Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

John Winchester is dead.

Simple and easy. He died four days ago. Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. It was really a strange way to go, especially for John. It's weird, Dean thinks, that one bite from one small, insignificant deer tick could kill his father who had lived through active combat and a number of rattlesnake attacks. Honestly, most of the family bet on the alcohol taking him to the grave, just as it did John’s father and his father before him. 

It doesn’t seem real the first moment that Dean hears about it. Just coming back from a long day on the ranch, his face dirtied and his skin raw from sweat and friction of his clothes. He hung his bridle on the hook in the tack room and placed his gloves in his bin. The sun was unforgiving, and it showed in the red burns plastered on his face.

Quite literally nothing had gone right out in the fields that day. Not only had he fallen off Baby, but he’d almost been thrown into a puddle of shit, nearly got his fingers torn off by a bull that had strayed away from the herd, and was bit by a black rat snake who had left a pretty good sized wound. His body ached from the stress of ranch work and the numerous injuries that had occurred. It was a hard day, for sure. 

And with a hard day comes hard news. 

“Dad’s dead.”

Sam. His voice. He was meant to be at Stanford, studying law. Not home for summer break for another three days.

Dean turned to the origin of the words. Sam’s eyes were tinted a harsh pink. He looked out of breath. It seemed that those two words had taken all of the energy from his system, and he slumped into a folding chair next to the washing machine.

The sentence meant so little at the moment. And then it hit. A wave of emotion and realization washed over him. His father was dead. Like, dead dead. Going to Hell dead. Six feet under dead. Fully, properly, completely dead. 

What Dean felt in the following minutes couldn’t be explained easily. 

First, all he felt was numbness. There wasn’t anything to do in the tack room, and he sure didn’t want to listen to Sam cough out his sad sobs, so he walked back out to Baby’s stall. She had her head sticking out of the half gated door and she nickered at Dean when he walked up. He blankly put his hand on the bridge of her nose and rested it there, not moving, barely breathing. 

Slowly but surely he became more aware of his surroundings, himself, and his emotions. He could feel eyes on his back and on the tack room door. Sam’s crying was echoing through the barn, getting louder and louder as Dean came out of his hazy state. He started to feel himself break down inside. Holy shit, his dad’s dead. His dad’s fucking dead. 

A tear rolled down his cheek, and he quickly wiped the salt away from his face as if it's lava. He automatically turned his gaze as stony as he possibly could to hide the fact that he wanted to cry almost as hard as he did when his mother passed. A groom who he didn’t recognize came up to him, speaking in a Minnesotan accent so heavy that in his grieving stupor, Dean couldn’t understand a word the man was saying. He pushed the poor guy off, lumbering into the empty feed room.

The smell of sweet feed practically attacked him when he entered the room. The door slammed behind him, and once it did, Dean collapsed on the ground. His throat felt like it was closing up. His heart hammered against his ribs and he felt like it was going to explode out of his chest. No tears came from his eyes, much unlike he had thought. This wasn’t a crying type of breakdown. It was pure panic.

The fact is, Dean Winchester is now the sole owner of Letterman Ranch, and he has no clue how to run anything. He can barely keep his small group of ranchers from straying away whenever they go out. So how in the actual hell is he supposed to be in charge, both legally and responsibly, of a ranch that makes over a million per year?

Watching his dad get lowered into the ground really nails in the fact that the ranch is his. He doesn’t feel sad, exactly, at the graveyard. It’s more of a numb pain. His dad was a dick, anyway. Always left them alone with a random ranch hand who had no experience with kids for weeks at a time. Avoided them a lot after their mom’s death, which meant that Sam practically didn’t have a dad.

Even with that, it seems that Sam is more broken up about this whole ordeal than Dean is. He’s been carrying around a small pack of tissues to snot and cry into. Jess’ purse is filled to the brim with granola bars to make sure that Sam’s eating more than just his nails every day. There’s clearly no thought on his mind except the fact that they had been orphaned by a fucking bug. 

He can’t tell what’s real as he’s walking away from the grave. Surely he’s visiting his mother. He didn’t just see his dad get put into the family mausoleum. Yet, instead of leaving with tears wiped on the back of his hands as he usually would, his fists are balled up under the thick sleeves of his black ranching jacket. He doesn’t feel upset, he’s just pissed off. Pissed at his dad for dying, pissed at his dad for leaving the ranch to him, pissed at the world for his bout of unluckiness. 

Dean slams the door to his room behind him, his chest heaving with anger. In one swift move, he brings his fist down onto his mattress, the feeling of his knuckles hitting something, anything, filling his need to injure someone. 

“God fucking dammit, Dad!” he screams, letting all his fury into the words. “You died in the stupidest fucking way possible!”

Things around his room come crashing down on the floor with every word, his limbs flying in every which way. His lightbulb breaks on the hardwood, and he watches the glass shatter all across the room. A single broken sob escapes him. He sits down on his bed, exhausted from doing nearly nothing. 

Dean balances his head on his hands and stares at the broken glass on the floor. He thinks about Sam, probably crying himself to sleep over his dead dad who was never even there.

