Put Away Wet - part 1 Cowboy!fic
Title: Put Away Wet
Author: Saberivojo
Rating: Gen, PG 13 for potty language, h/c
Characters: Cowboy!Dean, Bobby
Disclaimer: I own nothing just like playing with the boys
For roque_clasique on the occasion of her birth. Betad by the talented pdragon76 .
Prompt: Wild West AU!! Dean is a cowboy with a bad leg (SURPRISE!!!), and he's most comfortable on a horse, since he can't walk all that well. He's a rockin' rider despite the leg, and he and his shiny black horse have a very special relationship. Sam left the family ranch in order to go to school in the city, but when John goes missing, Dean has to get off his horse and go after his brother.
***
Dean never understands why Pa is such a damn prick. But he can be and it never really seems to bother him if Sam - or Dean for that matter- cares about his attitude. He is John fucking Winchester and what he says goes.
Period.
He rules the Rocking W with an iron fist and an even tighter rein.
Every ranch hand knows it. Every man, woman and child between here and town knows it. It is what it is.
But despite him being a dick and a pain in the ass, he is fair and honest. He has made this Texas hole-in-the-wall into a thriving cattle ranch with a side order of quarter horses that are the fastest in the territory, bred with more cow sense than a damn heifer. So yeah, Pa irritates the shit out of him routinely, but Dean can’t fault his take-no-prisoners approach to just about everything.
It works. Usually.
Pa doesn’t believe in discussing much with Dean. He keeps business close to the vest, and Dean is okay with that. Dean handles the horses; Pa handles the overall operation and Sam? Well, Sam is off at school. College boy.
Dean rethinks Sam’s leaving. Pa had almost shit a brick over that one. Sam had grown a pair of bull-sized cajones, walked out on Pa, slammed the door and headed east.
Sam was just eighteen, and John Winchester had never had a problem walloping the hell out of either boy, so Dean was shocked when Pa let him go. But he did. Sam was gone, and John Winchester would never admit he was wrong, so life on the Rocking W went on.
Dean sits by the window, drags a hand over his face. Well, life might be going on but that sure ain’t saying much. Now not only is Sammy gone, but Pa is gone too. Mr. “Don’t-Worry-About-What-I’m-Doing-Just-Do-What-I-Tell-You-To-Do” has been gone for two weeks. Two weeks without a word to anyone. Just up and left.
Typical. Except not really. Because Pa is a sonofabitch at times, but he doesn’t just leave without a note, or a plan or something. Pa has a business to run and a job to do. Walkin’ out on the job ain’t likely. Not for his father.
Dean grabs the cane that is always at his side and pulls his right leg out from under the table. He runs a hand down his leg. It hurts. It always hurts, but he gave up downing morphine years ago. He leans heavily on his cane, takes a deep breath and steps toward the front door.
Bobby is leading Mac up to the porch. Dean really doesn’t like folks messing with his horse, but Bobby has been the foreman at the Rocking W all of Dean’s life. He knows Mac and he knows Dean.
Bobby tips his hat back, glares hard at Dean from under the rim.
“You sure about this, boy?”
Dean offers the older man a slow smile.
“Sure ‘nuff. He’s out there somewhere, Bobby and I gotta find him.”
Mac tosses his head and pulls the reins from Bobby’s hands, then takes a step toward Dean. The stallion blows through his nose, huffing his breath into Dean’s neck. Dean gives him a rub.
“At least lemme go with ya."
Dean shakes his head. “No, Bobby, we need you here. This place would fall apart without you.”
“It’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. You shouldn’t be heading out alone.”
Dean trusts and respects Bobby and even though Dean is the boss’ son he would never pull that card, so he does the second best thing he can think of.
“I won’t be alone, I’ll be with Sam.”
Bobby chuffs low. “You think you’re gonna get your brother to come back here to look for your daddy?” Bobby spits then, hits the ground with a slug of chew.
But Dean just grins. He grabs the saddle horn and puts his left boot in the stirrup and swings his right leg over the saddle. It isn’t elegant - never is- but Mac stands quietly until Dean gets his leg braced into the right stirrup. Once he settles in the saddle, Mac dances a bit; his neck arches and he paws the ground excitedly. It is all bluff. Mac is just anxious to go.
Dean lifts the reins and nods to Bobby. Bobby hands him his cane, and Dean slides it into the modified rifle scabbard that was specially made for him. Just because he is riding Mac now, it didn’t mean he won’t need to get down sometime.
“He’ll come Bobby. If I ask him, he’ll come.”
Dean turns the big stallion around his good leg, executing a perfect spin. Then they effortlessly move out at a ground-eating lope.
**
The closest town isn’t much. But it has a telegraph and that is the first place Dean heads.
Dean walks Mac to the hitching post in front of the post office. He shifts his weight in the saddle; Mac eases his hindquarters over, a simple leg yield that leaves Dean in perfect position to dismount.
