought of Jo, who wouldn’t understand his sudden absence. He thought of Kate and whether she’d been conned by John into trusting him. He thought of Bobby, who he hadn’t even called.

He drove over on Wednesday in the late morning. He could see his father’s ranch from Bobby’s place, and it made his gut give a sick twist.

When he pulled up, the front door opened with Bobby stepping out. He came down the steps but stopped to eye up the plastic that covered the Impala’s passenger-side window. The scraped dent in her beautiful black exterior.

Dean got out of the car and came around the hood. He didn’t look as bad as he had, but he remained distinctly marked. The bruises receded slowly from his face and the scrapes on his cheek had faded to pink lines.

“What the hell did you get into?” Bobby asked. “We just fixed a window.”

For some reason, Dean thought Bobby would already know. He thought the whole town would know and be talking about the fact that Dean Winchester broke with John. He expected horrible whispers and speculation.

Dean stopped on the passenger side of the car, nearer to Bobby, and leaned back against the door. He folded his arms over his chest. He looked away as he said, “My dad kicked me out.”

“He did what?” Bobby took a step closer like he hadn’t heard right, then stopped. He was too smart not to put it together. Dean looking rough, the damage to the car.

To Bobby’s credit, he didn’t say anything else right away. Kept his quiet fury contained. He flicked his eyes over the car and Dean, lips pressed, beard bristling.

“I thought he might have talked to you,” said Dean, face still turned away, eyes on a rusted tire rim that held down the blue tarp over Bobby’s stack of firewood. “Try to ask you where I’d gone.”

“Well where have you gone, and how long have you been hiding?”

“Missouri has a place, this cottage. She found me Sunday. This all just happened Saturday.” He nodded at the plastic over the car window.

“Why didn’t you come here?” Bobby asked, a desperate note in his voice.

“I was worried he’d come looking for me here,” said Dean. “I didn’t want to drag you in.”

“If he’d come looking for you here, I’d have blast him full of buckshot,” said Bobby. He finally stepped down to meet Dean, grimacing back against whatever else he wanted to say. He put a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You better come inside, son,” he said. “Get some coffee in you and sit down.” He eyed the Impala once more, taking in the damage.

With a cup of coffee in his hands, sitting hunched over Bobby’s small kitchen table, Dean found himself answering Bobby’s questions. Telling him all about the weekend that passed and the reasons Sam left. The suffering that had been going on for a lifetime just a country mile down the road.

Bobby listened tight-lipped. After enough was said, he scratched at his beard, then wiped his hand over his mouth. “If I knew how bad it was—” he said. “I always knew he was strict and mean-spirited, but I had no idea—”

“He didn’t want you to know, and I didn’t either,” said Dean.

“I would’ve taken you boys in,” said Bobby. “Damn the laws.”

“Bobby,” said Dean. Bobby was saying everything Dean wanted to hear. Every word one of support and faith. But Dean needed to know it wasn’t conditional. It couldn’t be based on Dean pretending to be what he wasn’t. He couldn’t handle that any longer.

He felt his throat grow hot with danger and fear. “There’s something else I gotta tell you,” he said. He cleared the looseness in his throat. “And I want to tell you because… I could never tell him. And he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t get to know me. But if it’s the last straw, if you can’t stand me for it, then I gotta know now so I don’t get heartbroke all over again.”

“Go on,” said Bobby, eyes clear and steady on Dean.

“I’m gay, Bobby.” His voice shook as he said it. He didn’t know how he didn’t cry. He didn’t want to miss Bobby’s reaction, gaze sweeping up from his cup of coffee to look back at Bobby.

Bobby waited for a moment, like there might be more, then said, “Okay, Dean.”

“Okay?”

“If you’re waiting for me to explode on you, don’t,” said Bobby. “It doesn’t change a thing about you, in my books.”

“Really?”

“Except for thinking how much harder it makes some things for you,” said Bobby. “Pitching wildly from one danger into another. I just don’t want anyone to raise a hand against you.”

“Well I’m not about to advertise it,” said Dean.

“They’d have to go through me, anyway,” said Bobby. He paused, then asked, “You got somebody?”

Dean nodded. He expected to be thrown out. He never thought he’d be able to say this. “Cas,” he answered.

“The vet? Huh.” Bobby raised his cup of coffee. “And how’s he treat you?”

Dean smiled, unable to help himself. He didn’t have the words to begin describing all Cas did for him. “There must be something wrong with him because he acts like I’m smart and special and I think he means to stay with me.”

Bobby pulled in his lips, his gaze between them but his memory somewhere else. “That’s— That’s what it felt like with Karen. You hold onto that— You hold onto that and you give back the same, and you’ll be alright.”

“Really?” said Dean. He rotated his cup on the table. “You aren’t mad?” he said. “Or shocked or any of it? I unloaded a lot on you.”

“I just—” Bobby stopped and shook his head. “Dean, I love you like a son. No matter what. I’m just pissed at myself for not knowing any of it till now. What was going on with John... I should’ve picked up without you having to say. I wish I’d known sooner.”

“Dad always forbid me from coming around here when things were bad,” said Dean. He had months-long periods where John turned foul and fought with all his neighbours. After a while, Dean picked up these patterns of isolation and secrecy without having to be expressly told. He followed them even though they didn’t serve him. “And till lately, I guess... I mean, I always thought adults would take his side. You or Ellen or whoever. I only knew any of you through him.”

“Dean,” said Bobby. “We all hate your dad. And can’t figure how the hell he ended up with a kid as good as you.”

Dean swept his gaze away, not used to hearing Bobby talk like this, parting his lips to interrupt only for Bobby to continue.

“I mean it,” Bobby said. “You— You grew up great. We all saw it, saw how you turned out. Good-natured, hard-working. Everybody but him knows it. Your dad is a selfish dick and he never deserved you.”

Dean kept his mouth shut because after everything that had been said today, he didn’t trust himself not to cry.

“Guess what I’m trying to say is: I’m proud of you.” Bobby nodded his head once like that put the matter to rest. He stood up to refill their coffee. It gave Dean a moment to collect himself.

“So,” he said. “What’s next for you?”

“I dunno,” said Dean, sitting back. He cleared his throat to get some strength back in his voice. “I’ve been thinking a lot about that. I don’t want to leave town or anything. Cas is taking over the vet practice, so he’s staying. Missouri’s got some work for me in the next week or two. I might go back to the Talbot stables, see what I can pick up there for work.” He raised his fist to his mouth, chewing at his thumbnail. “I gotta go back to the ranch sometime,” he said. “I’ve gotta get Zepp.”

“Dean…”

“He’s my horse.”

“That cottage even got a spot to put him?”

“Nah,” said Dean. “I’ll have to find another place some time. For now, I’ll stable him at the Talbots and work off the costs of it.” There was still a lot to figure out, down the road.

He sighed and said, “The rest of my stuff, Dad might already have burned it out back. Who knows? But I gotta get Zeppelin before he realises… My horse is going blind. And if Dad finds out before I can get there, that’s it.”

“Well,” said Bobby, resting his hand against his chin as he thought it over. “Don’t announce yourself and don’t cross his path. Make Jo your eyes and ears for when the ranch is clear. You want back-up, I’m right behind you.”

“Thanks, Bobby,” said Dean.

“With a shotgun,” said Bobby. Dean laughed.




“Bobby lent me the truck while we wait on a new window for the Impala,” said Dean, climbing inside the seafoam-green pick-up. It had seen better days, but it would get them from Point A to B. “Saw him this morning.” He started up the truck with a rattle.

Cas looked handsome in a black button-up despite the warm weather. Dean had taken Cesar up on the invitation to dinner. Dean didn’t expect a dress code, but he wouldn’t have minded looking a little nicer. This was like a date. Dean didn’t have much with him for clothes and had rolled the sleeves of his blue chambray shirt, left open over a white tee, and finished the look with his cowboy hat taken from the back window of the Impala. If they’d been at Cas’ apartment, he might have raided his wardrobe, but so far Dean hadn’t risked being seen around town. He wasn’t ready for any kind of news to get back to his father.

“Did you tell him what happened?” Cas asked, squinting ahead out the window as Dean started off.

“Yeah,” said Dean. “You know, he kinda kept it in while I was there, but I think he was actually pretty steamed.”

“Considering his past,” said Cas.

“What?” said Dean.

“His own father,” said Cas, glancing over. His mouth parted in mild confusion. “You know about that, don’t you?”

“Know what?” asked Dean.

Cas looked at his hands in his lap, opening them palm up, likely regretting having said anything, but unable to find a way out. He lifted his brows as he spoke. “Uh. He shot him. When he was just a boy. Doc Benton told me that, once. He was old enough to remember it distinctly.”

“Bobby— Bobby shot his dad?”

“I understand it was viewed as an act of defence,” said Cas. “His mother had been… mistreated. I thought you might’ve known about it.”

“People don’t talk about shit here,” said Dean, sitting back. “How am I supposed to know anything?”

“I don’t know about that,” said Cas. “There must have been a time when everybody talked and everybody knew. The… scar-tissue is still there. Bobby lives as an outsider. Part of it must come from him, thinking he can never fit into the fabric of regular society after experiencing something… so singular. Part of it comes from everybody else. It’s a small town. People go silent when you enter the room and…”

Cas voiced everything Dean was afraid of. If people here knew his secrets, he’d be treated just the same.

“I think it must mean a lot to Bobby, that you’ve always been there,” said Cas.

“But I didn’t know,” said Dean.

“Does it change anything?” Cas asked.

“No,” said Dean. “I like him more, knowing.”

Cas touched the edge of his finger against his lower lip, elbow leaned on the truck window, half-concealing a smile.

