Red River Love Song Chapter 3
This has been a struggle. I have captured my muse and chained her to a wall. Poked her with a sharp stick. She doesn't like it, but at least she let me finish this bit of RRLS. You might notice I've changed the title somewhat, combined it with the subtitle. I like that better, I think.
I found the icon I'm using <------ especially for when I posted this chapter. It's from a painting by Georgia O'Keefe and I love it a lot. It's perfect for the story.
Mmmmm. What else? My new layout picture is by the deliciously talented candygramme. Thank you, sweetheart. You took a gorgeous photo and made it into something dramatic and beautiful. ♥ ♥ ♥
Chapter 3
Dean gulped a mouthful of lukewarm water, blinking tiredly under the glare of the midday sun. He screwed the cap back on the canteen with careful fingers, cracked lips momentarily soothed, his throat working convulsively. The fluid was already leaving his body in streams, patching his shirt to his skin. He missed his hat. Wished he had taken the sheriff’s big black sombrero with the silver conchos circling the crown. Must have cost him a month’s pay at least, and it would have looked far better on Dean anyway-not that it didn’t look good on Sam.
The ache in Dean’s bruised side started up again as he twisted, looping the canteen’s strap over the saddle bags and glancing back the way he’d come. He winced as he straightened, pressing a palm to his tender ribs. Yesterday’s fall in full flight still reverberated through the hollowed bits of his bones.
Thinking of Sam made Dean frown. He scrubbed at his hair in frustration. His mind slipped guiltily around the thought of Sam, side-winding away from admitting just how low-down Dean had sunk.
“Done the man wrong, Belle,” Dean finally acknowledged, rubbing his palm over the saddle horn in contrition.
The mare shook her head, silky mane a waterfall brushing across his fingertips. She didn’t believe him. Dean sighed, stroking the coarse dark feathers. Belle shifted from hoof to hoof, impatient and wanting none of his pathetic justifications. Already, she knew him too well.
There was no denying it. Not that he was trying. He’d acted the dirty scoundrel Sam had called him. Fine. But he weren’t a total shit. Deserved some credit, goddam it. He may have stolen the fella’s horse and left him on foot at the back of beyond, but Dean only took one of the two canteens and half the provisions: a mess of jaw-breakin’ jerky and cold biscuits rolled in a napkin in Sam’s saddlebags.
Dean made a face. “He’s got enough to get him back to somewhere’s civilized. That’s got to count for something, ain’t it?”
Belle whinnied in derision. Gathering up the reins, Dean clucked his tongue grumpily, urging Belle forward with a brisk slap on the rump. If there was a Christian God up there, Dean hoped he’d make Sam chose the road back to Sweetwater. Because if Sam came after him again, Dean would have to kill him.
Should have done it before he left. Taken a rock and bashed Sam’s damned stubborn skull in. Even though imagining it made Dean’s belly roll like he’d drunk too much rotgut and needed to puke. He’d never done for a man before. Hell, he was a lover, not a fighter. But when it came to staying alive, Dean would take what measures were necessary.
He’d lain for a long time, dozing in and out of consciousness under the finger moon, listening to Sam grumble nonsense in his sleep. There was a connection forming between them, tenuous as a filament in a spider web. Dean didn’t like it much. Couldn’t afford to feel anything for Sam if he wanted to stay breathing. And he did.
He made up his mind a few hours before dawn, rolling out of bed cat-stealthy, not a sound to alert the slumbering lawman. After finding the keys to his handcuffs tucked in Sam’s discarded gun belt, Dean led the horses away from camp for about a mile before swinging aboard Belle’s back.
He hadn’t dared to saddle her, the jingle of harness was sure to wake the lawman, and Dean needed to be unencumbered and fast. So no saddle. It wasn’t a problem. Every farm boy could ride bareback. Dean had grown up in Kansas surrounded by corn and wheatfields. He liked the muscled barrel of Belle’s ribs between his thighs. It made him feel like a kid again.