He thinks about going to check on him, but he knows that Sam would just push him away. After all, they’ve never been the best when it comes to talking about feelings. At least with mom’s death he’s the only who knew what she was like.

“You’re a dick.” he says. “Sam’s a goddamn mess. He spent his whole childhood mourning you, mourning the fact that he didn’t have you. Why in the fucking hell does he need to do it again?” Nobody responds. 

For once, Dean is surrounded by complete and utter silence. 

It's not unusual for the Winchesters to drink their feelings into submission. John had to have six to seven beers a day just so he wouldn’t break down in front of his sons. Dean himself has had a few today already. He knows that if he didn’t, he would’ve screamed his lungs out at the funeral. Yet, he can still feel. That’s not good. 

So he loads himself into his stupid old 1973 Jeep Gladiator that had been running longer than he’d been alive and starts his drive to the Roadhouse. His hands are tight on the wheel and the only plans he has on his mind are getting hammered and getting fucked.

Streetlights reflect on his face, and in the rearview mirror he can see the shine of angry tears streaking down his cheeks. He shoves his face into either shoulder, shaking off any remainders of feeling upset. He should be enjoyable, relaxed, even a little bit sexy. 

The warm April air breaks Dean into a little bit of a sweat as he walks into Harvelle’s, the neon sign casting a light across his face that makes him look gaunt. One deep breath, and he’s into the bright bar. Some trashy country song is playing loudly on the speakers. Half-drunk losers from the outskirts of town are falling over themselves trying to play darts from all the way across the room. 

“Dean!” Jo calls him from the bar, waving him down. 

“Hey,” his voice is strained a little bit. “Busy night?”

She shrugs. “Not really. Lots of folks are getting ready for the fair tomorrow. Sam’s doing the barrel race exhibition, isn’t he?”

“Fuck, I completely forgot about that.”

Jo pours him an IPA, the one with the most bite for its buck. She knows him well, thank god. He downs the glass in about a minute. She refills. He drinks. She refills. He drinks. Repeat. It’s a good process.

One of the drunkards from the dart party stumbles over and loops his arm around Dean’s shoulder.

“Deanie,” he slurs. “So so sorry about yer paps. I was wondering, though, what’d ya think of that business plan I told ya ‘bout? I thought it was fun, a good way to get both our gears turning, huh?” He nudges Dean, who  turns with a stony look on his face back to Jo. She glares at the man as Dean slumps further into his seat.

Her voice is laced with sharp warning. “Hunt, if I see you talking to anyone who’s lost someone about your bullshit business idea, I will kick you out of my bar faster than you can say sorry.”

“Wow,” Hunt throws his hands up and curls his lip at Jo. “Didn’t know that a lil’ conversation required you to be a bitch.”

With that comment, Dean shoves the heel of his boot into Hunt’s toes. Poor idiot didn’t even think of wearing steel-toed shoes. He hears a small thunk and a whine come out of the man, and Hunt crumples down to the floor. 

“Don’t talk to her like that.” Dean spits. “Only reason I’m beating you up and she’s not is because she’s on the clock, and you’re fucking lucky for that. Get the hell out of here.”

Hunt hobbles himself back to his group of sloppy friends and starts crapping to them about Dean. Did he maybe just lose some business for crushing a toe or two? Possibly. But it was worth it to see him on the ground. Not to mention, the violence made him feel just a little bit better. Or it was the alcohol.

Probably the alcohol.

“You didn’t need to do that.” Jo pushes a refilled glass of beer at Dean.

He shrugs. “Wanted to. Felt good.”

She just shakes her head at him, moving over to treat another customer. A man with a thick beard and a trucker hat that smells like stale whiskey fills her place, sliding a coaster under his drink.

“Boy, are you trying to drink yourself to death?” Bobby folds his arms on the table, trying to make eye contact with Dean. 

“Yeah.”

He sighs, shaking his head. “Well at least use a coaster, you goddamn animal. I spent a lot of money on this table, and I don’t want it ruined by heathens.” His gaze softens just the slightest, watching Dean slump further into his seat. “Shit, I’m no good at this. Hold on.”

A couple seconds of shuffling, and Ellen appears like an angel, her eyes hard against Dean’s weak figure. 

“Sit up, you’re going to stress your spine.”

And that’s why Ellen is one of his favorite people in the world. She doesn’t try to smooth anything over with dramatic words. She just says it as it is, and that’s what Dean needs right now. He needs to be distracted. 

“You’re doing the roping this weekend.” She says it as a fact, not as a question. How did she know he’d been debating it? “Winchesters don’t back out, and especially not the night before.” He looks up, and she’s staring him down. “Tell me how you’re going to set up.”

“Ellen, I’ve got everything down, I promise. Nothing will go wr—” He’s cut off.

She puts her hand up and gives him a doubting look. “Do we want to talk about last year? Or do we wanna plan so you don’t lose another donkey?”

Ah, the donkey fiasco. That was his fault.

