Chapter Text
“Alright. The guest house is open and all of the beds are already made. I’m making dinner, so you all are welcome to come by the big house to eat,” Dean announced, before turning on his heel and pacing to Chevy’s stall, picking up a curry to start grooming his beloved mare. “We need a fitting stable name for that pretty arab filly, baby. Could you help me?” He murmured to the horse. Chevy shifted her position and pawed with one of her long front legs. “I know, I know. I’m just gonna finish grooming you and then we’re gonna bring in the cattle for Bobby. You’ll get to stretch your legs, I promise.”
The mare bobbed her head, long mane swaying as she seemed to nod in agreement. Dean chuckled, shaking his head. “I swear, you can understand my every word, sweetheart.” Chevy swished her tail. Still chuckling, Dean turned to retrieve the hoof pick, dropping the stiff-bristle brush back into the box next to the curry he had used earlier.
“Foot,” Dean commanded. The big mare shifted her weight and picked up her hoof so that Dean could clean it out, his hand circling under the hock to support the massive hoof. They repeated this for the other three, Chevy laying her tail over the rancher’s head as he cleaned out her back hooves.
Tossing the hoof pick back in the brush box, Dean left the stall door open. Chevy followed her rider without prompting, stepping to a square halt in front of the tack room as Dean retrieved her tack.
When the rancher did emerge, he was holding a smaller saddle than he normally used. The seat was smaller and less scooped, and the stirrups were a polished silvery color.
“Alright, baby. We’re gonna work some english tonight. You remember jumping?” He chuckled when the big mare nodded emphatically, her broad white blaze flashing in the oily yellow beam of the flood-lights. “Good girl. Let’s get you tacked up,” He said, still chuckling. He laid the small black saddle on a rack and tossed the silvery-grey pad over Chevy’s withers, turning back to the saddle and settling it just behind the big mare’s powerful shoulders. He then started buckling the girth, pausing with his hands on the mare’s barrel. He left them there for a moment, before shaking his head with a soft laugh.
“Breathe out, baby. No puffing up on me,” He murmured to the Andalusian, prodding her ribs with two fingers to get the big mare to release the breath she was holding. She sighed, releasing the air and allowing her rider to cinch the girth and buckle the chestpiece with no more reaction than a small snort.
Dean disappeared back into the tack room, returning a few moments later with a classy english bridle fitted with a soft snaffle bit. Chevy was very responsive - Dean having trained her from when she was a tiny filly - and almost didn’t need a bit, so her doting rider always used the gentlest bit he could get his hands on. Chevy stood still while he slipped her halter off and placed the snaffle behind her teeth, buckling the throatlatch loosely behind her cheek and the noseband securely around her muzzle.
“Alright sweetheart. Let’s bring in the herd before Bobby comes over to get on my ass about it,” He swung into the saddle and clucked to his horse, urging the steadfast mare into an easy trot.
Chevy moved differently when under different saddles. She kept her head high and movements more elegant under an english saddle, long and low under a western, and her smoothest rocking-horse motion when bareback. Picking her feet up, Chevy leapt into a working canter, chewing on her bit contentedly as they twisted back and forth, the small herd of angus cows and calves plodding dutifully back to the barn at the big mare’s skillful urging. I took not quite five minutes to get the herd in.
Once all twenty-three head of cattle were shut safely in the barn, Dean turned Chevy out towards the open field, urging the mare into a hunter’s canter, strong knees and high head and steady.
Approaching the first jump - a flat fence board suspended between two oil barrels - Dean gave Chevy her head, allowing the mare to pick her spot and just moving with her. The next jump was an old tipped-over tree trunk. Dean had to take back control for this one, closing his hands on the reins to hold Chevy in a tight-wound canter before letting her soar over it. Upon landing, Chevy swapped her lead and turned right in a wide sweeping turn. Something moved in the edge of Dean’s vision, but he paid it no heed, setting his powerful mare up for the set of four bounces. With measured care, Chevy took each one in a smooth bound, then taking one long stride before sailing easily over the bigger oxer.
Turning Chevy in a circle to wind her down, Dean praised his mare, stroking her neck happily.
The thing in the corner of Dean’s eye moved again, this time drawing his attention. Slowing Chevy down to a working trot, he turned toward it, finding himself quite puzzled.