They managed good time, even towing Sam’s big bay behind them. The trail Dean rode would be hard to follow. He stayed mostly on rock and in dried-out creek beds whenever he could, their bottoms thick with flat pebbles polished smooth eons ago. When he was sure he’d looped and double back on his own track enough times to make pursuit unlikely, Dean headed up into the mesquite, letting Sam's horse go, then aiming for the mountains that danced in the distance’s wavering mirage lines.
Come nightfall, high in the foothills, he stopped long enough to make a meal. Dean gnawed on a piece of jerky, trying to pretend he was sinking his teeth into a fat steak, grease slicking his chin. Next town he came to there would be a hot bath and good food-then a poker game to put the jingle back in his pockets. He’d forget Sam Winchester ever existed.
A another quick drink of stale water washed down the dried meat, though the salty taste of it lingered on, leaving Dean’s throat full of dry prickles. After foraging for Belle’s supper, they hit the trail again. Dean swayed tiredly in the saddle, the steady push to put distance between himself and his pursuer a necessity buzzing in his blood and bones.
They rode on through the night into the merciless heat of the day. With no rest, every bruise that painted his skin felt brand new. Dean began to sing, a whisper-soft murmur to keep Belle and himself awake and distract from his abused body. His eyelids felt weighed with lead.
“...and the cowboy who loved you so truuuue.”
He breathed out. His head nodded forward, and he was asleep, deep as an innocent babe. That’s how they caught him, the dirty, sneakin’ savages. Arms hanging loose along Belle’s shoulders, cheek against her neck, the steady movement had lulled Dean like the comfort of a mother’s arms. He was lost in distrubing dreams, maybe drooling a bit, when they came on him in a bewildering howl of noise; ten braves rigged out in war paint and obviously headed for mischief.
The ground came up and slammed the air out of Dean’s lungs before he knew what was happening. A proud, hawk-nosed face painted with slashes of jagged blue loomed into his line of sight, teeth bared, brandishing a knife. The brave shouted at him, a long, guttural snarl that needed no translation.
“Whoa! Whoa!” Dean was talking even before his head cleared. He waved his weaponless hands to show his intentions. No sense going for a gun. Fast as Dean was, he couldn’t out draw a knife at his throat. “I’m a peaceable man. Don’t mean you no harm, friend. And I’m sort of attached to my scalp.” The last came out a yelp when Blue Lightning pressed the blade of his weapon along the crease of Dean’s forehead.
Dean attempted to skitter away. A fist in his hair brought him up short. It hurt like blazing hell, and he gasped out a strangled, “Owww,” before snapping his teeth shut on further comment. It looked as though the cutting was about to commence. Dean hated the injustice of it all. Being dumped off his horse was bad enough, but at least the last time he hadn’t been in danger of parting company with his scalp.
It was clear he’d run across a bunch of Comanch warriors, and now he was going to pay the price for napping when he should have been alert. They were a handsome people. Dean had to give them that. Their ferocity and bravery were legendary from border to border. He bore them no ill will, but he weren’t dying there if he could help it.
This lot was tricked out in full war paint. Not a good sign. Some had black and white painted faces, others wore a pattern of stripes and daubs. There were feathers and beads twined in their crow-wing hair. All of them were terrifying beyond the telling of it. Dean judged them a raiding party, one that couldn’t be bothered with captives. He was in serious trouble.
“Me no savvy,” he gulped, doing his best to look meek and biddable, while his blood beat like a fourth of July parade in his ears.
The brave who had him down stared a storm at Dean under his lowered brows, grip near to ripping the top of Dean’s head off without the aid of a knife. He shook Dean hard, clacking his teeth together, but looked up in inquiry when one of the other savages put a hand on his shoulder. Blue Lightning glanced at his captive uncertainly before releasing him.
Dean breathed a quick sigh of relief at the temporary reprieve. Anything that slowed the progress of that knife blade between his skull and his skin was worth a passel of hallelujahs. He took a tentative wiggle away on his ass when the palaver started up. The other braves soon joined in with much waving of hands and speculative glances thrown Dean’s way. He quieted where he was, not wanting to draw anymore attention to himself, alert to the growing quarrel.