“Fine, fine.” Dean pushes the beer away from himself. Suddenly he’s less inclined to drink it, and a warmer feeling grows in his stomach. “Me and Sam will get there, unload the horses. Then unload the cattle. No other animals this year, promise.” He grins weakly. “Not even Dusty?”

“Not even Dusty.” Ellen says. “He’ll spook the other exhibitors' horses.”

Dean quirks an eyebrow. “Who else is showing?”

“Some big shot show jumper from Vermont. Apparently he’s moving into town so he agreed to do the exhibition.”

“He’s moving here?” Dean snorts. “Dumbass.”

Ellen hits him with a dishtowel. “Hey, respect this town. It’s built on my bar, idiot.”

Dean laughs, brings the drink back to his lips, and watches Ellen leave. 

Three drinks later and he’s got some brunette pinned to the wall outside the bar. He didn’t catch her name, really didn’t bother to. After all, he’s just here for the sex, and so is she. Thank the lord above for that.

He kisses her hot and pushy, and she kisses right back. This is what Dean loves, the rough fucking and making out without any questions. He slips his tongue past her lips, and she presses her body closer to his. No space between them, Dean takes the opportunity to thread a hand through her hair and tug on the strands lowest on her head. She lets out a little whine that makes him just feel.

Not good.

He bites on her lips to shut her up, and she moves her hips in just to provide that little more friction. His hands are on her waist, then slipping down her sides to grab at her ass and thighs. She nips at the scruff on his chin. There’s no thought on his drunk mind except getting laid by this incredibly beautiful woman.

Then somehow she’s in his car, and his bed, and by the next morning she’s gone.

***

Dean’s felt hat is an older thing, just like his saddle and his gloves. Roping gear from ranchers before him who’d died and left him the unused stuff. Now, he has his Dad’s old bolo tie done up around his neck as he walks into the fairgrounds. Technically, though, the bolo tie was never John’s to begin with. Bobby had given it to Sam as a gift to John, and when he’d been caught up with work, Sam just gave it to Dean. John hadn’t even realized it was gone. And if Bobby had noticed, he didn’t say anything.

Sam backs the trailer into a spot in between the barrel racing and show jumping arenas. He begins unloading all the tack, and Dean joins in, bringing out the saddles and the grooming kits. As he passes Sam he snorts and chirps at him.

“You look very fancy,” Dean says, setting down the saddle stand next to the tack door. 

Sam rolls his eyes. “It’s not my choice. Do you really think that I’d wear this shirt?”

The shirt in question is a sunflower yellow with navy blue accents. While the colors look alright on Lebanon’s flag, they make Sam look like a badly executed UMich student at a hockey game. The colors truly clash with Riot, Sam’s horse. Riot’s a beautiful Irish Cob, reddish-brown and white with thick feathers and coat. That, added together with the eye blinding yellow really makes someone want to cringe away from the sight. At least, it makes Dean want to. 

So instead he looks towards the jumper arena and notices the most beautiful horse he’s seen in a long time. 

The Hanoverian has always been a jumper breed, mainly meant for Olympic jumpers. Looking at this beautifully dappled gray, Dean understands why. The thing is built like a machine while still seeming light as a feather. He can see the horse’s muscles from here, and Dean knows that it could probably do five, maybe six feet easily. 

He shoulders Sam, pointing his head toward the horse. “Look at that one, Sammie.”

“Wow,” Sam nods, tying Riot to the trailer. “Really pretty. Do you wanna help me out with getting ready or gawk at some English’s Hanoverian?”

“Well if you’re going to be mean about it.” Dean says.

“Shut up and hand me the curry comb, jerk.”

“Bitch.”

Yet he does what Sam asks. Over the next fifteen minutes, they tack up Riot, tightening sinches and brushing out his tail. Dean is put on mane banding duty while Sam puts on his chaps and adjusts his hat. He’s always been pretty good at it. His Mom taught him when he was young, only about three, and Dean’s been doing it ever since. It’s almost calming, something he can control fully. There’s no unknown factor about the banding, and it makes him happy. 

Sam slips his bridle on Riot, letting the bitless bridle fit comfortably on his face. The horse’s lip sticks straight up as Dean teases him with a carrot. After a quick leg up, Sam’s mounted Riot with his hat squished on his head and his fingers curled tightly to his reins. A two time barrel racing national champ, Sam’s been through these competition scenarios more than a thousand times. Still, Dean always watches how nervous he gets before each run. 

“You’re Sam Winchester, correct?”

Dean turns around and is met with the stoic look of a man who couldn’t have been much older than himself. His eyes are sharp, with the same thousand yard stare that John had gotten after years in the military. He’s a little shorter than Dean, much more than Sam at that rate, and his accent isn’t a pointy tone like most of the people around here. He has a roundness to his words, and gets straight to the point. 

Sam nods. “That’d be me, yes.”

“Ah, I thought I recognized you. Great go around at the national competition, I must say.”

“Thank you,” Sam tips his hat ever so slightly at the stranger.