Dragging his bad leg over the saddle after a long ride is a bitch. He grabs the leg and physically man handles it over the cantle and bedroll. Then with all weight on his left leg he braces his arms against the saddle and slowly lowers himself to the ground.
Once on the ground Dean balances his weight against the big black. He takes deep a breath of horse, leather and sweat, then leans heavily on Mac. He grabs a handful of mane, re-orients himself, and then pivots to the cane. This is regroup time. Dean braces himself on Mac, breathing hard through his nose. His leg protests the change from rider to walker, the dull ache spiking to fucking shitshitshit. He pats the horse, turns then with a sharp breath and takes a step.
Step, hitch, breath. Step, hitch, breath. But Dean straightens himself out, squares his shoulders and makes his way to the telegraph office.
The message to Sam is short.
Pa’s gone missing Stop I need your help Stop Meet me in New York Stop.
The problem is it’s a three-day ride to meet a train. Dean palms his cane, takes another deep breath and makes his way back to Mac.
Three days and he’ll be on his way to Sam.
***
The night before they hit the train station, Dean sits by the fire. He leans back against the saddle and bedroll thinking about Sam. Damn kid. Fuckin’ college boy. But he smiles into the flames. He wishes Sam were here now - that, and for a cup of coffee.
He checks his handgun, makes sure the rifle is within reach. His Pa didn’t raise a dumb kid and there is no one here but him and Mac. No one to depend on, but no one he needs to watch out for either.
With Pa gone, well it seems harder somehow. Or easier, he isn’t sure. There is the sound of hoof on rock and Mac bangs him sharply with his head, demanding a rub.
“You’re a pushy bitch, eh?”
Then because no one can hear him anyway. “Ahh, who’s my baby.”
Dean falls asleep to the quiet sound of Mac nibbling on grass.
***
The town is big compared to what Dean is used to. Mac seems to think so too. The stallion jigs his way into town, shaking his head and jingling his bit.
“Easy, Mac.”
The black settles to a walk, steps out confidently, ears forward. But he offers a heavy snort when a woman with a pram pushes her baby across the dirt street.
Dean can feel the horse tense under him, muscles coiling. Mac is all forward energy, a moment away from vertical, but Dean reaches down and soothes the sweaty neck. He lets his weight and voice calm the horse. Mac blows one more time then moves off when Dean asks.
“Atta boy.”
It doesn’t take long to find the train station; it is the reason this town was built. The dismount is even worse than usual. Three days of hard riding has put Dean in a world of hurt. He grimaces; it’s not the riding but hitting ground afterward that takes his breath away. It makes him rethink morphine usage, makes him grab for the flask he keeps in his vest. His right leg trembles with effort as he pulls his cane from in front of the saddlebag. If he wasn’t hurting so bad he would take Mac to the livery. Right now, it is all he can do to make his way into the station.
The attendant peers at him through his glasses, carefully watching his progress through the small station.
“You okay there, son?”
Dean just can’t deal with good intentions. Not now.
“’M’ fine.” It grinds out like broken glass.
Maybe the guy has seen worse, maybe not, but it shuts him up. Dean buys the ticket then lurches back to Mac. The stallion whickers softly when he approaches. He sounds like home.
Dean mounts back up and walks Mac to the livery. He gets him settled. Feeds him a flake of hay and a handful of grain. The stallion noses him out of the way, Dean temporarily forgotten with the promise of sweet feed.
“Smart ass.”
Dean hears a chuckle from the corner of the barn. A boy, younger than Sam, steps out of the shadows. He reminds him of his brother at fifteen, all angles and legs. The kid nods to Dean, then at Mac.
“Sure is a fine lookin’ horse, mister.”
Dean leans up against the barn stall, shifts his weight to his left leg.
“Yeah, he is. You work here?"
“Yes, sir.” The boy smiles at Dean but his eyes are all over Mac. Like the horse is Jesus’ second coming. Dean recognizes the look.
“What’s your name?”
“Caleb, my pa owns the place.”
Dean takes a quick look around. The barn is clean, the stalls heavily bedded. He’s already checked the hay, and Lord knows that Mac seems to like it. There’s a bucket of fresh water in every stall. It’s obvious the kid cares about this barn and the horses in it.
It’s a good place.
“You ride?” The boy looks at Dean like maybe he is addled, gestures with a nod of his head at the barn full of horses but he is too respectful to make a stink about it.
“Yes, sir.”
“Ya wanna job?”
The kid quirks an eyebrow in his direction. “Probly so. Whatcha need?”
Dean gestures to Mac.
“Take care of him for me. Keep him fit and happy. Turn him out some; ride him if you’ve a mind to. He’ll listen fine but he can be a handful sometimes. He’s a stud, so keep him away from the girls unless you are lookin’ for a foal in eleven months.”
Dean peels off a wad of money. Hands it to the boy. It is probably more than the kid has ever seen in his life.
“You watch him, boy. I’ll be back. Not sure exactly when, but make sure Mac there is taken care of and you’ll get more when I come back. Can you do that for me?”