Truthfully, Dean had enough of the language to get by on, and he was adapt at signing. They were arguing over his eyes. It gave him an ugly shiver to hear his body parts dissected in words not fit for the telling.
Old Blue Lightning thought green eyes were bad medicine and wanted to take his scalp and be done with it. But another brave, for want of a better name Dean labeled him Big Nose, argued they might make something of a white man with eyes like Spring grass. They could trade him off to the Pawnees, maybe. Get a few horses in exchange.
In Dean’s experience, injuns liked to take their time, look at things from every angle before making a decision. These were no different. The argument petered out, then took up again. Instead of scalping him, they tied him up and made camp, hunkering down for a good, long jaw about Dean’s fate. In no apparent hurry, one day led into two without a decision being reached.
They caught a few conies and a snake or two. Threw Dean a haunch as an afterthought. He had to go down on his belly in the dirt to gnaw on it, them ignoring his courteous request to have his hands free.
“You mother-fucking, stinkin’ goddamn varmints, untie me!”
Old Blue Lightning didn’t understand the words, but he got the drift. Dean knew it by the way his cheek swelled up after making violent contact with a moccasined foot.
The smoke from their campfire-Dean reckoned they were far enough away from their destination to allow one-rose in lazy fingers against a backdrop of glittering stars, signaling to any who cared to know, where they were. Dean nodded off in sheer exhaustion the second night.
He was laying on his side just beyond the dying flicker of firelight when he came instantly awake, every sense sharp. The white moon spilled a milky glow over the blanketed forms strewn across the uneven ground. One figure sat upright with a rifle across its knees, but the brave’s head was bowed low. Dean guessed him for a cat nap. He knew from personal experience, that right there led to no good.
The touch of fingers on Dean’s bound wrists made the beat of his heart stutter over itself. The resulting cacophony felt close to a heart attack, at least the way Dean imagined one would. Before he could catch a breath, a massive palm slammed over his mouth, preventing his shout of alarm.
“Quiet.”
Sam’s low voice was the rustle of the wind in Dean’s ears. He lay frozen, breathing in the scent of tobacco and leather from the rough grip curled across his lips. Cold steel slipped between the tangle of rope that cut off Dean’s circulation. His fingers were numb, a combination of the chill night and loss of blood flow.
“Mmph.”
Dean grunted his thanks at the rescue.
“Quiet!”
The hand on Dean’s mouth dropped lower, squeezed the tender curve of his throat, taking the air with it. The eloquence of the gesture wasn’t lost on Dean. He’d save further verbal appreciation until later if Sam was going to be like that.
The ropes parted from his wrists, then ankles. The relief was exquisite. Better even than the last hot bath he’d had on a Saturday night months ago when a visit to a whorehouse loomed pleasantly in his future. That was one hella celebration. He’d taken the biggest pot of his life. Spent it all on painted ladies and booze, a four-star dinner, waking from his spree in a back alley, minus his pants and boots. What Dean wouldn’t give to play that hand again, even if it all came out the same. He’d walked more bow-legged than normal for almost a week.
The solid warmth of Sam’s body pressed along his back returned Dean to his present fuckup. He lay very still, relishing the unexpected feeling of safety that flowed over him from the other man’s presence. They breathed silently in unison for the space of a few minutes. Sam’s hand still rested on Dean’s throat, but now his thumb was making lazy circles on the sensitive skin there, and Dean swallowed hard, a shudder passing down his spine.
Laying so close, he could feel the flare of Sam’s bony hips flat against his backside-and something else there that didn’t need a name. It spoke pretty clearly on its own of desire. Dean knew it well enough without the naming. He closed his eyes and drug in a deep, convulsive breath.