“I told Bobby about us,” said Dean.

That caught Cas’ attention. “You did?”

“He said he loved me no matter what.”

Cas reached out and touched Dean’s shoulder, a physical expression of sympathy and gratitude and fondness. They didn’t need words.

The sunlight off the front of the truck caught in Dean’s green eyes, even under the shaded brim of his cowboy hat. “You know, I’ve been afraid sometimes that all these changes would make me lonelier. Like if I was ever honest about myself it would scare people away. But then it’s like… since you came around and it got harder and harder to hide, the real me seeped around the edges of who I thought I was supposed to be. But the more that happened, the more I heard things that I never got to know before. That people cared about me. Or would fight for me. Or loved me.”

Cas traced over Dean’s profile with his gaze, lids heavy over his eyes. “You were too good at pretending to be self-sufficient before,” he said. “Convincing people you didn’t lack anything.”

Cas talked about Dean, but it struck him that it was even more deeply true of Cas. The boy who forged his own path at sixteen, took his life in his hands and shaped it according to his will. Or so it looked from the outside.

No one had fought for him. No one asked what he needed.

That independence didn’t come without sacrifice, and it didn’t mean Cas never wanted someone he could depend on.

“Oh Cas,” he said. “Neither of us has gotta pretend.”

 

At Cesar and Jesse’s place, they were greeted outdoors, as they had been before. This time, Jesse welcomed Dean properly, not saying a word about John.

They remained outside at first, Dean helplessly drawn to the horses in the paddock. He’d been away from horses for four full days and had never gone so long without their company. Even when he’d first broken his arm and wasn’t supposed to ride, he’d at least had horses to visit with.

“How’s Indigo doing?” he asked as the horse came up to greet him. Dean wasted no time in hopping to the other side of the fence and holding out a hand to Indigo.

“Oh he’s happy,” said Cesar, climbing over to sit on the top rail of the fence. “But he still won’t let me ride him.” Cesar looked over his shoulder. “Only one he’s let on his back so far is this guy here. He tell you about that, Cas?”

“Why do I suspect I won’t want to hear it?” said Cas.

“I tell Dean here that Indy won’t take a saddle but has done some rope work, knows commands. Dean says, ‘So don’t saddle him.’ Like it’s nothing to ride liberty on an unbroken mustang. Next thing I know, he’s—”

Cesar cut off. Dean had gone from speaking to Indy in a murmur, stroking his neck, to alighting up onto the back of the beautiful blue roan. With a signal, he asked Indigo to canter.

“That,” said Cesar.

Dean knew this horse like it knew him. He knew the kind of rider it wanted. A partnership, the two of them making up one mind together. When he asked Indigo to turn or change his pace, it was because the horse wanted to. And when he knew the mustang wanted to run, Dean’s body responded in kind and he let him. The cowboy hat flew back from his head.

He could’ve stayed out for hours, but he was aware of being Cesar’s guest, not Indy’s. His bruised ribs also protested at even the brief amount of time he spent on horseback in a way that promised he’d feel the pain tomorrow. It was just as well to come in.

He let the horse slow to a walk and returned towards the paddock fence. Cas had climbed over into the grassy pen, meeting Dean halfway to pick up his black hat and dust it off.

“You’re incorrigible,” said Cas, handing the hat up. “You know that?”

“Cas,” said Dean with a smile, “I barely know what that means.” He set the hat back on his head. “But I know you love it when I am.”

Cas laughed, smile stretching across his face.

Dean slid down from the horse. As soon as his boots touched the grass, Cas circled an arm around his waist. Dean pulled down his cowboy hat to hide their kiss behind it: not out of shame, but demure and playful privacy. He smiled against Cas’ mouth.

It was no secret that Cesar was a good cook, but tonight Dean was taking notes. Cesar brought out a plate of crispy taquitos while they visited. Dean could’ve eaten the whole lot, they tasted so good. And this wasn’t even supper. The next time Dean had friends over, like Jo or Charlie or Cesar and Jesse, he’d make an appetiser just like this. These snacks made the whole evening cosier and more welcoming, less restrictive, less formal.

Then for supper, Cesar used the best of the season to every advantage. Grilled corn picked that afternoon, the bright taste of cilantro that grew in the back garden. Everything tasted good on its own, but there was something that made it sweeter. Something about sitting next to Cas in company without having to conceal their clear affection. Arms brushing, gazes occasionally locking just to turn into further laughter that spread around the table.

Much of what they talked about wasn’t all that different from Dean’s usual conversations—horses and rodeos and food. Occasionally they turned serious, though. Cas, Jesse, and Cesar had all lived in other places, knew people with different stories. People who’d been unlucky, people who’d been outed. Lost families, lost jobs. Pressing in on the edge of his vision like a haunting, Dean felt the violence and death that followed so many others like him. Strange that what made him so happy, what felt so right for the first time in his life, could carry equal peril.

“What happened here?” Cesar asked Dean, gesturing on his own face to where Dean’s was still marked. “Get on the wrong side of Eldon Styne again?”

“No, uh,” said Dean. “My dad. Long story. Short version is, I’m staying in a place outside of town for a bit. And if anyone asks, you haven’t seen me.”

“Your dad’s a piece of shit,” Jesse put in helpfully.

“Yeah,” said Dean. “I know.”

“You know there’s lots of ways an accident could happen,” said Jesse. “Especially to a guy who turns down first aid.”

“I think we better hold off on the murder plots for now,” said Cesar, putting a hand on Jesse’s arm. “I like all of you too much to see you in jail.”

The mood shifted again when Jesse cleared away their plates and Cesar brought out the mezcal. Dean didn’t drink, intent on driving them home, but it was funny to see the way it affected Cas. He loosened up untraceably—barely anyone but Dean would be able to tell the difference. The corner of his mouth quirked up a little more and he kept narrowing his eyes like he could see better or think better. It was endearing as fuck.

Dean didn’t need to drink, the laughter in the room contagious, even when the conversation turned on to him and Cas.

“I don’t know,” Cesar said, gesturing with a hand. “I feel like I deserve a little credit, here. You know, some gratitude.”

“Like what?” said Jesse, snickering. “A fruit basket?” Dean cracked up.

“That’s homophobic,” Cesar said, pointing a finger, his smile betraying him. “No, listen, a ‘thank you’ would do.”

“Oh sure,” said Jesse. “The two heartbreakingly handsome guys really needed your help getting together. Right.”

“Okay, I’m feeling a little left out by—” said Cesar.

“You’re handsome too,” said Jesse.

“Better,” said Cesar. He gestured out with a hand. “But I was here when— Dean, you can confirm—?”

“When I had my… brief… crisis, yeah,” said Dean. “You were very helpful.”

“He made bread,” Cas said to Jesse, voice and gaze flat. “He left it outside my door. And the note said: ‘I made bread.’”

“No,” Dean corrected. “The note said, ‘I made you bread.’”

“You see,” said Cas, “what I have had to put up with.”

“I also,” put in Cesar raising a finger, “listened to Cas whine about this man—”

“That was one time,” said Cas.

“Aw, what did you whine about?” Dean asked, grinning.

Cas took another drink from his mezcal, making a face at the strong taste. It should’ve looked funny, but it just made Dean love him more.

Cas looked at the others, eyes somehow deadly serious and amused at the same time. “The whole summer,” said Cas, “he takes me on the best dates of my entire life. And he doesn’t even know they’re dates. And I’m trying not to read into things because it’s not his fault he’s so likeable and attractive and has freckles on his ears.”

“And what’d you tell him?” Jesse asked Cesar. “What was your great advice?”

Cesar winced, though he still smiled. “Well—forgive me, Dean—I think I said it’s not for nothing when someone looks at you like what Cas described.”

“So you weren’t surprised when I told you I’d kissed Cas?” said Dean.

“I was surprised it hadn’t happened before then,” said Cesar.

Dean turned his head to bring Cas back into the conversation, only to find Cas with his chin resting on his hand, his head turned towards Dean, drinking him in and looking like he’d stopped listening some time ago. Looking at Dean like he was the only person in the room.

“Cas?” said Dean.

“I liked our dates,” said Cas.

“I think it’s time to get you home, cowboy,” said Dean.

“You do like cowboys,” Cas said with narrowed eyes and a smile tracing across his lips.

Dean laughed, but he was pretty sure Cas had forgotten they weren’t alone. He tugged on Cas’ arm to guide him back to standing and he thanked Cesar and Jesse for the good evening.

They joined to say goodbye as Dean shepherded Cas to the door. Cas wouldn’t take his eyes off of Dean, his lashes looking dark and full with the calm and satisfied character of his gaze. Dean took his hat down from the hook by the door.

“I’m going home with him,” Cas said aloud. “He’s that beautiful and I’m going home with him.”

“Oh sweetheart,” said Dean. “You’ve hit the limit.”

“I’m sweetheart,” Cas said flatly, looking at Cesar and Jesse. “He means me.”

“Not so sure I should send you that fruit basket after all,” Dean said to Cesar. He grinned and took Cas’ hand, intertwining their fingers to tug Cas with him out the door.

Notes:

» that Rilke epigraph is often quoted but never sourced and I was straight up digging through German texts to make sure I had a date and an addressee because I can't abide this "quoted in" nonsense. sometimes fic research is not what you think it would be
» hilariously, that is Rilke's reason for refusing psychoanalysis/therapy which is so Dean-coded of him, amirite?

Chapter 32

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
— Elizabeth Bishop, “One Art”

Dean didn’t give Jo the whole story over the phone, but she could tell that he was serious by his request. He needed to go to the ranch when John wouldn’t be there so that he could clear out his stuff. He needed her horse trailer to transport Zeppelin. He wouldn’t return home again after this.