Dean gives one of those stressed, closed mouth smiles and laughs a little. “I’m sorry, who are you?” Sam flicks him on the back of his neck. “Hey, I’m being nice. Just askin’ a question.”

“Oh, it’s alright,” the man takes a hand out of the tan coat he’s wearing. “I’m Castiel Novak. My father was an associate of your father’s, and I’ve been tasked with helping out in the wake of his passing.” He sucks in a sharp breath. “My deepest condolences, by the way.”

“It’s fine,” Dean says apprehensively. He shakes the strange man’s hand. No calluses, no scars. “So, you knew our old man?”

Castiel shakes his head. “No, not personally. I never met him, but my father spoke very highly of him.”

“Who’s your dad?”

“Gregory.”

Dean waits a beat. “Gregory…”

“Novak,” Castiel puts his hands back in his pockets. “Sorry, I thought that was clear.”

Dean is starting to dislike this guy more and more. He acts like some fancy pants ass, with his stupid hands and his stupid dad. Also, he looks like he just rolled out of bed. His hair is all messed up, and his jacket’s collar is quirked up in one place but not in the other. Not to mention that he’s wearing a pair of tattered sweatpants that have stains decorating them like tiny mud puddles. 

“What’s with the sweats?” Dean asks. 

“Oh,” Castiel begins to pull down the waistband, and Dean covers his eyes and tells him to cover back up. 

Sam scoffs. “Don’t be weird, Dean. Show pants, I assume?”

Dean uncovers his eyes and sees that in fact, Castiel is wearing a pair of white show jumping breeches underneath the ragged joggers. Castiel looks up at him, and Dean looks away quickly. 

“Yes, I’m doing the jumping exhibition later today.” Castiel says. “It would be nice if you could attend. I’ll be watching both of yours as well.”

Sam gives a warm smile. “That’s very kind of you. We will make sure to be there.” Riot is starting to get antsy, dancing his front feet back and forth nearly on Dean’s toes. “I have to get in the ring. We’ll see you in a bit, Mr. Novak.”

“Castiel, please.”

“Alright then, Castiel. Dean, let’s head in.”

Dean turns around, sniffing. “Goodbye."

Once they are out of earshot of the new guy, Dean looks up at Sam with distaste. “Castiel?”

“Don’t say a word.”

“I mean, who the fuck names their child Castiel? That’s like naming a baby Pilot Inspektor, they’re begging that their kid gets bullied.”

“Dean,” Sam pulls Riot to a halt, looking pissed. “Be nice, okay? He seems like a cool enough guy. He wasn’t being nasty to you or anything, so don’t be a dick.”

“I’m not being a dick, it’s just…” Dean sighs. “I feel like it’s a little weird that an English rider with probably no ranching experience is coming down here to help us. You don’t think that’s a little out of the ordinary?”

“I never said it wasn’t, all I want you to do is give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“You’re saying he didn’t seem like a bit of an ass to you?” Sam says nothing. “Your silence speaks volumes, Sammie. I just want it to be known that I do not like him. He’s acting like some sort of angel swooping down from the heavens to be of service to us after Dad’s death, and I don’t like it. Plus he talks like a dick.”

Sam clicks Riot on again. “He talks like a person with poise, which clearly you know nothing about.”

“And he’s from Vermont, Sam. Vermont. ”

“What’s wrong with Vermont?”

“Nothing, until he got here!”

“Now you’re just being petty. I’ve gotta go warm up, you get up to the stands and do your announcer thing. I’ll see you right after I finish, okay?”

Dean grumbles a good luck and makes his way over to the announcer booth, where Jo is parked with a clipboard in hand. She pats the seat, barely looking up at him, and he sits down with the microphone in front of him.

“I’m assuming you met Castiel?” She says.

“Huh?”

“Your face,” she waves her pen in a circle around his nose. “You look like you wanna punch a bunny.”

Dean huffs. “He’s just…”

“Annoying?” she suggests. “How about pretentious, douchey, and irritating?”

“You get me.”

Dean scans the ring list and leans on the table with his elbows. There’s plenty of folk from the country surrounding Lebanon, Kansas, and most of the people who are doing the barrel race are people Dean’s done business with. Then he glances at the stands and is greeted with Castiel staring right at him, seated higher up. There’s a ring of light around the back of his head because its absolute massiveness is blocking out the sun, and he doesn’t even wave when Dean nods at him. Just keeps staring, like he’s scared that Dean will turn into a blood sucking beast if he looks away.

Without trying to make a fuss, Dean leans close enough to Jo so that she can hear him. He keeps eye contact with Castiel, though. 

“He’s being weird, Jo.”

She hums in agreement, and he has to kick her underneath the table so that she’ll look up. When she does, she furrows her brows. “What, talking to Garth?”

Dean’s been so focused on keeping contact with Castiel that he didn’t realize Garth sidling up next to the Vermont freak and greeting him. 

“Oh, Garth, fuck,” Dean attempts to get up, but Jo holds him down by his wrist. 

“Nu-uh, cowboy. You’re staying right where you are.” Dean glares, but her eyes are harder than his are. “Garth is a big boy. He can handle himself.”