The interlude was over abruptly. A touch at the small of his back signaled Dean to wait. Then Sam was gone, the night breeze denying he’d ever been there. The silent tableaux of sleeping savages lasted and lasted, so long that Dean began to think he’d dreamt Sam. Until the sitting sentry went over on his back with a swiftly muffled sigh.
A long shadow rose up a minute later, drifting among the horses, a shade of black darker than the night, nearly invisible to the eye. There was a slow stirring among the sleepers as the unshod animals were led away, the braves’ senses alert, though their bodies were deep in the dream world. Then all settled back to quiet. The breeze sighed and dipped, rustling through the dry mesquite.
Dean jumped when a massive hand tightened around his elbow to pull him backwards. He rose silently, matching Sam’s stealth. They faded away from the campfire’s dying embers, the wind masking their retreat.
“Belle!” Dean’s low hiss of delight was muffled as he threw his arms around the pinto’s neck. “Thought I’d never see you again.” He turned to face his companion, feeling deeply grateful for Sam’s good deed. “Love you like a brother for saving her, compadre.”
“That so?”
Sam appeared to be a man of few words. Action was more his style. Dean sudden found himself crushed between Belle’s ribs and the tall sheriff. The mare skittered sideways as the two men melded, body fitting to body, hips and thighs jostling for position. Dean gasped and Sam dipped his head quickly to capture the swollen curve of his mouth. It was a swift assault of tongue and lips that tasted of desperation. When he was finally released, the sound of his own panting harsh in ears, Dean could only stare at the dark grin blazing down at him.
“Have you lost your mind?”
“We’ll talk about it later. Right now, we needed to get the hell out of here. Pronto.”
Dean figured Sam had a point, though the lingering taste of hunger on his tongue and along the roof of his mouth made him unsure what it was. It came to him then in a rush. Escape. Right! They swung onto their mounts in unison, Sam riding one of the Comanche horses. Clapping heels to flanks, they tore away into the covering darkness. Behind them, the first undulating shouts of discovery echoed through the barren mesas.
The chill wind flattened along Dean’s flushed cheeks as he rode. His insides had been pummeled, his face beaten purple and black. The place Blue Lightning had kicked him ached right through the bone into his teeth. Despite it all, he felt good, his spirits rising with every flash of Belle’s legs over the rocky ground. Behind them, the Comanch would still be chasing their ponies through the scrub. They’d be too busy until daylight to organize a pursuit. Though one paleface seemed hardly worth the effort to Dean. Still, he knew them for a vengeful lot. Best to put miles between before the sun rose again.
Ahead, Sam was flattened low over his Indian mount, big body riding easily. Not bothering to look behind and make sure Dean was following, he branched off into a narrow canyon that sprang up on their right. The walls rose high above their heads, cutting out the moonlight, surrounding them in nearly impenetrable darkness.
Slowing, the muffled thud of hooves on soft earth floated upward in the thin defile, a steady music that calmed Dean’s fears. They kept going, pushing themselves and the horses. After what felt like days, but was only the space between moon fall and dawn, the sky took on the hue of dove feathers, pale pink merging into faded gray.
The canyon walls eventually spread out, opening into a valley where the earth shone dull sienna and a small stream widened into a snake of pure blue reflecting the morning sky. Cottonwoods trembled along the waterline. Sweet grass grew under their boughs.
Dean pulled Belle to a halt. He had never seen anything so lovely. Shinnying from the mare’s back, he wobbled to the stream and flopped down on his belly, splashing water in his face, tipping handfuls into his mouth. Beside him, Belle’s soft muzzle slurped at the clear liquid.
The crunch of Sam’s boots reached Dean where he lay. Shirt clinging to his skin in a cool sheet, he rolled over onto his back, the hair at the nape of his neck immediately soaked through. He stared blissfully up at the black silhouette blotting out most of the sky.
“Hey.”
“I was gonna kick the shit out of you for stealing my horse when we got where we were going.” The flash of teeth split the darkness of Sam’s face. “Seems them injuns beat me to it. Looks like I’ll have to get you back to prime before I can take my pound of flesh.”