The entire posse that Dean could swear had just gone inside the guest house sat at the edge of the trees, applauding quietly.
“I thought you guys went in for the night,” Dean commented as he approached, asking Chevy for a halt with his seat and a gentle pull on the snaffle.
Charlie nodded her assent.
“We were, but then Sam noticed you ride out of the barn with your mare in an English saddle. He said that we should come watch,” She said mildly, nodding at something over Dean’s shoulder.
The older Winchester turned in his saddle, spotting Sam cantering across the field toward them, his mare decked out in her English attire, complete with chestplate and martingale.
“Sammy! Why’d you call them out here? You know I don’t like jumping in front of an audience,” Dean chastised his little brother as Sam pulled his blood-bay Mustang, Ruby, to a halt next to Chevy.
Sam rolled his eyes.
“You’re just weird. You EQ is fantastic. There’s no need for stage fright. Ruby could use an English workout anyway,” The taller man shrugged, patting his mare’s shoulder as she chewed happily on her Pelham bit.
Ruby was tougher in the mouth than Chevy, and thus needed a stronger bit. Sam had rescued her from a kill-pen, the mare having been too stubborn for typical training techniques to work. Sam had brought her home and spent nine months getting her used to human contact, handling, and - finally - tack. Once she was reassured in humans and used to being ridden either in tack or bareback, she became one of the most hardworking horses the boys had ever owned.
Dean huffed.
“Alright. One round for you and then one round doubling. Then we go in, kay?” Even though he phrased it as a request, the older Winchester was sporting The Face , and left no room for argument.
Sam nodded, looking pleased, before wheeling Ruby about and turning her towards the board-fence that Dean had jumped first.
The tall mustang tossed her head and tried to get the bit between her teeth as Sam held her down to choose his spot. Ruby wasn’t the kind of horse you could just sit on and expect to behave, and she reminded Dean’s little brother of that as she landed, flinging a hind foot and tossing her head some more. Sam - being the skilled rider and trainer he was - rode out her mini-tantrum, moving with the red mare and setting her up for the next jump. Again Ruby sailed easily over the trunk, landing with a sassy tail flick and an energetic lead change. Dipping her inside shoulder, the mustang executed a classic cow-pony turn, cutting a sharp corner and lining up for the bounces. Ruby’s motions turned more fluid as she saw the distances, her head coming up as she took a long stride so that the first bounce would be even and measured. She landed from the last of the four bounces and took two even strides before launching over the oxer, head bobbing happily as Sam circled her to wind her down.
Dean nodded, pleased, as the posse applauded quietly at Sam’s round.
“Good ride, Sammy. Ready for the doubles? I’ll keep the distances even for you,” Dean commented as Sam pulled Ruby down to a halt next to him.
“Yeah, thanks,” Sam nodded, hair windblown and cheeks stretched in a wide grin. Riding gave both the Winchester brothers immeasurable pleasure.
Nudging Chevy’s ribs with his heels, Dean pushed his mare into a working canter, Sam and Ruby picking up the same and drawing level with him, Sam pulling his mare to the inside as they circled to line up straight with the first jump. Moving in synch, both men measured their horses’ strides and soared over the first jump neck in neck. The two mares lifted their heads and swiveled their ears forward as they approached the tree trunk, soaring over the broad oak trunk and landing even with each-other. Ruby’s front legs struck out almost savagely in comparison to Chevy’s elegant rolling gait as they swapped leads and turned the corner to prepare for the bounces. Ruby tossed her head and tried to get the bit between her teeth as they approached the first of the four. Chevy extended her stride, Ruby following seamlessly, and they bounded easily over the set of bounces, staying perfectly even as the Winchester brothers moved with them, their two-point unhindered by years riding mainly western. The two mares were pushed foreward landing from the last bounce, fitting one long stride before soaring over the oxer and landing, flicking their tails as their riders patted their necks and praised them, slowing them to an easy walk and halting in front of the posse.
“Show’s over, folks. I’m heading back to the big house to make dinner. I’ll send Sam for you when it’s ready,” Dean said over his shoulder as he wheeled Chevy and urged her into an easy trot, rising and falling with every hoofbeat.