Dean sighs and scoots his chair back in. “I guess.”

“Good. Can we get to the announcements now? Bobby’s running a tight ship this year, and I’d rather not have to deal with an angry him at dinner tonight.”

He resigns to his list of contestants, though he keeps glancing up at Castiel and Garth every few minutes. They seem to be deep in conversation, Garth talking with his hands and Castiel just nodding along to what he says. Dean can’t argue there. Half the time he just agrees with whatever Garth says just to get him to shut up. 

But he doesn’t like the look of this guy. Really, Castiel makes him a little bit angry just seeing him. Whether it’s that dead stare he has, or the fact that his jaw has just the right amount of stubble to make him look like he can’t be bothered to shave, or the way his polo—brand new, from the look of it—keeps his shoulders looking squared. The colors don’t look absolutely atrocious on him, either. Maybe it’s because he’s not wearing jeans and chaps. It’s really annoying.

The first few contestants go by without anything interesting happening. Literally nothing happens. No notable scores, no falls, not even a barrel being knocked down. The runs aren’t noteworthy. Then it's Sam’s turn. Dean, as he announces the next run, watches the people in the stands lean forward ever so slightly. Even Garth shuts up and turns from Castiel to stare at the currently empty arena. After all, Sam’s a bit of a legend. 

Dean can see Riot prancing around at the mouth of the entrance. Sam’s got one hand on the horn of his saddle and one gripping his reins. He’s got no thoughts on his mind except the task in front of him, Dean can tell. In two little half-buck steps, Riot’s galloping into the ring. Sam is leaned forward just enough to streamline the process in getting to the first barrel. He kicks Riot on around the plastic blue keg and sits up as straight as he can. He’s deep in his seat, Dean can tell. As they round the final barrel, Castiel clasps his hands together and leans on them, almost like he’s judging Sam. 

What a douchebag. 

He’s so busy being pissed off at the guy with the disgusting flannel pants that he doesn’t realize Sam’s finished until Jo is snapping her fingers in front of his face. “Earth to Dean, you’ve gotta tell the people the time. I’m not doing it for you.”

“Oh,” he fumbles with the microphone, trying to look at the time while he’s messing with the buttons. “And with a time of fourteen thirty-five, we have a new arena record!”

The crowd, albeit small, makes quite a lot of noise for Sam. Good on him, beating his own record for the fifth year in a row. 

Dean is more focused on Castiel, though. The fact that he’s gone, to be more specific. Right where he was sitting is just the sun glaring back at Dean, mocking him for his stupidity. He clicks the microphone off, sets it down, and starts jogging over to where Sam is. Riot’s breathing heavy, and once they get back to the trailer he gets a nice big drink of water. 

“Stop playing with it,” Dean says, moving the bucket down so that he doesn’t get splashed. “Nice job, Sammie. Another record for your little notebook, eh?”

Sam jumps down off Riot and grins. “Hell yeah. Seem to be getting better every year.”

“That’s usually how it works, yeah.” 

Sam rolls his eyes and starts to untack his horse. Riot’s happily messing with the water again, Dean having given up trying to stop him. At least he can’t bite anyone when he’s splashing around with his lip. The sun is beating down on the three of them, and Dean wishes he’d brought his sunglasses. 

“I’m gonna take Riot to the wash stalls, alright?”

Dean nods and pulls himself into the trailer. The tack room is disgusting. It's dirty from a couple months worth of show gear, ribbons, and medals piled up on the door that Sam hasn’t bothered to clean out yet. Dean has to maneuver around three water jugs just to get to the saddle racks. He picks his own saddle up off the upper rack and brings it outside. Baby has her head sticking out of the open trailer door. She has a fly mask on, covering her eyes and ears. 

Dean swings the saddle over a metal stand and walks over to Baby. She snorts at him as he comes close, which makes him chuckle to himself. He scratches her nose and messes with her lip, cooing at her. 

“You have a nice horse.”

Dean nearly jumps out of his skin. Expecting to find some random person who wandered from the showgrounds, he turns and is greeted with his absolute favorite person. Castiel. This time, though, there’s no Sam to protect him, or keep him from saying what he wants. 

“Uh,” Dean presses his lips together in a line. “Thanks.”

Castiel stares blankly. Does he fucking blink? “She’s a standardbred, correct?”

“Uh-huh. She’s from a pretty good stallion.” 

“What made you pick her?”

Dean looks up at the sky, wondering what god cursed him with this annoying man. “I didn’t, we bred her.”

“Oh,” Castiel’s hair is flicked up on one side, Dean notices. “So you kept her?”

“Obviously.”

Dean, at this point, is just trying to ignore him. He’s got a competition that he has to warm up for, roping to practice, shit to do. He doesn’t have time to talk about his horse’s breeding past and why they kept her. She’s a good horse. That’s it.

“Your brother is a good racer,” Castiel notes.

Dean turns, rag in hand, and opens his arms. “Then why don’t you tell him that?”

For the first time, Castiel has a bit of emotion on his face. Offense. “I’m sorry, I thought we were just having a conversation.”