“Fine,” Dean agreed. “Just build your jail ‘round me. I ain’t moving a muscle till kingdom come.”
I found the icon I'm using <------ especially for when I posted this chapter. It's from a painting by Georgia O'Keefe and I love it a lot. It's perfect for the story.
Mmmmm. What else? My new layout picture is by the deliciously talented candygramme. Thank you, sweetheart. You took a gorgeous photo and made it into something dramatic and beautiful. ♥ ♥ ♥
Chapter 3
Dean gulped a mouthful of lukewarm water, blinking tiredly under the glare of the midday sun. He screwed the cap back on the canteen with careful fingers, cracked lips momentarily soothed, his throat working convulsively. The fluid was already leaving his body in streams, patching his shirt to his skin. He missed his hat. Wished he had taken the sheriff’s big black sombrero with the silver conchos circling the crown. Must have cost him a month’s pay at least, and it would have looked far better on Dean anyway-not that it didn’t look good on Sam.
The ache in Dean’s bruised side started up again as he twisted, looping the canteen’s strap over the saddle bags and glancing back the way he’d come. He winced as he straightened, pressing a palm to his tender ribs. Yesterday’s fall in full flight still reverberated through the hollowed bits of his bones.
Thinking of Sam made Dean frown. He scrubbed at his hair in frustration. His mind slipped guiltily around the thought of Sam, side-winding away from admitting just how low-down Dean had sunk.
“Done the man wrong, Belle,” Dean finally acknowledged, rubbing his palm over the saddle horn in contrition.
The mare shook her head, silky mane a waterfall brushing across his fingertips. She didn’t believe him. Dean sighed, stroking the coarse dark feathers. Belle shifted from hoof to hoof, impatient and wanting none of his pathetic justifications. Already, she knew him too well.
There was no denying it. Not that he was trying. He’d acted the dirty scoundrel Sam had called him. Fine. But he weren’t a total shit. Deserved some credit, goddam it. He may have stolen the fella’s horse and left him on foot at the back of beyond, but Dean only took one of the two canteens and half the provisions: a mess of jaw-breakin’ jerky and cold biscuits rolled in a napkin in Sam’s saddlebags.
Dean made a face. “He’s got enough to get him back to somewhere’s civilized. That’s got to count for something, ain’t it?”
Belle whinnied in derision. Gathering up the reins, Dean clucked his tongue grumpily, urging Belle forward with a brisk slap on the rump. If there was a Christian God up there, Dean hoped he’d make Sam chose the road back to Sweetwater. Because if Sam came after him again, Dean would have to kill him.
Should have done it before he left. Taken a rock and bashed Sam’s damned stubborn skull in. Even though imagining it made Dean’s belly roll like he’d drunk too much rotgut and needed to puke. He’d never done for a man before. Hell, he was a lover, not a fighter. But when it came to staying alive, Dean would take what measures were necessary.
He’d lain for a long time, dozing in and out of consciousness under the finger moon, listening to Sam grumble nonsense in his sleep. There was a connection forming between them, tenuous as a filament in a spider web. Dean didn’t like it much. Couldn’t afford to feel anything for Sam if he wanted to stay breathing. And he did.
He made up his mind a few hours before dawn, rolling out of bed cat-stealthy, not a sound to alert the slumbering lawman. After finding the keys to his handcuffs tucked in Sam’s discarded gun belt, Dean led the horses away from camp for about a mile before swinging aboard Belle’s back.
He hadn’t dared to saddle her, the jingle of harness was sure to wake the lawman, and Dean needed to be unencumbered and fast. So no saddle. It wasn’t a problem. Every farm boy could ride bareback. Dean had grown up in Kansas surrounded by corn and wheatfields. He liked the muscled barrel of Belle’s ribs between his thighs. It made him feel like a kid again.