Jo called him back the next morning and let him know there was a window of a couple hours, if that was enough. It would have to be.

Ellen and Jo came together with the horse trailer, waiting at the end of the road for Dean’s Impala, engine idling, then following his car in up the lane.

The house loomed above him. Its aspect had changed almost overnight. Instead of the sanctum of comfort and familiarity, all he saw were memories of his father’s fits of anger. The fights and the fear and the hard words. As he got out of the car, he turned his head up to the upper windows like he expected to see a ghost there watching him.

Feet running across the gravel pulled his attention away. Jo ran into him with a hug, which earned a grunt of pain from Dean and an unsteady step back, then he wrapped his arms around her in turn.

“He wouldn’t say where you were,” said Jo.

Dean looked over the top of Jo’s head at Ellen. She had likely passed on her suspicions to Jo by now, and Dean’s appearance only confirmed it.

“I’m okay,” Dean promised, letting Jo go again.

“We’ll stay out here while you get your things,” said Ellen, leaning back against the Jeep with her arms folded. “Once you’re out of there, we’ll round up your horse.”

“Thanks, Ellen,” said Dean. “Jo.”

He went back into the house for the first time in nearly a week.

It had been a hard place to leave. It was harder to enter again.

It felt like more should have changed. Peeling wallpaper and cobwebs like some horror-movie house, long-abandoned. The only things that looked different so far were dishes piled up in the sink and beer cans lining the counter. The fridge and the cupboards were likely getting empty, but Dean didn’t have time to snoop.

His room hadn’t been touched, nor had Sam’s.

Dean stopped in his doorway. He expected to find the place torched. To find his things ripped down from the walls, papers and photographs torn, his furniture upended. John tended toward destructive anger. If John hadn’t annihilated the memory of Dean, what did that mean? Was he in denial? Or did he just not care?

Dean stepped in gingerly, like he expected to find the place booby-trapped. There had to be a catch to all of this. It was wrong that there wasn’t something wrong.

Dean unloaded the clothes from his drawer into a suitcase. Filled bags with his books and personal things. He folded up the star-pattern quilt he’d had since childhood, the one the Women’s Institute sewed together after Mary died. He left behind the ribbons and trophies. He tried to guess what Sam had left that he might still want. Taking for granted when he departed for California that it would stay where it was with someone left to guard it.

Dean didn’t have much to his name. It all fit into the trunk of the Impala. In total, two short trips inside and back out.

He entered the empty stable next. He suspected John would skin him for it, taking something with a dollar value, but that was Dean’s name on the saddle and matching tack. He carried these to the Impala and set them in the back seat.

“Is Zeppelin in the Lower Pasture?” Dean asked.

“I assume so,” said Jo. “The horses were already turned out when I got here.”

“You two go get him,” said Ellen. “I’ll be just fine here.”

He was grateful to Ellen, but a murmur of fear passed through him at the thought anyone else might come to trouble on account of him. It was what held him back for so long.

Jo walked step-in-step with Dean through the pasture as they made their way down to the river. Dean’s eyes swept over the horses they passed, taking account of each one because it might be the last time he saw most of them.

They crossed the crest that looked into the Lower Pasture. Six horses dotted the field.

“I don’t see Zepp,” said Dean.

“He’s gotta be around,” said Jo

“Ringo’s right there,” said Dean. “He’s always with her.”

“Maybe he’s in another pen,” said Jo.

“We passed all of them,” said Dean.

“He could’ve been around a shelter,” said Jo. “You might’ve missed him.”

Dean hadn’t. He never would’ve missed Zeppelin. He took a step ahead, whistling out his call.

The horses in the field responded, flocking up to him like a long-lost friend, but Zepp wasn’t among them.

Dean raced back, checking the other paddocks. Checking the stable again, then the old barn, then the shed. He outpaced Jo in his search. He came back out to the lane.

“He was here last night,” said Jo. “I fed him just like usual.”

Dean’s eyes swam with tears. “He was my horse,” he said. “I was supposed to save him.”

“Dean,” said Ellen, “we’ve been here long enough. You should go.”

“I need my horse,” said Dean. “I’ve gotta find Zeppelin.”

“Jo and I will find out what happened to him,” said Ellen. “He’s not here. It’s time for you to go.”

“No,” said Dean. He wiped at his cheeks with the back of his wrist, teeth gritted against his emotions. “I’ll make him tell me— Tell me what he did.”

“Dean, if you’re still here and he shows up, there’s no telling what I’ll do,” said Ellen. “So you get back in your car and go. You’ve done all you can here. Me and Jo will find out what happened.”

“Are we sticking around?” Jo asked.

“Not a bit,” said Ellen. “Joanna Beth, you are not working for John Winchester another day. You go on and grab your horse and load her up. We’re finished here. All of us.”

Ellen gave Dean one more look, and it sent Dean to the front of his car. He got in, wiped at his eyes again, and left his home behind.




Cas tried not to burden him with it, but Dean understood how difficult taking over the clinic made his life. As it was, Cas devoted more attention to Dean than he ought to, when there was so much to sort out at work. Over the last few days, Dean had patiently bided his time at the cottage, holding back his selfish desire for more of Cas’ time, even on the days when Cas came home later than he promised.

Today he couldn’t wait.

He stopped the Impala outside the clinic and swung through the front door into a reception area with dark wood panelling and a green-topped desk. It was Amelia on reception duty today. Dean knew her vaguely from school and knew she worked here with aspirations towards veterinary school, but that was the extent of their association and it didn’t grant him any extra cordiality. Amelia looked up from her clunky computer monitor as if she was already impatient with whomsoever approached.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I need to see Cas,” said Dean. “Is he here?”

“Do you have an appointment?” Amelia asked, looking back to her screen. She hammered at a few keys. “I don’t have ‘Dean’ here.”

“No, I—”

“Or any Winchester.”

“I just need to talk to him,” said Dean.

“Well,” said Amelia, “he’s out for an on-site visit. Is this an animal emergency? We have another doctor here, now.”

“It’s— I needed Cas—” He didn’t want to put Cas in a compromising situation. Starting rumours at his work about Dean showing up half-deranged and desperate for him.

A door opened from one of the clinic rooms into the lobby. A client exited with an orange kitten in a cat carrier, escorted out with a stream of chatter and a few final pieces of advice by the white-coated doctor Amelia referred to. This must be Balthazar.

“What’s the nature of your emergency?” Amelia asked.

“It’s not like that,” said Dean, gaze flicking around the room. His urgent stammer appeared to have caught Balthazar’s attention. “I just—”

Amelia sat up more primly. “Dr. Novak’s schedule is very full,” she said. “If you don’t have an emergency you’ll have to wait.”

“I have a minute,” Balthazar interrupted, leaning his elbow on the upper ledge of the desk. He gave a loose, rolling gesture of his hand. “Go on, then. What’s your issue?”

“I just need to know when Cas is back,” said Dean. “Or where he is. I need to talk to him.”

“About… an animal of yours?”

“Yeah,” said Dean. That much was true. “It’s my horse. Zeppelin.”

Balthazar lifted his chin, a look of understanding crossing his face. “You must be Dean.”

“Yeah,” said Dean.

“Balthazar. Call me Balth, if you like. Why don’t we step into the back office? You can tell me what’s the matter.”

Amelia narrowed her eyes faintly as he passed by, evidently as displeased at Dean lacking an appointment as she was with this upstart veterinarian who’d skipped due procedure.

Balthazar led Dean into an office with a desk, computer, and long filing cabinets at the back. The half-broken window blinds were open as far as their mechanics allowed and looked onto an uninspiring parking area. Balthazar leaned back against his desk, folding his arms.

“Something’s wrong with your horse?” he asked.

“He’s missing,” said Dean. “I went to get him from my dad’s today and… he wasn’t there. I don’t know if you’ve seen anything or heard anything here…”

“I’m afraid not,” said Balthazar. “You clearly don’t think the horse escaped out an open gate. Do you think he’s sold it?”

“Or worse,” said Dean, head turning away. Would John have taken him somewhere and shot him? Had he left Dean’s room alone because he’d already destroyed the one thing that mattered?

Balthazar flicked his glance over Dean, lips pressed. “My understanding was that the Winchesters kept prize stock. Is your father the kind of man who would hurt an animal he could profit off of instead?”

There was fair logic to Balthazar’s question, but John might not have been operating under logic. It was true that John treated the horses well. He knew down to a dollar what they were worth. But there were kill farms who would pay just enough to make vengeance worth it.

Balthazar continued, “Am I correct to guess that he’s not old, he’s in good health—”

“He’s going blind,” said Dean. “I never told my dad. But if he figured it out since I left…”

“Ah,” said Balthazar. “That could change things.”

Dean didn’t want to hear it, fighting back against the way his mouth twisted in despair. His cheeks hot, his eyes watering again. “Zepp was there just last night,” he said. “I should’ve gone back for him—”

The office door opened behind Dean. Cas didn’t bother with a knock, eyes finding Dean at once. Unlike Balthazar, he didn’t wear a medical coat: his camel-coloured button-up was tucked into his belted jeans and marked with dirt from recent work.

“Dean, what is it?” he asked, a hand on Dean’s shoulder, eyes rapidly scanning over him as if he expected to see some kind of injury.

Dean didn’t know how to say it again, his jaw trembling when he tried to bring up the words. Of everything that had happened, this was suddenly the worst.

“It’s his horse,” Balthazar supplied. “Zeppelin. When Dean tried to retrieve the horse this morning, it was already gone. He’s worried his father sold it. Particularly worried if that man worked out that the horse is losing sight, it will have gone to a kill farm. Beastly practice. Where’s the nearest abattoir?”