He seems genuinely confused, and Dean just has to sigh, throwing the rag over his shoulder. “Cas, can I call you Cas?”

“My name is Castiel.”

“Listen, Cas, I’ve just got a lot going on right now. I’m really not looking to be all buddy-buddy with you. We can talk later, maybe, but I’ve gotta get ready for my exhibition. I’m betting you’ve gotta too.”

“Oh, no, I’m not going for another hour.”

“That’s not what I…” Dean shakes his head. “I just have to get ready, alright? So, please, let me do what I need to do.”

He turns away from Castiel, reaching for fly spray deep in his travel trunk, and when he stands up, the man is gone. 

Whatever. It’s not like Dean wanted him around, anyway. But it's strange how he can just disappear like that. And the fucking sun always follows him. And– No. It’s stupid to spend this time on some random guy. That’s what Dean tells himself as he stares at an empty bottle of show sheen. Wrong spray. 

He might just be going insane because of this guy. 

In an exasperated daze, Dean unloads Baby and attaches her to the trailer. He starts grooming her and giving her pats and hugs in between. She’s an adorable mare, standing about 16.1 hands, and her withers only reach Dean’s shoulders. This means she’s the perfect size for him to tuck his head against her neck and snuggle. 

The thing about Baby is that she’s, well, crazy. Bred from his mother’s broodmare and a legendary roping stud, she was quite literally made for the purpose of ranching. It's in her bloodline. There also seems to be some chaos in her bloodline as well. She loves, loves, loves bucking. Ninety percent of her time in the field is spent galloping around and kicking her feet out like she’s some bronco. Course, it doesn’t help when she gets over excited after a day inside and just wants to run when Dean gets on her. 

Now, though, she’s nice and calm. A little stressed, since she’s still not in love with the whole horse show thing, but Dean knows a couple more trailer trips will cure her of that fear. It takes him a couple passes to actually clean her hooves out because of this. She’s never liked getting them picked out, and her anxiety increases that a tad bit. He has to half hold her to make sure he gets the rocks out from between her hoof and her shoe.

By the time he finishes with that, his face is red from all the blood rushing to it and Sam is tying Riot to the other end of the trailer. Riot’s wet, and he shares all the water with everyone around him by shaking out his whole body as if he’d just rolled. 

“Jesus,” Sam’s hands are held over his head. “C’mon, Ri, so not needed.”

Dean grins. “He wants you to be cool too.”

“I’d love it if he did that some other way.”

“Sucks to suck.”

“Hey, I saw Castiel stopped by. What’d he need?” Sam asks. 

Dean freezes a little, but quickly rights himself. Why is this guy becoming such a bother? “Just coming to congratulate you.”

“Well, that’s nice.” Sam wipes Riot’s legs down with the same rag he’s been using for the last three years. It’s apparently lucky. Dean thinks it's just plain gross. “See, I told you he’s a nice guy.”

A scoff. “I think he’s weird.”

“You think anyone who doesn’t abide by your hat rules is weird.”

“Okay, one,” Dean leans against the trailer, arms crossed. “He doesn’t wear a hat, so it doesn’t apply to him. Two, it’s just weird how he can appear and disappear like fucking Dr. Strange.”

“He’s fine. Just deal, Dean, alright? If he’s as shit at his job that you think he’ll be, we can talk then. But for now just be nice.” Sam gives him a serious look, and Dean sighs. 

“Whatever.”

Sam rolls his eyes and leaves it be. Dean can tell he can’t be bothered to actually deal with the hatred right now, so he drops it too. He has to get on, anyway. He rushes with putting Baby’s saddle pad and saddle on before grabbing his bridle. It takes a couple of tries (and a thumb pressing down on Baby’s tongue) to get the bit into her mouth, and not long after he’s pulling himself up into the saddle. 

There’s nothing that feels more natural to Dean than riding. He’s been doing it since he was pretty much in diapers, and he taught Sam how to ride alongside his father. Whenever he feels particularly shitty he’ll take Baby out for a ride in the fields, paying attention to nothing except the sound of crickets and the smells of dew. His saddle is practically molded to his ass with how much he uses it, though it’s in such good condition that Dean can’t bring himself to switch it out. 

He wraps his hand around his reins and leans down slightly to Sam to grab his nylon ropes. Baby’s practically falling asleep as he does his work getting ready, and by the time he’s actually done, Riot is loaded on the trailer, happily eating hay from the net at the front. 

Sam slaps Dean’s leg and looks up at him, though he doesn’t have to look far, the fucking giant. “You ready?”

Dean huffs out a breath. “Yeah. You owe me a beer for this.”

“I didn’t ask you to do it. Go talk to Ellen.”

“But she’ll get mad at me,” he pouts, wiping Baby’s slobber off of his hands. “If you buy me a beer I won’t tell anyone about the fact that you and Jess were f-u-c-k-i-n—”

“Please,” Sam interrupts. “shut the hell up.”