They managed good time, even towing Sam’s big bay behind them. The trail Dean rode would be hard to follow. He stayed mostly on rock and in dried-out creek beds whenever he could, their bottoms thick with flat pebbles polished smooth eons ago. When he was sure he’d looped and double back on his own track enough times to make pursuit unlikely, Dean headed up into the mesquite, letting Sam's horse go, then aiming for the mountains that danced in the distance’s wavering mirage lines.
Come nightfall, high in the foothills, he stopped long enough to make a meal. Dean gnawed on a piece of jerky, trying to pretend he was sinking his teeth into a fat steak, grease slicking his chin. Next town he came to there would be a hot bath and good food-then a poker game to put the jingle back in his pockets. He’d forget Sam Winchester ever existed.
A another quick drink of stale water washed down the dried meat, though the salty taste of it lingered on, leaving Dean’s throat full of dry prickles. After foraging for Belle’s supper, they hit the trail again. Dean swayed tiredly in the saddle, the steady push to put distance between himself and his pursuer a necessity buzzing in his blood and bones.
They rode on through the night into the merciless heat of the day. With no rest, every bruise that painted his skin felt brand new. Dean began to sing, a whisper-soft murmur to keep Belle and himself awake and distract from his abused body. His eyelids felt weighed with lead.
“...and the cowboy who loved you so truuuue.”
He breathed out. His head nodded forward, and he was asleep, deep as an innocent babe. That’s how they caught him, the dirty, sneakin’ savages. Arms hanging loose along Belle’s shoulders, cheek against her neck, the steady movement had lulled Dean like the comfort of a mother’s arms. He was lost in distrubing dreams, maybe drooling a bit, when they came on him in a bewildering howl of noise; ten braves rigged out in war paint and obviously headed for mischief.
The ground came up and slammed the air out of Dean’s lungs before he knew what was happening. A proud, hawk-nosed face painted with slashes of jagged blue loomed into his line of sight, teeth bared, brandishing a knife. The brave shouted at him, a long, guttural snarl that needed no translation.
“Whoa! Whoa!” Dean was talking even before his head cleared. He waved his weaponless hands to show his intentions. No sense going for a gun. Fast as Dean was, he couldn’t out draw a knife at his throat. “I’m a peaceable man. Don’t mean you no harm, friend. And I’m sort of attached to my scalp.” The last came out a yelp when Blue Lightning pressed the blade of his weapon along the crease of Dean’s forehead.
Dean attempted to skitter away. A fist in his hair brought him up short. It hurt like blazing hell, and he gasped out a strangled, “Owww,” before snapping his teeth shut on further comment. It looked as though the cutting was about to commence. Dean hated the injustice of it all. Being dumped off his horse was bad enough, but at least the last time he hadn’t been in danger of parting company with his scalp.
It was clear he’d run across a bunch of Comanch warriors, and now he was going to pay the price for napping when he should have been alert. They were a handsome people. Dean had to give them that. Their ferocity and bravery were legendary from border to border. He bore them no ill will, but he weren’t dying there if he could help it.
This lot was tricked out in full war paint. Not a good sign. Some had black and white painted faces, others wore a pattern of stripes and daubs. There were feathers and beads twined in their crow-wing hair. All of them were terrifying beyond the telling of it. Dean judged them a raiding party, one that couldn’t be bothered with captives. He was in serious trouble.
“Me no savvy,” he gulped, doing his best to look meek and biddable, while his blood beat like a fourth of July parade in his ears.
The brave who had him down stared a storm at Dean under his lowered brows, grip near to ripping the top of Dean’s head off without the aid of a knife. He shook Dean hard, clacking his teeth together, but looked up in inquiry when one of the other savages put a hand on his shoulder. Blue Lightning glanced at his captive uncertainly before releasing him.
Dean breathed a quick sigh of relief at the temporary reprieve. Anything that slowed the progress of that knife blade between his skull and his skin was worth a passel of hallelujahs. He took a tentative wiggle away on his ass when the palaver started up. The other braves soon joined in with much waving of hands and speculative glances thrown Dean’s way. He quieted where he was, not wanting to draw anymore attention to himself, alert to the growing quarrel.