“It used to be in Oregon,” said Cas. “But that one burnt down in July. Now, I guess… North Platte, Nebraska. On this side of the border. The others are in Texas, it would be too far. But we should look north, to Alberta, too.”

“I’ll get on the phone,” said Balthazar. “Have you got any pictures of your horse, Dean?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. In the car.” He’d just picked up the one of him and Zeppelin from his bedroom today. He couldn’t stand the thought it might be the last photograph he had.

“There should be one in his vet file, too,” Cas noted.

“It could help us identify him, if that’s where he’s gone,” said Balthazar. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He left the office, but not before exchanging a meaningful look with Cas. He closed the door after himself.

Dean immediately turned to Cas, body collapsing into the arms that opened to him. He felt weaker than he used to be, always asking and asking for more comfort, more sympathy. He feared he taxed Cas, that Cas would get sick of Dean always in one crisis or another. Dean needing so much.

“We’ll track down Zeppelin,” said Cas, hand lifting to stroke through the short hair at the back of Dean’s head.

“He hates me enough to hurt Zeppelin,” Dean said. He didn’t want to think about his horse on one of those overcrowded trailers full of horses in distress. Even if Balthazar reached someone at the abattoir, got an honest answer, and got a positive ID, Zeppelin would be suffering on the trip there. They were never given enough food or water. Why waste the money on something to be slaughtered?

“We don’t know that’s where he is,” said Cas. “It might be more complicated than that.”

Dean pulled back. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Cas wore that look Dean had seen before, more often with others. Cas, being practical and forthright, couldn’t understand the nuances of what Dean might not be able to bear hearing.

“I just mean that John might have arranged a private sale,” Cas explained. “To some other buyer. It could be much harder to track down your horse and buy it back.”

Dean would have to buy Zeppelin back. He hadn’t thought of that. No matter who had him, the horse wouldn’t be returned just because Dean said it was his. He didn’t have the money.

“If Balthazar doesn’t get anywhere with the pen in Nebraska,” said Cas, “it might be necessary for me to contact John directly.”

“No,” said Dean.

“If it means finding out where Zeppelin is,” said Cas. “I’d have to try.”

Dean parted from Cas, walking away from his touch. He sat against the desk where Balthazar had perched earlier. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he said. “I didn’t want to drag you into everything.”

“I haven’t been dragged anywhere,” Cas said. “I think you know I’m not someone who withstands an environment I abhor. I would rather be with you, facing down hardships, than without you, anywhere.”

Dean looked up from the floor, words catching on his tongue. “You’re too good to me, Cas,” he said.

Cas shook his head, eyes lifting in a half-exasperated roll. He looked younger in this light, in this room, with two shirt buttons undone and the way his collar fell open around his neck. Sometimes Dean thought he had the wisdom of ages, but for a moment the youngest version of him surfaced. Only four years older than Dean and still a young man.

“You don’t listen very well, Dean,” he said. He pinned his gaze on Dean and crossed the small office to him. He rested his hands on Dean’s thighs, keeping him in place. “I love you. And I want to help you. And anything you asked me, I would do. There’s no bitterness, no quid pro quo. You don’t have to be easy-going, you don’t have to sacrifice yourself. You aren’t selfish for needing help. You don’t have to do everything on your own anymore.”

Dean’s lips parted, wanting out of habit to find an exception that proved these things couldn’t be true. But Cas spoke so plainly, and his eyes were so clear and serious. To contradict him would be an insult to his intentions.

Dean had faith in Cas. This moment tested his trust to the very limit. He either had to believe Cas or call him a liar, and Cas wasn’t a liar.

He swallowed and nodded his head.

“So there’s no such thing as ‘too good’ to you,” said Cas. “Let’s be clear.”

“Okay,” said Dean.

Cas considered Dean for a moment, then gifted him with the same trust. That Dean had heard and understood.

“But don’t call my dad,” said Dean. “Not without me there. And only as a last resort.”

Cas nodded.

Dean lifted a hand to trace along the buttons of Cas’ shirt, an idle touch. He tipped his head faintly to the side. “Balthazar knew who I was when I mentioned Zeppelin,” he said.

“That’s because I told him about you,” said Cas simply.

“You told him about my horse and everything?”

“I guess so,” said Cas.

“And he knows we’re together?” Dean raised his eyes from Cas’ shirt. “Is he gay?”

“He likes women,” said Cas. “A lot. But I’ve heard the word ‘heteroflexible’ cross his lips.”

Dean laughed despite himself, which made Cas quirk a smile in return.

“He’s a good friend,” said Cas. “It’s… It was nice for me to have someone to tell.”

Dean slid a hand up Cas’ arm, bracing and comforting. Sometimes he lost sight of just how lonely Cas’ life made him. Cas gave up so much just to survive.

“You told him the name of my horse,” said Dean. “Cas, you might be hopeless.”

“Yeah,” said Cas, drawing closer till he was just a breath away from a kiss. “I think I am.”

Notes:

» first things first: thank you to everyone who's been reading and enjoying this fic! so good to have you, and the comments truly make my day. it's been an exhausting summer but they were always a bright point
» second thing: you may see there are three chapters remaining (technically 2 chapters + epilogue). I will be posting all three at once on Wednesday, so make sure that you start from chapter 33 so you don't miss anything
» three: having outed myself as an indefatigable researcher, it won't surprise you that the abattoirs mentioned in this chapter are real. in 2007, the last four kill farms in the States were shut down as the practice (at least for horses) became illegal. however, because I am not well, I had to dig and find out how many were actually operating in 1997, and where, because surely you all care about the realism here. BECAUSE I was doing this, I actually discovered that an Oregon abattoir had been burned down by eco-arsonists in July 1997, during the very time this story takes place. as a matter of fact, the fire began sometime before 4am on July 21. according to the calendar I have for this fic (I repeat, I am not well), that abattoir was lit up mere hours after Dean and Cas first kiss after the Stampede. make of that what you will

Chapter Text

But oh my God if I could once get from my heart
What is in it about man and madness
Ambition and the blood of boys—
— T.H. White, “These are the easy verses”

Dean was at the cottage when he got the call from Balthazar the next day.

“Dean? I’ve found Zeppelin.”

“In Nebraska?” said Dean. Already he was working out how he’d drive there, who he could borrow a trailer from, what he’d offer up as collateral when he had nothing to his name.

“No, actually,” said Balthazar. “Quite a bit closer to home. I’m out at the farm right now and have got to keep this brief. Do you know a family by the name of Styne?”

“Oh, Jesus…”

“Not terribly pleasant chaps,” said Balthazar. “If you can get out here, I’ll prolong the exam as much as I can.”

“I’ll be there,” said Dean.

“Excellent, well,” said Balthazar. “For whatever it’s worth, I’ll see you soon.”

Dean didn’t waste time. He called Cas and made a plan to pick him up at the clinic, then he got into the Impala. He and Cas barely spoke when Cas joined in the passenger seat and Dean turned towards the sprawling land owned by the Stynes.

Zeppelin was in town. He hadn’t been sent to a kill farm. Instead, John sold him to Eldon and Monroe Styne, knowing how much it would incense Dean. Of all the people he could have sold to.

Dean knew what the Stynes paid for Jagger. If John sold Zeppelin for the same price, or anywhere near it, he’d never be able to afford the equivalent to buy Zepp back.

He couldn’t expect sympathy from Eldon either. His family would’ve bought the horse with the same vicious streak of spite that made John sell him. Eldon was someone it was dangerous to spend time near, dangerous to come to at such a disadvantage. He was too perceptive and too cruel. But Dean had no choice.

Dean followed Cas’ quiet directions and drove through the manicured grounds of the Styne farm. He hadn’t been here before. The land felt cold and impersonal, cleared of trees and razed to make flat stretches for race circuits and jump courses. The uniform outbuildings in white and shades of grey looked hostile to life, like they couldn’t possibly contain the living beauty of horses with their varicoloured coats and their big hearts.

All the expensive food, equipment, and training in the world couldn’t make this place feel like anything other than a laboratory.

He parked the Impala next to the vet truck in front of a long set of stables.

Eldon stood outside with Zeppelin and Balthazar, arms folded and the cast of his face serious and expectant. Zeppelin had been tied to a post so that Balthazar could examine him freely, and although he didn’t betray much, Dean caught a measure of relief in his face that Dean and Cas at last arrived.

The same couldn’t be said for Eldon’s pinched expression. He looked over his shoulder when Cas and Dean came around the side of the stables to the area where the Stynes maintained a track.

“I don’t remember organizing a tea party,” said Eldon. “What the fuck are you doing here, Pretty Boy?”

“That’s my horse, asshole,” said Dean.

“It was your horse,” said Eldon. “Mine now.”

“My dad had no right to sell him,” said Dean.

“His ranch,” said Eldon. “His horses.”

“I’m taking him back,” said Dean.

“Like hell you are,” said Eldon. “We paid for him. Got a bill of sale to prove it. So you can just skedaddle and cry into your pillow about it.”

Dean looked between Balthazar and Cas, neither of whom looked like they knew where to go from here.

“You know,” said Eldon. “I didn’t get the whole story from John. About why he was putting Zeppelin up for sale in the first place, and at a fair discount. Seems like all of a sudden, you’re not in the picture. Your old man’s disowned you?”

“Zeppelin’s mine, not his,” said Dean. “I have competition papers that say he’s mine.”

“You can write anything on competition papers,” said Eldon. “Don’t try and distract me here. What I want to know is, what made your daddy cut you loose? I don’t blame him, of course, but after so long, a guy’s gotta wonder what made him realise you’re such a loser and a failure?”