 Dean snorts and squeezes Baby forward. His stirrups are more comfortable than they’ve ever been, and it feels almost therapeutic to be in the saddle. He hasn’t ridden since his fuckface of a dad died, he’s just had people at the barn ride her to make sure that Baby stays in shape and doesn’t go insane from the lack of work. Usually the request is met with concerned looks. Dean never lets anyone ride his mare, especially not random folk from the barn. Desperate times call for desperate measures, though. Hopefully they didn’t injure her in five days. 

The ring for the roping is quiet, since his teaching event isn’t supposed to happen for another twelve minutes. If there’s one thing that people in Lebanon are, it's neither early nor late, but right on time. He’s got an empty ring for the next few minutes. 

He warms Baby up with some basic stretching, then some jogging and loping. She was nice and loose by the time that the first audience members come by, and Dean has to hop off to get himself ready for the flood that’ll be arriving. For some strange reason, fly season number one began early this year, and Baby’s getting the brunt of bites on her legs and her face, even despite the spray he put on earlier. He wishes he’d bought that weird riding fly mask Sam got for Riot.

“Hey, bitch,” Dean turns from inspecting his mare to find Charlie standing outside of the ring. She’s got her nasty old hat on and a grooming kit slung over her shoulder. Some mother covers her kid’s ears when Charlie curses, giving a dirty look to both of them. “Sam told me to bring you this.” 

“Thanks, kid,” he says. Deep in the bag is some roll-on fly spray, and he applies that in little triangles under Baby’s eyes. The markings make her look like a horse jester. “You here to watch?”

“Of course. Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Charlie rolls her eyes. “Not like I see you do this every single day out in the wilderness, braving the elements.” She punches his arm. “You are such a courageous young man.”

Dean snorts. “Shut up.”

“No ‘cause some random lady walked up to me in the street yesterday and started telling me how brave I was for being my true self and blah blah blah blah–”

Granted, Charlie is actually saying something relevant. Or half relevant. It’s always hard to know with her. Dean isn’t listening, though, because atop that beautiful Hanoverian he saw earlier is Castiel. The pants he was wearing under those disgusting flannel pajama pants are a pair of white breeches that seem almost painted to his skin. Though, under closer inspection, Dean can tell that they’re loose around the knees whenever he straightens his legs. He’s got boots that go up to his kneecaps, a white button up that looks like it should be choking him, and a blue jacket that just has to be stifling in this heat.

Even though his face is partially covered by the wide brim of his helmet, Dean can see that Castiel has a light smile on. Maybe he enjoys this sort of thing, riding. 

Not as much as Dean though. 

His hand tightens around his rope, and he pats Charlie on the shoulder awkwardly before pulling Baby into the center of the ring. He can see that Castiel is watching him. Whatever. Let him stare. It’s not Dean’s problem if he’s got a lil’ crush or some shit. 

“Ladies and gents, boys and girls,” Dean calls to the accumulated crowd. There’s gotta be about forty, maybe fifty odd sitting in the row of stands, waiting for a demonstration. “Welcome to the ninth annual Smith County Agricultural Fair. My name is Dean Winchester, and this is my beautiful horse Chevy Chase, but we ‘round here just call her Baby.” He pats Baby on the neck, gesturing to the crowd. “Could you give the folks a smile?”

Baby flips her top lip up in a sort of smile, showing her teeth and sticking her head up. Kids in the audience giggle and Charlie comes over with a sugar cube that she deposits into Baby’s waiting mouth. A grin spreads across Dean’s face, and he adjusts his hat again so he can see better. 

He motions with his rope hand to Charlie, who tips her hat to the audience. “This is one of my very best friends, Charlie Bradbury, and she’ll be helping me out today with the demonstration.” 

With that, walks towards the fencing closest to the bleachers. There’s a group of younger kids at the fence with their eyes wide in excitement as Dean comes up. A couple of them are kids he knows, kids he’s taught at the summer riding camp he did a couple years back. 

“Y’all remember how to use a rope like this?” He asks. They clamber to touch the nylon, and Dean has to practically rip it out of their sticky little fingers to get back to his demonstration. He laughs lightly. “Clearly you do!”

He takes a step back and looks at the crowd. “This is a rope! Some people call it a lasso, some call it a lariat, but I just call it my rope. It’s used on the ranch to catch the cows that stray away from the pack. Luckily my cows are behaved, and I don’t have to use it much.” The lasso is clipped back into his belt. “Today is all about showing y’all how to use a rope, and giving you a lil’ demo on how tie down roping works. Course, we don’t have a calf here that really wants to be tied down, so Charlie’s got a dummy that I’ll use to show how everything functions.”

Walking back to where Baby is, he pulls himself up into the saddle and grabs his reins from Charlie. As he continues droning through his spiel, he zones out a bit. After all, he’s done this four years in a row. It’s hard to not space when all you’re doing is sitting on a horse and talking about your job.

Even the roping part itself is a blur. Dean doesn’t know why, but everything he does just flies by. It feels like one moment he’s on Baby and the next he’s on his knees in the dirt, hands up with Charlie timing his run. Then there’s kids wrapping lassos around the wooden calf’s feet, and then he’s back at the trailer. He’s not sure how he got there. Or when. But something is off. 