Truthfully, Dean had enough of the language to get by on, and he was adapt at signing. They were arguing over his eyes. It gave him an ugly shiver to hear his body parts dissected in words not fit for the telling.
Old Blue Lightning thought green eyes were bad medicine and wanted to take his scalp and be done with it. But another brave, for want of a better name Dean labeled him Big Nose, argued they might make something of a white man with eyes like Spring grass. They could trade him off to the Pawnees, maybe. Get a few horses in exchange.
In Dean’s experience, injuns liked to take their time, look at things from every angle before making a decision. These were no different. The argument petered out, then took up again. Instead of scalping him, they tied him up and made camp, hunkering down for a good, long jaw about Dean’s fate. In no apparent hurry, one day led into two without a decision being reached.
They caught a few conies and a snake or two. Threw Dean a haunch as an afterthought. He had to go down on his belly in the dirt to gnaw on it, them ignoring his courteous request to have his hands free.
“You mother-fucking, stinkin’ goddamn varmints, untie me!”
Old Blue Lightning didn’t understand the words, but he got the drift. Dean knew it by the way his cheek swelled up after making violent contact with a moccasined foot.
The smoke from their campfire-Dean reckoned they were far enough away from their destination to allow one-rose in lazy fingers against a backdrop of glittering stars, signaling to any who cared to know, where they were. Dean nodded off in sheer exhaustion the second night.
He was laying on his side just beyond the dying flicker of firelight when he came instantly awake, every sense sharp. The white moon spilled a milky glow over the blanketed forms strewn across the uneven ground. One figure sat upright with a rifle across its knees, but the brave’s head was bowed low. Dean guessed him for a cat nap. He knew from personal experience, that right there led to no good.
The touch of fingers on Dean’s bound wrists made the beat of his heart stutter over itself. The resulting cacophony felt close to a heart attack, at least the way Dean imagined one would. Before he could catch a breath, a massive palm slammed over his mouth, preventing his shout of alarm.
“Quiet.”
Sam’s low voice was the rustle of the wind in Dean’s ears. He lay frozen, breathing in the scent of tobacco and leather from the rough grip curled across his lips. Cold steel slipped between the tangle of rope that cut off Dean’s circulation. His fingers were numb, a combination of the chill night and loss of blood flow.
“Mmph.”
Dean grunted his thanks at the rescue.
“Quiet!”
The hand on Dean’s mouth dropped lower, squeezed the tender curve of his throat, taking the air with it. The eloquence of the gesture wasn’t lost on Dean. He’d save further verbal appreciation until later if Sam was going to be like that.
The ropes parted from his wrists, then ankles. The relief was exquisite. Better even than the last hot bath he’d had on a Saturday night months ago when a visit to a whorehouse loomed pleasantly in his future. That was one hella celebration. He’d taken the biggest pot of his life. Spent it all on painted ladies and booze, a four-star dinner, waking from his spree in a back alley, minus his pants and boots. What Dean wouldn’t give to play that hand again, even if it all came out the same. He’d walked more bow-legged than normal for almost a week.
The solid warmth of Sam’s body pressed along his back returned Dean to his present fuckup. He lay very still, relishing the unexpected feeling of safety that flowed over him from the other man’s presence. They breathed silently in unison for the space of a few minutes. Sam’s hand still rested on Dean’s throat, but now his thumb was making lazy circles on the sensitive skin there, and Dean swallowed hard, a shudder passing down his spine.
Laying so close, he could feel the flare of Sam’s bony hips flat against his backside-and something else there that didn’t need a name. It spoke pretty clearly on its own of desire. Dean knew it well enough without the naming. He closed his eyes and drug in a deep, convulsive breath.
The interlude was over abruptly. A touch at the small of his back signaled Dean to wait. Then Sam was gone, the night breeze denying he’d ever been there. The silent tableaux of sleeping savages lasted and lasted, so long that Dean began to think he’d dreamt Sam. Until the sitting sentry went over on his back with a swiftly muffled sigh.