Dean took his time in returning to the stable, making sure to effectively cool Chevy down before feeding her dinner. One thing that he would never let happen, is allow Chevy to sicken under his care. His beloved mare had been in peak condition for years, and Dean intended to keep her that way.
After a cursory grooming to make sure that she wouldn’t get itchy from any hairs misplaced by the saddlepad, Dean opened the half-door to Chevy’s stall - wiping a fingerprint or two from the gleaming silver nameplate on the black-painted door - and let the mare in. Chevy - the well-trained horse that she was - didn’t need prompting, stepping over the threshold and into the soft shavings. Dean measured out her feed from one of the bins in the hall and dumped it in her grain bucket, dropping a peppermint or three into the pile as a treat.
After a final pat, Dean paced out of the stall and closed the half-door behind him, latching it firmly.
The ranch at night had always been the prettiest for Dean. He liked to walk (or ride) the perimeter of the horse pastures on nights when bad memories or nightmares kept him awake. There was always the consistent babble of night insects and the occasional owl or whip-poor-will, and the murmur of the brook. Even the rare occurrence of the chorus of a wolf pack up on the ridge grounded the older Winchester’s mind and brought him back to the present. Now, walking back to the tan-and-red victorian two-story, the post-dusk lighting made the yellow of Desert Marigolds and reds and purples of Chollas stand out in sharp relief against the green of the grasses and shrubs and occasional cactus. The quiet lowing of the cattle in Bobby’s stock barn was barely audible as they settled down to sleep. The half moon, hanging low and heavy on the horizon, lit the path along the outside of the wire fencing. Dean walked slowly, just enjoying the tranquility.
Finally reaching the big house, Dean let himself in and started preparing dinner. His homemade sourdough buns had been resting in the refrigerator all day, so they were prepared to go in the oven. He pulled out the pizza stone and set the balls of dough on it’s surface, sliding it into the oven with the satisfying grate of charcoal on stone. Closing the heavy door, he turned to the refrigerator, getting out the ground beef from Bobby’s. All of the ingredients that Dean ever used that he could buy local, he did, and his cooking tasted all the better because of it. Kneading herbs and spices the beef, Dean started shaping patties and setting them on the sizzling grill-iron. The spacious house quickly filled with a myriad of smells, from the bread as it baked and the burger patties on the grill and the sizzle of the smush-potatoes in the pan on the stove.
Dean’s burgers were infamous in the region, and for good reason. Everything was made from scratch, by hand, and completely free of preservatives. Admittedly, the preservative-free part was Sam’s idea, but it worked. Nobody in Littlefield would give up a chance to eat with the Winchesters, whether it be for the food, the horses, or just the company.
The screen door hissed as Sam walked through it.
“Heya Sammy. What took so long?”Dean inquired as his brother paced into the room, moving surprisingly quietly for his stature.
“Charlie wanted a tour of the pastures, and who am I to deny her?” Sam shrugged, chuckling as he stooped to start unlacing his sturdy paddock boots.
“The burgers are almost done and I’m about to take them and the buns out so they can settle. Why don’t you stop unlacing your boots, because you need to go get the posse,” The last comment stopped Sam in his tracks, one boot half-unlaced. He groaned.
“Fine. I’ll go get ‘em for you. You owe me one!” He tossed over his shoulder as he laced his boot back up and paced out the door, his older brother chuckling and shaking his head behind him.
Dean opened the heavy iron door to the bread oven and slid the broad metal spatula around the edges of loaf after loaf, releasing the fresh bread from the stone it had baked on. One by one, the buns were placed on a cherrywood platter and covered with a towel to keep them warm. He then paced out the open patio door to the grill, pulling the burger patties off from over the heat of the mixture of oak and apple charcoal. As each patty went on the plate, it was covered with a slice of cheese, leaving a couple plain just in case.
The storm door hissed open as Dean finished laying the potatoes on a plate covered with a paper towel to catch the extra coconut oil they were cooked in.
“Welcome to Casa de Winchester. Come for the horses, stay for the food!” Dean crowed the sometimes-restaurant's slogan, not turning from his task.
Several laughs rang through the air, Sam’s half-amused chuckle being one of them. Dean could almost identify each of the posse by their laughs, each matched perfectly to their personalities.