Dean’s jaw set. He came here telling himself Eldon wouldn’t get to him this time, but Eldon’s arrogance knew no limits. Dean didn’t care what he thought, but he wanted Eldon to stop making guesses about his dad. Unfortunately, there was nothing he’d said so far that Dean could find an answer to.

Eldon gave a dangerous, sharkish grin. “But… I think I got some idea.”

Dean didn’t look at Cas. Eldon didn’t know jack shit. He couldn’t know anything Dean wanted to keep secret.

“You know, everybody just loves Dean Winchester,” said Eldon. “What a dynamo, what a horseman, what a saint.” Eldon smiled. “But it’s been a while since I saw your name on any competition lists. And you know? Your name wasn’t on the graduation list either.”

Dean felt it like a sock to the stomach. He’d been counting on no one paying attention.

“Nick and Cole and I all got a real laugh out of that one,” said Eldon. “Just imagine! Dean Winchester being left off by accident. That’s funny. We gave you the benefit of the doubt for about… ten seconds. But then we put it together—because, you see, we’re all smart enough to graduate—and the truth occurred. You didn’t pass at all. That’s even funnier.”

“Fuck you, Eldon,” said Dean, barely aware of his body surging forward until Cas pulled him bodily back.

“You’re the kind of white trash that makes the rest of us out here look bad,” said Eldon. “I didn’t even think much of your dad until he had the good sense to kick you out.”

“You don’t fucking know—”

“Now the only thing I’m dying to figure out is what the fuck is going on with this horse,” said Eldon. He eyed Zeppelin up with a dark leer. “He’s a basket-case.”

Dean spoke with a snarl curling at the corner of his mouth. “You didn’t get an exam done before you bought him this time, I guess.”

“Your dad wanted to sell him quick and the price was fair,” said Eldon. “If the horse was good enough for Dean Winchester, we didn’t see the point.”

Balthazar spoke up, voice neutral. “He’s half-blind,” he said. “About sixty-five percent of usual range in his left eye, thirty-five in the right.”

“What?” said Eldon.

“Give or take,” said Balthazar.

“Did you know about this?” Eldon asked Dean.

“You wondered why I stopped competing,” said Dean. “Do you have your answer?”

“What the fuck?” said Eldon. “John sold us a broke-down horse.”

“You still plan to keep him?” Dean asked.

Eldon’s gaze turned cold. “This is what you’ve been hiding? You think you can con me? Your daddy in on this?”

“He never had any idea,” said Dean.

“Aren’t you just full of secrets?” said Eldon. “But me, I’m an open book, so I’ll tell you just what happens next. This horse belongs to my family, now. If John won’t take him back, we’ll send him where he belongs. See if we can’t recoup something.”

“I’ll buy him from you,” said Dean, even if he didn’t know with what money.

Eldon smiled, looking lofty. “No,” he said.

“He doesn’t mean anything to you,” said Dean. “You can’t even ride him. He’s my horse.”

“That just makes it funnier,” said Eldon. “You’ve got a soft spot for a horse that’s better off as glue. This vet says he’s a write-off? Okay. We’ll take it up with John in other ways. But you don’t get this horse back.”

Eldon didn’t leave openings for anything other than despair. Money didn’t matter to him and sympathy never stood a chance. Pride and sadism were the order of the day, for him.

“I’ll come up with proof,” said Dean. “My dad never had the right to sell him.”

“Even if you did find some weak-as-shit proof,” said Eldon, “I could have this horse put down before you rustled it up.” He nodded his head at Cas, locking cold eyes with him. Eldon’s mouth twisted bitterly. “He’s a quick hand at it, if I recall. I’d make him do it.”

This time it was Dean who reached out to stop Cas before he could take more than two steps forward.

Balthazar’s ambivalent voice interrupted the stand-off: “I’ve a fun idea,” he said. “What about a bit of hearty competition? How about you,” he pointed at Eldon, “with… any horse. And Dean with the blind nag here. A race around the track?”

“Balth…” said Dean.

“I’m listening,” said Eldon, eyeing Zeppelin over. “And the terms?”

“If Dean wins, he keeps the horse,” said Balthazar. “If it’s Eldon, Zeppelin remains property of the Stynes.”

“Balthazar,” said Cas. His gaze darted to Dean like he regretted speaking in present company. “Dean’s injured. He can’t race.”

He referred to Dean’s bruised ribs. He wouldn’t be as strong in the saddle as usual. He never had an x-ray done, but if the ribs were cracked, the vigorous action of a racing horse could make it much worse. A fall could be fatal.

“Done,” Eldon said to Balthazar. He looked at Dean. “If you’re out, Winchester, then the horse is mine. One-time-only deal.”

“I’m in,” said Dean, more fiercely for being told he couldn’t. “I’m fine, Cas.”

“In that case, I’ll draw up a contract,” said Balthazar. “To keep the claims of ownership clear.”

He said it with a smile in his eyes that Dean couldn’t work out. Sure, the guy was Cas’ friend, but part of Dean wondered if all this served partly for his own amusement.

Perhaps he didn’t wish to appear partial, to keep Eldon from backing out. He consulted with Eldon more than Dean about the track, about the start and end and who would make the calls, and Balthazar wrote it all down on a sheet of lined yellow paper that made up the contract. He had Eldon sign, then Dean, while Cas and Balthazar signed as witnesses. One of Eldon’s cousins, Eli, was called out from stable duties to observe the race as well.

Dean went to Zeppelin, speaking in a quiet voice and letting him get Dean’s scent. He didn’t know what kind of shape Zepp would be in after a week. Different environment, different food, he’d be nervous even without the strain of unfamiliar people and new horses surrounding him. They were going into this with more disadvantages than Dean could total up, but they couldn’t afford to lose.

Dean still had his saddle in the back of the Impala and he departed to fetch it. Carrying it over triggered the first sense of strain in his ribs. He tried to ignore it as he tacked Zeppelin up for the race.

“This is a bad idea, Dean,” said Cas. “We can get the horse another way.”

“What way?” said Dean. “Eldon’s right. There’s no proof I owned him. Just my dad.”

“I was there when you picked him,” said Cas. “I heard your father say it was your horse.”

“That’s not gonna count for much.” Dean put a bridle over Zeppelin’s head. Not far away, Eldon readied Jagger. The two horses had met again after all.

“You could hurt yourself,” said Cas. “If you fell… You should let me ride.”

“The contract says I’m riding him, first of all,” said Dean. “And second of all, no one but me can ride this horse. He doesn’t trust anyone like he does me.”

“You haven’t trained him for this,” said Cas.

Dean reached up his hand to stroke down the front of Zepp’s head, from under his forelock down to the end of his muzzle. Cas was too anxious. Zeppelin would catch on. Dean believed the horse could do it, but the horse had to believe it too.

“Cas,” Dean said calmly, still petting Zepp. “I just need you to have faith in me.”

Cas shut his lips quickly, his expression turning to one of austerity. Yet his deep blue eyes didn’t seem cold. “I do,” he said. “If I believe in anything, it’s you.”

Cas placed his hand on Zeppelin’s shoulder, fingers splaying. Dean pet down Zepp’s throat until his hand ran into Cas’, their touch briefly overlapping. It was as near as they could get.

“You have a few minutes for warm-up,” said Cas. “We’ll start when you’re both ready.”

Dean nodded, then rose into his saddle. He clicked his tongue and murmured, “Get along.” Zeppelin’s ears twitched in response to his voice, setting into an easy walk.

Dean didn’t think he was making it up when Zeppelin seemed to come into himself more with Dean on his back. Under a familiar saddle and the weight and voice of the rider he knew best. With his diminished sight, it hardly mattered that he was in foreign surroundings. He had Dean he could count on to lead him true.

That was Eldon’s problem. He only saw the disadvantages Dean had, so obsessed with exploiting them that he couldn’t see what Dean had in his favour.

The injuries definitively weren’t in his favour, though. When Zeppelin moved to a trot, Dean felt it in his ribs. He kept finding himself holding his breath, wanting to keep from triggering any shift in his chest. He had to remind himself to inhale again. It wasn’t on Zeppelin alone to carry them across the finish line.

The warm-up ended when Eldon brought Jagger to the starting point. Dean leaned forward over Zeppelin, petting his neck.

“We belong together, you and me,” said Dean. “I’d never let him take you.”

He straightened up again. Eldon had already taken the inside edge of the round track, leaving that much more effort for Dean.

But that was alright too. Zeppelin could see more on that side and wouldn’t spook or run into Jagger by mistake.

Eldon looked him over when Dean settled next to him. Balthazar moved back, directing Eldon’s cousin as they prepared the race.

“Injured, huh?” said Eldon.

“Not so bad I can’t leave you in the dust,” said Dean, eyes finding Cas off to the side. He stood with his arms folded, tension in the lines of his body.

“You and that horse are two of a kind, Pretty Boy,” said Eldon. “Both mighta-beens who were born to lose. Your daddy saw that much. Got rid of you both.”

Dean jerked his attention to Eldon, seeing his vicious smile in time for Balthazar to call the start. It left Dean half a second behind, a fatal lapse in attention.

Zeppelin raced with other horses for fun, such as when Cas was on Ringo’s back or Jo on Buffy’s. In some ways, it helped that Jagger was his friend and not a stranger. He smelled like a companion, and Zeppelin trusted him in the race. But he wasn’t taking it seriously. Dean hadn’t trained him enough for that. He followed Dean’s commands, understanding the cues from his body, but he thought this was fun. He followed with his nose at Jagger’s tail and no ambition to go faster.