A long shadow rose up a minute later, drifting among the horses, a shade of black darker than the night, nearly invisible to the eye. There was a slow stirring among the sleepers as the unshod animals were led away, the braves’ senses alert, though their bodies were deep in the dream world. Then all settled back to quiet. The breeze sighed and dipped, rustling through the dry mesquite.
Dean jumped when a massive hand tightened around his elbow to pull him backwards. He rose silently, matching Sam’s stealth. They faded away from the campfire’s dying embers, the wind masking their retreat.
“Belle!” Dean’s low hiss of delight was muffled as he threw his arms around the pinto’s neck. “Thought I’d never see you again.” He turned to face his companion, feeling deeply grateful for Sam’s good deed. “Love you like a brother for saving her, compadre.”
“That so?”
Sam appeared to be a man of few words. Action was more his style. Dean sudden found himself crushed between Belle’s ribs and the tall sheriff. The mare skittered sideways as the two men melded, body fitting to body, hips and thighs jostling for position. Dean gasped and Sam dipped his head quickly to capture the swollen curve of his mouth. It was a swift assault of tongue and lips that tasted of desperation. When he was finally released, the sound of his own panting harsh in ears, Dean could only stare at the dark grin blazing down at him.
“Have you lost your mind?”
“We’ll talk about it later. Right now, we needed to get the hell out of here. Pronto.”
Dean figured Sam had a point, though the lingering taste of hunger on his tongue and along the roof of his mouth made him unsure what it was. It came to him then in a rush. Escape. Right! They swung onto their mounts in unison, Sam riding one of the Comanche horses. Clapping heels to flanks, they tore away into the covering darkness. Behind them, the first undulating shouts of discovery echoed through the barren mesas.
The chill wind flattened along Dean’s flushed cheeks as he rode. His insides had been pummeled, his face beaten purple and black. The place Blue Lightning had kicked him ached right through the bone into his teeth. Despite it all, he felt good, his spirits rising with every flash of Belle’s legs over the rocky ground. Behind them, the Comanch would still be chasing their ponies through the scrub. They’d be too busy until daylight to organize a pursuit. Though one paleface seemed hardly worth the effort to Dean. Still, he knew them for a vengeful lot. Best to put miles between before the sun rose again.
Ahead, Sam was flattened low over his Indian mount, big body riding easily. Not bothering to look behind and make sure Dean was following, he branched off into a narrow canyon that sprang up on their right. The walls rose high above their heads, cutting out the moonlight, surrounding them in nearly impenetrable darkness.
Slowing, the muffled thud of hooves on soft earth floated upward in the thin defile, a steady music that calmed Dean’s fears. They kept going, pushing themselves and the horses. After what felt like days, but was only the space between moon fall and dawn, the sky took on the hue of dove feathers, pale pink merging into faded gray.
The canyon walls eventually spread out, opening into a valley where the earth shone dull sienna and a small stream widened into a snake of pure blue reflecting the morning sky. Cottonwoods trembled along the waterline. Sweet grass grew under their boughs.
Dean pulled Belle to a halt. He had never seen anything so lovely. Shinnying from the mare’s back, he wobbled to the stream and flopped down on his belly, splashing water in his face, tipping handfuls into his mouth. Beside him, Belle’s soft muzzle slurped at the clear liquid.
The crunch of Sam’s boots reached Dean where he lay. Shirt clinging to his skin in a cool sheet, he rolled over onto his back, the hair at the nape of his neck immediately soaked through. He stared blissfully up at the black silhouette blotting out most of the sky.
“Hey.”
“I was gonna kick the shit out of you for stealing my horse when we got where we were going.” The flash of teeth split the darkness of Sam’s face. “Seems them injuns beat me to it. Looks like I’ll have to get you back to prime before I can take my pound of flesh.”
“Fine,” Dean agreed. “Just build your jail ‘round me. I ain’t moving a muscle till kingdom come.”