Charlie’s laugh was full-bodied and almost raucous, matching her outgoing tendencies. Anna’s was quiet and lilting, corresponding to her shy nature. Michael’s laugh was low and rich, similar to Dean’s own in it’s rolling tone, and matching its owner’s laidback persona. Luci’s was energetic and lilting - like Anna’s - and reflected the blonde outlaw’s confidence and charisma. Gabriel’s was high and almost chirping, but not quite annoying, reflecting the short rider’s easy confidence and charm. Lastly was Cas’s. Dean almost didn’t hear it, but underneath the quiet cacophony of the other posse members, it was there; like a low rumbling chuckle that held its owner’s voice and lower notes of his quiet tendencies.
The community and comradery that the posse displayed was charming, really. They didn’t seem like the cold and ruthless outlaws the rumors portrayed them as, but instead just like a group of friends who got caught on the wrong side of the law. Maybe that’s exactly what they are, and just took the criminal label and ran with it.
That’s the type of outlaws Dean imagined he and Sam would be: Just a pair of brothers who stood up for what was right, even if the law disagrees.
Maybe that was the reason Dean had opted to share custody of the ranch with his adoptive family (the Singer-Harvelles), and his closest friend and ex-brother-in-arms, Benny Lafitte. The tall southerner, despite his big-and-tough type appearance, was one of the kindest people the Winchester brothers knew, and almost as good with horses as Sam was. Horses are never fazed by appearance. They know you by your smell and your demeanor rather than your face, and are excellent judges of character. Benny, Bobby, Jo, and Ellen would have no trouble maintaining the ranch.
Just a precaution , Dean told himself. No hard and fast reason for it .
Of course, that notion of just a precaution was wearing thin as Dean learned more about this charming band of supposed ruthless killers.
Dean could see the effect the posse was having on his brother too. Sam’s ever-shifting hazel eyes shone with a new light in the presence of Charlie and her band. His expressions were more intense, more raw. More wild, even. His broad-brimmed brown Stetson spent less time hanging from its stampede string around his neck, and more time sat low on his brow, hiding his eyes as his signature half-smirk and dimples stood out under the shadow of it. The look fit him far better than his previous resting bitch-face.
Lost in his thoughts, Dean was very quiet as he served food, doling out hefty helpings of potatoes to accompany his burgers. It was only at Sam’s urging that he retrieved himself from his head and sat down to eat with the rest of them. The easy companionship that Charlie’s Angels possessed followed them, and seemed to expand to encompass their hosts. Soon Dean and Sam were engrossed in the conversation and comradery of the group, chattering amiably and laughing around mouthfuls of Dean’s cooking (which was very well received, if the semi-erotic moans of approval were anything to go by).
Before Dean knew it, the posse was full and happy and possibly about to go into a food coma, wandering out the door and back to the guest house, leaving an empty house and a sink stacked with plates. Falling into routine, Sam and Dean took their respective places at the industrial-size sink, Sam washing and rinsing the dishes before handing them to Dean who was waiting, towel in hand, to dry them off and put them in their respective piles. The mundane task put the brothers’ minds at ease, settling them into a rhythm that required next to no thought. Dean’s mind went back to - of all things - watching Cas and the little Arabian mare. The quiet rider looked like he had never set foot outside some cozy condo in LA, but he gave the filly wings.
Wings
“HAH!” Dean cried, almost flinging a plate halfway across the room and smacking Sam in the face with his towel.
Sam swatted at the air in front of his face as Dean pulled his hand back.
“Dean, what the hell!?” His brother cried, punching him in the shoulder.
“Wings! The little Arab mare that Cas tamed. We have a registered name for her, but we never called her anything beyond it. Her barn name could be Wings!” The older Winchester exclaimed, gesticulating wildly. A glimmer of understanding slowly lit up Sam’s eyes, and a slow grin stretched across his face.
“Wings. I like it. It really fits her with Cas on her back,” He nodded, watching his older brother’s expression with curious intensity. “He gives her wings.”
Dean nodded emphatically in response, going back to drying the dishes. The decision was made and no more was said on it. Lapsing back into their comfortable rhythm, the brothers finished their work in companionable silence.
If Dean fell asleep with his mind straying back to a certain perplexing sex-haired outlaw, it’s not as if it’s anyone’s business.