Despite that, Dean’s body ached from the pounding pace of the gallop. The pain in his chest and awareness of the critical stakes made him stiff with tension. Hurting all over again, fresh as the first. He relived the fight with his father. Being thrown against the wall. Rolling down the stairs. Fists driving down. How close John had come to braining him with a heavy stone.

It wasn’t Eldon he raced against, it was John. John who put him here, John who dictated his fate, John who controlled his life even when he wasn’t present.

Dust and wind made Dean’s eyes sting.

John wasn’t allowed to have a say in Dean’s life. He wasn’t going to hold him back anymore. Dean had a life separate from him. He had friends to turn to. He had the grit and smarts to go for his diploma. And he had this, that nobody could teach him: his horse sense, his ability to know the horse and how to talk to it.

His ribs hurt, but he shifted his body and slackened the muscles that wanted to tense. He gave Zeppelin the kind of freedom that said, ‘This is yours. This is all you.’

Zeppelin understood what he was being offered. Like Dean was no longer on his back, he moved faster. Now his nose was at Jagger’s flank. Now it was at his shoulder.

For a tense moment, they were neck-in-neck, then Zeppelin pulled ahead and Dean inclined him to the inside of the track. Balthazar’s arm flew up with a makeshift flag.

He crossed the finish a length ahead, an undisputed win.

Dean rode out a few extra paces, slowing Zeppelin down. Too much adrenaline pumped through him to feel the pain in his sore chest. He circled around, staying up on Zeppelin. He rode up to Cas, who lifted his hands to stroke Zeppelin’s neck.

“I’ve never seen anything like that,” said Cas.

“I can’t believe it,” said Dean.

“Believe it,” said Cas. “Good things do happen.” He looked up at Dean, eyes openly fond.

Their attention turned at Eldon’s raised voice. Several yards away from them, he stood bickering with Balthazar, who looked utterly indifferent in the face of it.

“—just a set-up. How do I know you weren’t in on it? Is that horse even blind?”

“Might I say, you were the one who called me to have him looked at,” said Balthazar.

“Dean trained him against anyone,” said Eldon.

“It looks very poorly to be sore about losing a fair race,” said Balthazar. He gave a mild smile and tossed fuel on the fire: “Although, I suppose, you also lost a horse.”

Eldon turned from him and charged toward Dean. “It wasn’t a fair race,” he declared. “That horse is still mine.”

He tried to reach for Zepp’s bridle straps. It was too sudden, with his angry tone and his form swimming into Zeppelin’s vision from a blind spot. Zepp reared up on his hind legs with a shrill neigh, his front hooves pawing at the air in warning.

“Dean!” said Cas.

Dean and the horse moved together without thought. Zepp rose almost vertical, but Dean merely loosened the reins and leaned his body forward, keeping his seat in the saddle. He didn’t feel the thrill of alarm that Cas did. When Zepp was on the ground again, Dean walked him back.

“Don’t get near my horse again, Styne,” he said. “Or I won’t stop him from hurting you.”

“There’s something funny going on here,” said Eldon. “You messed with that horse.”

“You see something into everything, don’t you?” said Dean. “I already told you before. There’s nothing to stop a blind horse from winning in competitions. As long as he has a rider that’s worth something. Now are we done, or do you want to race for Jagger next?”

“Fuck you, Pretty Boy,” said Eldon turning away.

“You better treat Jagger better than you did Percy,” Dean called to his retreating back. “Or I’ll be back for him.”

Eldon roughly grabbed Jagger’s reins, but he shot a look back at Dean. Like he didn’t want to prove him right. He was forced to cap his fury and lead Jagger back to the stables without force. His cousin Eli ran in after him.

Balthazar joined Dean, Cas, and Zeppelin, still holding his clipboard and the signed contract. “I’m bringing this to the office and making copies,” he said. “I’ll send it to the Stynes with the invoice for today’s exam.”

Dean laughed, turning his face away. Cas’ friend was a dick, but he was growing on Dean.

“I think the Stynes will be looking for a new vet after this,” said Cas. “I won’t feel the loss.”

“Truly,” said Balthazar. “Well. Though I’d love to stick around and continue wounding his pride, I have a feeling there are a few too many rifles around these parts. We should move on.”

“We don’t have a trailer for Zeppelin,” said Cas. “We’ll have to come back.”

“You take the Impala,” said Dean, rooting into his pocket and tossing Cas the keys. “I’ve got the best method of transport right here.” He scratched Zeppelin behind the ears.

Chapter Text

Ocean, don’t be afraid.
The end of the road is so far ahead
it is already behind us.
— Ocean Vuong, “Someday I'll Love Ocean Vuong”

Cas drove ahead of Dean at the speed of a horse’s walk until they were clear of the Stynes’ expansive property. Before they parted ways, Cas passed him his cowboy hat from the back seat to keep the sun from his face, although it was too late to deter his late-summer abundance of freckles.

Dean had a shortcut to take through fields and by a river. He let his body ease into the pace of their slow walk. Sun dappled the path, a breeze stirred the leaves. At the river, Zeppelin stopped and drank clear water before Dean picked out their path again and continued on.

He would take him to the Talbot stables, where he’d enquired about a stall for the horse and work for himself.

“It’ll be your new home just for a while,” Dean told him. “Until I’ve got some place of my own where I can stable you. We’re both trying to find our feet right now. But I’ll be there every day.”

He crossed through the main street of town on horseback, head heavy and body tired. The dust and thick heat of a late August day rose from the pavement. He only held himself up out of habit. His chin drooped, the downward tilt of his hat making him look for all the world like some no-name gunslinger looking for a place to rest his feet.

When he reached the stables, it was Bela who met him. She wore her dark blonde hair in a thick Dutch braid and looked, as ever, like the cat who caught the canary with bright eyes and an arch to her brow.

“There’s less dust in the Sahara than there is on the two of you,” she said. She came forward and efficiently rubbed some flecks of dirt from above Zeppelin’s chest strap. The dust was lighter than Zepp’s dark coat, churned up from trailing behind Jagger on the track. Bela rubbed the dirt from her fingers.

“He’s had a long day,” said Dean. “Just point me where to go. I’m gonna take him right in.” He lifted his leg over to dismount but stumbled just before he reached the ground. He caught himself against Zeppelin’s saddle, swaying on his feet, and held his arm tightly over his lower ribs.

“Looks like he isn’t the only one,” said Bela. She took the reins from Dean’s hand. “I’ll look after this fellow. Come with me, both of you.”

Bela instructed Dean to take a seat, and for the first time in his life he didn’t argue with her. She wasn’t someone he considered a friend, although they’d moved in the same circles for ages. She was hard to know and she did it on purpose, aloof and arrogant. But she knew horses and Dean trusted her with Zepp.

He sat back on some stacked bales of hay, leaning against the barnboards, one arm resting over his torso. Bela removed the tack from Zeppelin, then turned on the cold water of a hose. She began a thorough wash-down, spraying him in sections and using a sweat scraper to draw the water away, cleaning him of the dirt and sweat and cooling him down at once.

“Careful with him,” Dean said, lids heavy over his eyes. He felt suddenly sleepy.

“I’m not not careful,” said Bela.

“I mean, he doesn’t see much,” said Dean. “Sorta blind. It’s better to approach from his left side when you can. He can’t see well from the right. He can spook. Make sure the other horses don’t pick on him.”

Bela paused in scraping him down. She continued again after a moment. “I understand,” she said. “Is that why you’re moving him here?”

“It’s complicated,” said Dean.

Bela looked over her shoulder at him for a moment. Then she returned to her task, hosing and scraping, keeping preoccupied as she asked, “Is that a riding injury, Dean?”

“No,” said Dean.

“It’s why you’re moving him here, isn’t it?” she said, still busy.

She asked very direct questions and Dean was too tired to wiggle out of answers. “Yeah,” he said.

“Your father, I take it.”

Dean didn’t know what else he was supposed to say. It wasn’t any of her business, but the way she asked wasn’t nosy. He couldn’t say what it was.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Most people think my parents are dead,” said Bela, “and that’s why I live with my uncle and aunt. But in fact, they’re in the UK, still alive and well. Regrettably.”

Dean’s eyes had drifted closed, but they opened more now. “You had to get away from them,” he said.

Bela set aside the scraper and looked at Zeppelin for a long moment. “Yes,” she said.

She returned to her stockpile of cleaning supplies and found a rag to soak with cool water from the hose.

“You just up and leave?” Dean asked.

“It was quite a bit more formal than that,” said Bela. She let Zeppelin sniff the cloth and get used to it before she began to wash his face. “I was just a child. I needed to have legal guardianship to come over here. There was a court process, the last thing anyone wanted, but… You’re eighteen, aren’t you? You don’t have to worry about that.”

Dean looked across the paddock to a far-off fence. He was eighteen and free to do most anything he wanted, but that wasn’t the case for Sam. John could still control him, from a legal standpoint. Pull him out of school, if he wanted. Ruin his life. Sam didn’t have any other guardian. Three years would take a long time to pass.

“You went to the police?” Dean asked, looking up at Bela. Maybe it was time to talk to Jody.

“They came to me,” said Bela. She stopped her work and looked across Zepp’s muzzle at Dean. “To tell you the whole truth, I was trying to hire a hitman. Got the idea from some stupid American film. Funny, isn’t it?” She flashed what would be a dazzling smile, if there were any genuine amusement in it. She took up a dry towel to wipe Zeppelin’s face with. “I thought it was the only way it would end. Turned out I’d contacted undercover police, but I was very young and they let it go in light of the other evidence.”

“I’m sorry, Bela,” said Dean. “That’s terrible.”