Ever since that stupid Castiel guy came riding by on his horse, he just can’t seem to focus. All Dean can think of is the way Castiel’s eyes pierced through him while he was doing his demonstration. Maybe he’s trying to learn. Yeah, that sounds right. English rider who doesn’t know how to rope, he’s probably just trying to figure out how to do it before showing up for the first day of work so that he doesn’t look absolutely moronic. Yet, there’s something that still feels…weird. Like nothing Dean has felt before.

With the intelligence of a thousand men, Dean pushes it down, just like always.

***

Dean sits forward on the bleachers. He hasn’t seen someone do showjumping in a long, long while. Not since his mother passed. She was always the one big on English disciplines, not John. So the large arena filled to the brim with colorful, decorated jumps just isn’t a norm. Dean can’t seem to understand how the horses in the ring wouldn’t freak out at everything they saw. He knows Baby would practically explode. 

Bobby’s voice once again crackles over the loudspeakers, grainy and almost off putting. “My Smith County family, I would like for you to give a warm welcome to our new resident showjumper, Castiel Novak.” It is so painfully clear that he’s reading off a slip of paper. “Hailing from West Windsor, Vermont, Mr. Novak is a nationally ranked jumper, and he is currently in the process of training for the Olympic trials. Please welcome him and his horse Chariot Storm to the ring as they demonstrate their skills.”

Polite clapping fills the arena, a stark contrast to the whooping and hollering heard earlier during the barrel races. There’s a good chance that people here don’t really know how to treat a new guy. From what Dean can recall, nobody’s moved in without family already here since before he was born.

Castiel and his horse trot into the ring, stopping in the middle for a moment before leaping straight into a brisk canter. There’s a pair of sunglasses on Castiel’s face, and Dean just has to wonder how in the hell those are staying on through the absolute monster of a canter that his horse has. 

The first jump is apparently 1.4 meters. Castiel and his horse glide over it easily, landing one hoof in front of the other on a beautiful lead. There’s a sharp turn, and they’re heading straight back to a jump right next to the one they just did. This one’s even spookier than the last, with two large jumps even in a row. The standards of the jumps are nearly touching at the base, they’re so close. Though Castiel clears it easily. 

Of fucking course.

Throughout the whole course, Castiel looks effortlessly calm and logical. It's like every move of his foot is perfectly calculated to get the correct response for the jump coming up. It infuriates him. There is no reason for this fucking Vermonter to look so good on a horse. 

Dean finds himself leaning on the front of the bleachers. Garth is sitting next to him, copying the position. 

“He’s a nice mover,” Garth remarks, nodding towards the horse. “Good stride ‘n all.”

Dean breaks his eye contact with the focused Castiel and glares at Garth. “His rider sucks.”

“Eh, I thought he was kinda nice.” Garth leans back. “Didn’t talk much, though. Really quiet.”

“Really? Didn’t get that impression.” Dean snorts.

“To each their own, I guess.”

“That makes no fucking sense.”

Garth puts a finger to his lips, pointing with his other hand back towards the ring. Dean resigns himself to staring angrily at Castiel and his unfairly good horse. 

From what he can tell, there’s another three jumps left in the course. A huge blue rectangle that holds about an inch or so of water lays on its own in the middle of the ring. There’s a couple of little plants and decorated horseshoes hanging on fake lights, but that’s it. Plain, wide, and scary.

Going to the jump, Dean can see that Castiel sits up ever-so-slightly, and his heels go down and deep. He doesn’t kick his horse but clearly there’s some sort of propulsion. They move forward at the jump, and at the last second leap over. For a moment, the pair is frozen in time, suspended over the shallow water that reflects the Hanoverian’s white belly. Then there’s hooves on the ground and the crowd is celebrating. They’re loud this time, almost like they’ve already accepted him into the town.

The last two jumps Dean can’t even remember. He’s too focused on how Castiel looked going over the jump, ridiculously relaxed while on a half-ton animal leaping in the air. He’s jumped before, and though it was on the ranch and maybe by accident, it wasn’t easy. He almost fell off afterward. Castiel makes it look so simple and, dare he say it, beautiful. In no world should a man like that be beautiful. 

Dean gets up from his chair abruptly, ignoring Garth’s questioning about it and jumps off the side of the bleachers. Sam is still at the trailer when he gets there. No questions asked as Dean gets into the truck though. How kind. He shuts the door with a loud bang and yells at Sam to hurry up. For some strange reason, he wants to get the hell out of here as quickly as possible. 

It takes another minute or so for Sam to clamber into the passenger’s seat. His head thunks against the roof, but Dean doesn’t even have the heart to laugh. He just can’t stop thinking about what he just saw in the ring. As soon as the door is shut, Dean is pressing on the gas. He takes one look back in the side mirror. There stands Castiel, staring right back at Dean, watching them leave with what might just be a semblance of sadness on his face. 

Dean keeps driving.