Bela knelt down to carefully dry Zeppelin’s legs. “You know, he served some jail time, but it’s never enough. He’s out by now. I try not to think of it.”

Dean had the impression she was like him. Good at telling herself not to think about it. Bad at following through.

She stood up and pet her hand down Zepp’s nose. “Horses help, though,” she said. “I can’t say what it is. Every part of it, really. Whether it’s the exhilaration of racing or just having something to take care of. They’re predictable. And they’re puzzles. They’re companions. They need us as much as we need them. We’re lucky, you and I. To have them.”




Dean called Cas from the Talbots to pick him up. He slumped into the Impala’s passenger seat, and when they returned to the cottage, Cas made him take ibuprofen for his sore ribs, gently chastising him for not saying something before. Dean made sure that Zeppelin drank well and recovered from the ride, but he wasn’t so good at looking after himself. It was Cas who put the glass of water in his hand for Dean to finally cure his thirst.

Dusty and sore, Dean stretched out across his bed with a groan, waiting for the ache to numb.

“I’ve been thinking about the future,” Dean said. His eyes danced across the rafters of the cottage.

He wasn’t sure if Cas heard him at first. Dean couldn’t make himself sit up to look. After a moment, Cas crossed over and settled to lie on the bed next to Dean. He slipped an arm under Dean’s head to hold him.

“What are you thinking?” Cas asked.

“About having a place for blind horses,” said Dean. “Or old horses, injured horses. Ones that still have good lives but people have given up on.”

“A rescue,” said Cas.

“I know it’s a total money sink,” said Dean. “Nobody would pay for that.”

“You’d need big donations. Some corporations might like it. Tax write-offs. The ‘halo effect.’ Charities make them look good.”

“And there’d be some training for how to work with them. And people could come to visit and meet the horses and everything. Adopt them if they wanted. So that we could get more.”

“We?” Cas asked, looking for confirmation.

“There’d be this handsome on-site vet,” said Dean, smiling, then edging closer to kiss Cas.

Cas returned the kiss, body turning further to face Dean. He stroked a hand through Dean’s hair.

Dean let his lashes fall heavy over his eyes as their kiss parted, still studying Cas’ lips. “Call it the ‘Lost Cause Resort’ or something. Wouldn’t that fit?”

“Mm-mm,” said Cas. He’d heard it from Dean before. “You were never a lost cause. And now it sounds like you’ve found one.”

Dean’s eyes drifted over Cas’ face, taking in every part of it. He finally found Cas’ eyes, meeting his direct and even gaze. It still made his heart thrill.

He could picture a future with him. The world didn’t close out in darkness when Dean tried to look more than a day or a week ahead. It stretched on endlessly like the mountains and plains that surrounded the ranch he imagined them living in. Open range they could see from their porch, sitting next to one another whether it rained or snowed or shone bright in the sun. Horses, safe and well-cared for, living the best life Dean could offer them.

“Would you want that?” Dean asked quietly. The most important question. “To live with me and Zepp, and Sam when he’s back, and our rescues and…” He smiled at the thought. “A horse of your own.” Cas had never owned one, in all his life. But for this fantasy to work, for them to appear as a pair of riders cresting the hill while the sun prepared to set behind them, they’d have to get that taken care of.

Cas didn’t take his gaze from Dean’s, though his blue eyes shifted like an ocean turning over, something moving from beneath his very soul.

“You mean a place with country air and animals to look after,” said Cas. Voice slow, low. “A place where we know we’re wanted and know we belong.”

Dean was suddenly back in the flowerbed with Cas, held in Cas’ arms for the first time, torn open with all the things that hurt too much to let himself want.

“I think I’ve been dreaming of it ever since you said it,” Dean whispered. “I used to think I knew what I wanted. Until you said that and— I wanted to be there with you.”

Cas lifted a hand and carefully stroked his fingers through Dean’s hair. “I’d go anywhere you asked me to,” he said.

“Hey Cas,” he said. A quiet echo of past playfulness. “You wanna maybe buy a farm and start a horse rescue and have a whole life with me?”

“Yes,” said Cas. He brushed his nose against Dean’s, the prelude to a kiss. “Yes, Dean. I do.”

Chapter 35: epilogue

Chapter Text

A cool October wind rustled the brown cornstalks in the neighbour’s field next to the long road that led to the Winchester ranch. The trees that lined the lane held onto their leaves in blazes of colour, red and orange and yellow. In the early autumn day, Dean wore a red knit sweater. It had a few loose threads at the collar and brown leather patches at the elbows. It belonged to Cas, technically, but Dean was subtly transferring ownership rights by wearing it almost every night when the weather cooled off.

Cas said that Dean didn’t have to go. That he didn’t owe John anything.

He was right, of course, but Dean couldn’t help being curious.

Dean parked his shiny black Impala next to Jody’s police cruiser. She leaned next to the open driver’s side door, speaking into the cruiser’s radio receiver. She wrapped up the conversation as Dean approached.

“Jody,” he said in greeting, exchanging a familiar nod.

“Good to see you again, Dean,” she said. “Thanks for meeting me. I wouldn’t have asked you if I could help it.”

Dean had seen a fair amount of Jody recently. The process of applying for Sam’s guardianship had been full of snags and challenges, but she’d backed him up whenever he got spooked or felt defeated. They’d granted him a temporary order a week ago, which she said was a good sign for him.

A bad one for John. Dean had no idea of what corner it spilled from, but word got out around town. Every now and then, Dean still got treated with a devastated look of sympathy that he could’ve done without.

“You were pretty mysterious over the phone,” said Dean. “What’s up?”

Jody took a moment to think before she spoke, folding her arms, her jacket puffing up around her. “John went on a hunting trip,” she said. “And he hasn’t been home in a few days.”

Dean used to be accustomed to John’s absences. He glanced at the house, then back at Jody. “And?”

“Well, he’s the kind of missing person no one really misses,” said Jody. “Except the man he hired to look after the horses. When the guy didn’t get paid as promised, he gave us a call.”

“Are the horses okay?” Dean asked.

“He’s been coming back to feed them,” said Jody. “Says he’s going to make John pay him double for the extra days. He’s a rough type, out-of-towner. Just about the only person who’d work for John, these days. But he’s shown up for the sake of the horses so far.”

“Have you seen them?”

“What few are left. They’re in the stable. Most of the rest were sold.”

It wasn’t quite news to Dean. He’d heard John started selling aggressively to buyers all over the state. Bobby said there were hardly any horses out in John’s pastures these days.

“Have you been in the house?” Dean asked.

Jody nodded once. “Not for long,” she said. “What we call an ‘exigent circumstances check’ to rule out suspicious activity. No notes, no clues.”

No body, thought Dean.

“Why’d you call me?” Dean asked.

“First of all, I wondered if you had any insight about if this is in any way unusual, or where he could’ve gone,” said Jody.

Dean chewed his lower lip, looking around the familiar yard. The barn, the house, the empty paddocks.

“You said he was selling off horses?” said Dean. “Can I go in and see?”

“Well,” said Jody, standing up from against the car. “That might be another reason I called you. Without foul play, there isn’t enough cause for a warrant. People can go off on vacations or benders and it’s not against the law.”

Dean understood. “My driver’s licence still says I live here,” he said. It had been a point of contention in his guardianship. He had to clear up his proof of address to get permanent custody, and as it stood, he was in a murky in-between stage. “I can give you permission.”

Jody shrugged her shoulders. “I’m not particularly invested in that,” she said. “I’ve seen all I need to. But you can go wherever you want.”

“I’m gonna check on those horses,” said Dean.

Dean slid the stable door open. It wasn’t as smooth as it had been, something caught in the tracks. He always looked after things like that.

The hired man hadn’t had the decency to turn out the horses today, or hadn’t for long, leaving them in the gloomy stable. It was clean, but minimally so. Most of the stalls were empty.

Dean knew where each horse belonged. Most of the ones that were missing were good dams who bred good foals. They were worth something; much more than what some seedy kill farm would offer. Springsteen, he could’ve gone for a high price. He had ribbons to win in his future. And gentle Fleetwood, any new rider would be lucky to have her.

Even if John took a low price, Dean could tot up the numbers to a fair chunk of change.

Two of the horses that had been left behind were older, nearly done their life as broodmares. Zeppelin’s dam remained as well, and Dean stroked her soft nose. In a larger stall, Velvet and her late-June foal remained together. He wouldn’t have been able to separate them, and maybe found it inconvenient to sell them as a pair.

Jody waited at the end of the stable aisle, not entering. Dean walked back to her.

“He’s got money,” said Dean. “He’s essentially sold off the family business.”

“You don’t think he plans to come back?” said Jody.

“He’d want to sell the land,” said Dean. “It’s worth… well, diamonds, in my opinion. You’d think he’d have lined that up.”

“He doesn’t have to be here to sell,” said Jody. “Would you ever take it?”

The question caught Dean by the heart. He swallowed and shook his head. “No,” he said. “I loved this place. But that house?” He looked towards it. “I could never go back. Even without him.”

“You won’t go in?” said Jody.

“What would I find?” said Dean.

“A lot of empties,” she said candidly. “A smashed-up TV—collecting dust, not recent. Piles of dishes on the counters and in the sink. It’s not… homey. But I’ve seen worse in my work.”

“Then I don’t need to see it,” said Dean.

“There was mail for you,” said Jody. “On the table by the door.”

Dean took in a steadying breath. He didn’t know if it was worth it. He never got much mail, apart from competitions and farm associations. The letters might be from friends who wrote, though. Like Benny, like Lee. He’d hate to miss them.

“If I could’ve grabbed it for you, I would,” said Jody. “But I’m already toeing the line here.”

“I’m surprised it’s still there,” said Dean.

Had John hoped he’d come home? Had John regretted any of it? They’d parted with such bitter finality. Dean undermined his relationship with Kate, with Sam, with everybody in town. There could be no love left in John for him.

And if there was, it wasn’t enough. Dean had nothing to gain in giving John the time.

“I’ll think about it,” he said. “But what do you make of all this, Jody? Do you think something happened?”

“Well,” said Jody, chewing the inside of her cheek. “‘Hunting trip’ for a man who’s not supposed to have firearms is a funny little concept. What’s he using? Bow and arrow?”

No access to firearms was one of the few consequences of John’s sentencing. Twenty-four hours in jail—a total joke—and a fine. Not exactly a vindication. But the conviction was enough to grant Dean reasonable justification for Sam’s guardianship. That was all he needed.

Jody shook her head. “I think he was planning on leaving town,” she said. “He hasn’t got much in the way of friends around here.”

“You should contact some people in Windom, Minnesota,” said Dean. “My little brother is there. Half-brother. Adam and Kate Milligan. I don’t want Dad going anywhere near him.”

“They have restraining orders?” she asked.

“I’m pretty sure,” said Dean. He’d called Kate a second time, providing her with a clinical, informative update about the trial. He let her know that he’d like it if Adam called sometimes, if Adam wanted to. A couple of days ago, he’d wished Adam a happy sixth birthday over the phone.

“I’ll see what I can find out,” said Jody, taking out her notepad and writing it down. She looked back into the stable, eyeing up the remaining horses.

She pursed her lips for a moment. “I do have to say, it looks like unfinished business.”

“Can I stick around for a bit?” said Dean. “I want to take out the horses. They need exercised and it doesn’t look like they’re getting enough.”

“I’ll put the hired man in touch with you,” said Jody. “But if there’s any sign of trouble, you don’t wait around to talk things over. You get out. Understood?”

“Understood,” Dean promised.

“I’ll reach out if this becomes a case or if we hear word about John. Stay safe, Dean.”

“Jody? Thanks.”




Theirs was the last Fall Fair of the season. As everyone made sure to note, small towns always did them best. Teenagers and adolescents ruled the midway with excitable screams and laughter, the marquee lights glowing against the night. The air smelled like hay, like the cut crops being judged for height and size, like the handmade soaps and woodcrafts in the arena’s small exhibition hall. (Ellen refused point-blank to let Dean enter a pumpkin pie in her name in the baking competition. She had a reputation to uphold.)

In the crowded beer tents, music played over the lifted speakers and people danced on a floor made of plywood that wouldn’t last the weekend.

Dean was too young to gain admittance, but he thought less of the crowd before him than of the gay rodeo Cesar once described. Where you could dance with your real partner and it was something beautiful.

Dean had always liked dancing.

Cas, against all expectation, had been talked into visiting the beer tents after work with a few of the local livestock owners who had taken a shine to him, despite Cas not being from ‘around here.’ Dean paced the outside of the gate till he spotted Cas in his puffy blue and red vest and caught his eye, giving a half-wave. Cas excused himself from his picnic table, formally shaking hands goodbye with a few of the men.

Only Cas, Dean thought with a roll of his eyes.

When Cas came out, Dean kept his hands in the pockets of his jacket. It was easier not to reach out that way. They walked side-by-side, close enough not to garner attention. Dean led them slowly towards the midway area, where crowds thrilled and the air smelled like buttered popcorn.

“What did Jody want?” Cas asked.

“My dad might’ve skipped town,” said Dean. “She wanted to ask my opinion, let me check on the horses. Most are sold, but the others— They might be my first rescues, who knows?”

“Once we have the place,” Cas said. “To put the rescues.”

“Details,” said Dean.

There were a few properties that had come up lately that he and Cas had looked at. Bobby had already insisted on providing a loan for the down payment, wherever they ended up. Dean knew what he wanted: private but near enough to town for Cas; a barn they could stable a few horses in for now, but likely improve on with time; a farmhouse with a big and bright kitchen and room for Sam to stay.

“Jody didn’t think it was anything nefarious?” said Cas.

“No, but. He was supposed to be out hunting. No idea where. There could’ve been an accident, which would mean… But she thought it was likelier he left.”

“Do we know where Bobby is? Because if he needs an alibi…”

“That’s not funny,” said Dean, laughing. He pushed against Cas with his arm.

“If he’s left town, then…” Cas shrugged. “Can’t say he’ll be missed.”

Dean grinned. They passed under the lights of an entranceway but bypassed the ticket booth. “That’s what Jody said.”

“You okay?” Cas asked, and he looked at Dean carefully for the answer.

Dean nodded, briefly biting on his lower lip. “It’s complicated, but… Hey. So is everything with me.” He dug his hands deeper into his pockets, resisting the urge to reach for Cas.

“Y’know,” said Dean. “There was some mail for me that I never got.” He looked up from the well-worn ground below their feet. “One from almost three weeks ago that— I clean forgot the results would be sent there.”

Cas frowned and tipped his head.

Dean smiled again. “I got my GED.”

Cas took in a breath and held back words for a moment, lifting his chin. When he spoke it was with a carefully lowered voice. “How dare you,” he said, “tell me here where I can’t kiss you.”

Dean only smiled wider. “Guess it’ll have to wait. Collect interest.”

“I couldn’t be more interested,” said Cas. “I thought that would be clear by now.”

Although Cas was impatient to get home, Dean made him stop frequently. Dean bought a bright red candy apple. He elbowed Cas to play a milk bottle game, exempting himself because his throwing arm was still too stiff to be any good. Dean didn’t expect Cas to have any talent for it, but privately thought he sometimes loved Cas more when he wasn’t good at something.

Cas picked up the ball that was offered to him and tossed it in his hand once, assessing its weight and balance. Then he angled his body, pulled back his arm, and threw with no fanfare. The ball curved into the bottom bottles and sent the tower crashing to the ground. Dean paused in his chewing with a mouthful of apple and candy in his molars.

Theory disproved. Cas was actually much sexier when he was insanely competent.

They returned to the Impala not long after that. Dean switched on one of his favourite tapes. He reached across the seat of the Impala and took Cas’ hand.

At the cottage, a breeze blew the fronds of the willow tree, silver in the night. While the air cooled outside, the cottage kept in the warmth. Dean flicked on the lowest level of lights inside, enough to draw out the cosy gleam of the wood furnishings. He took off the jacket and his red sweater, left in a white t-shirt. Cas tried to lean in for a kiss, but caught the corner of Dean’s jaw mid-turn instead; Dean reached back to find Cas’ hand, pulling him along to the kitchen.

“What about the interest?” Cas said.

“I was thinking something,” said Dean, turning on the radio. It was set to a station currently playing one of Ladyheart’s overdone hair rock songs. Dean slid the tuner over, finding the next station he could pick up. Talk-radio. The next was Spanish. Then he came to one playing a song he recognised, already a few bars in.

“Okay, okay,” Dean said. Cas had crowded against his body like he couldn’t wait the ten extra seconds Dean took to find the right music. “That’s it. We’re dancing to ‘Wichita Lineman.’”

“What?” Cas asked, like both the song and the concept of dancing were new to him.

“C’mere,” said Dean, positioning Cas’ hand where he wanted it around his back. It pulled their bodies close. This near, Cas’ shoulders and chest seemed broader. Dean wasn’t small, but the way that Cas’ hand spanned across his spine made his breath catch. Like a lariat wrapped around him, only Cas was strong enough to hold him together.

Dean took up his other hand. Cas’ fingers wrapped around the edge of Dean’s, self-certain and steady in this, at least. Dean used his arm as the guide that made Cas start to sway.

“I never got to dance with you,” Dean explained. “At the Stampede.”

“Oh,” said Cas, and his arm became marginally more pliable around Dean.

Dean could feel him thinking. Like he wanted study notes to follow. He was a natural at taking down milk bottles, but dancing wasn’t something he understood. Not a skill that it would be any kind of trial to teach, though. Dean brought their bodies closer, let his nose nuzzle close to Cas’ ear. It was, after all, not so unlike sex. That was the whole point.

And then the singer crooned, ‘And I need you more than want you,’ and Cas loosened. The line followed, ‘And I want you for all time.’

“Oh,” said Cas again, like everything had become clear at once. The music, the dancing.

He held Dean closer so that Dean’s heart beat against Cas’ ribs. He slid his cheek against Dean’s, buried his nose in his hair. Their joined hands nestled at their chests and the circle they moved in became closer and smaller and more intimate.

“You’re a good dancer,” said Dean.

“I don’t think that’s true,” said Cas.

“Well I like dancing with you,” said Dean. “Which is the same thing.”

“You have all the answers,” said Cas. “I don’t know why I try.”

“Not nearly,” said Dean. “The future… I have no idea what’s going to come. I’m always in one mess or another.”

“That won’t always be the case,” said Cas.

“And where we’ll live, how we’ll live?” Dean pressed Cas’ hand in his own. “There’s a lot I wish I knew.”

“Well,” said Cas. “I like figuring it out with you.”

Dean smiled, heart coming to rest in those words. He didn’t know where they’d end up, but he’d already found home. He brushed his nose against Cas’ then took that long-promised kiss.

Notes:

spotify playlist: spirit of the west
note: I always welcome podfics, translations, art, & other related works and love to link them. my playlists are getting weirder with every fic so if you have something more coherent in mind, that's welcomed. if you haven't seen the tumblr mood board or want something to reblog, you can find me at urne-buriall

do you like book-bound fanfic? well, I like typesetting. this fic is available in a couple of print-ready typesets