The boy looks shocked. At the money and at the stallion but more importantly, at Dean.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll hold you to it, kid. I come back and Mac here ain’t as happy as a pig in mud and I will kick your sorry ass into next week.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dean hands him the address to the ranch. It’s got Bobby’s name on it and the local telegraph.
“You run into any problems, you call Bobby Singer. I’ll be in touch.”
Mac has popped his head over the stall and roughly bumps Dean. Dean gives him a final scratch to the forehead.
“My name’s Dean. Dean Winchester.”
Dean steps out of the darkened barn and into the street. He moves awkwardly toward the train station, his cane more than one kind of crutch.
saberivojo.livejournal.com/27860.html#cutid1 Part 2 Finding Sam
Author: Saberivojo
Rating: Gen, PG 13 for potty language, h/c
Characters: Cowboy!Dean, Bobby
Disclaimer: I own nothing just like playing with the boys
For roque_clasique on the occasion of her birth. Betad by the talented pdragon76 .
Prompt: Wild West AU!! Dean is a cowboy with a bad leg (SURPRISE!!!), and he's most comfortable on a horse, since he can't walk all that well. He's a rockin' rider despite the leg, and he and his shiny black horse have a very special relationship. Sam left the family ranch in order to go to school in the city, but when John goes missing, Dean has to get off his horse and go after his brother.
***
Dean never understands why Pa is such a damn prick. But he can be and it never really seems to bother him if Sam - or Dean for that matter- cares about his attitude. He is John fucking Winchester and what he says goes.
Period.
He rules the Rocking W with an iron fist and an even tighter rein.
Every ranch hand knows it. Every man, woman and child between here and town knows it. It is what it is.
But despite him being a dick and a pain in the ass, he is fair and honest. He has made this Texas hole-in-the-wall into a thriving cattle ranch with a side order of quarter horses that are the fastest in the territory, bred with more cow sense than a damn heifer. So yeah, Pa irritates the shit out of him routinely, but Dean can’t fault his take-no-prisoners approach to just about everything.
It works. Usually.
Pa doesn’t believe in discussing much with Dean. He keeps business close to the vest, and Dean is okay with that. Dean handles the horses; Pa handles the overall operation and Sam? Well, Sam is off at school. College boy.
Dean rethinks Sam’s leaving. Pa had almost shit a brick over that one. Sam had grown a pair of bull-sized cajones, walked out on Pa, slammed the door and headed east.
Sam was just eighteen, and John Winchester had never had a problem walloping the hell out of either boy, so Dean was shocked when Pa let him go. But he did. Sam was gone, and John Winchester would never admit he was wrong, so life on the Rocking W went on.
Dean sits by the window, drags a hand over his face. Well, life might be going on but that sure ain’t saying much. Now not only is Sammy gone, but Pa is gone too. Mr. “Don’t-Worry-About-What-I’m-Doing-Just-Do-What-I-Tell-You-To-Do” has been gone for two weeks. Two weeks without a word to anyone. Just up and left.
Typical. Except not really. Because Pa is a sonofabitch at times, but he doesn’t just leave without a note, or a plan or something. Pa has a business to run and a job to do. Walkin’ out on the job ain’t likely. Not for his father.
Dean grabs the cane that is always at his side and pulls his right leg out from under the table. He runs a hand down his leg. It hurts. It always hurts, but he gave up downing morphine years ago. He leans heavily on his cane, takes a deep breath and steps toward the front door.
Bobby is leading Mac up to the porch. Dean really doesn’t like folks messing with his horse, but Bobby has been the foreman at the Rocking W all of Dean’s life. He knows Mac and he knows Dean.
Bobby tips his hat back, glares hard at Dean from under the rim.
“You sure about this, boy?”
Dean offers the older man a slow smile.
“Sure ‘nuff. He’s out there somewhere, Bobby and I gotta find him.”
Mac tosses his head and pulls the reins from Bobby’s hands, then takes a step toward Dean. The stallion blows through his nose, huffing his breath into Dean’s neck. Dean gives him a rub.
“At least lemme go with ya."
Dean shakes his head. “No, Bobby, we need you here. This place would fall apart without you.”
“It’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. You shouldn’t be heading out alone.”
Dean trusts and respects Bobby and even though Dean is the boss’ son he would never pull that card, so he does the second best thing he can think of.
“I won’t be alone, I’ll be with Sam.”
Bobby chuffs low. “You think you’re gonna get your brother to come back here to look for your daddy?” Bobby spits then, hits the ground with a slug of chew.
But Dean just grins. He grabs the saddle horn and puts his left boot in the stirrup and swings his right leg over the saddle. It isn’t elegant - never is- but Mac stands quietly until Dean gets his leg braced into the right stirrup. Once he settles in the saddle, Mac dances a bit; his neck arches and he paws the ground excitedly. It is all bluff. Mac is just anxious to go.
Dean lifts the reins and nods to Bobby. Bobby hands him his cane, and Dean slides it into the modified rifle scabbard that was specially made for him. Just because he is riding Mac now, it didn’t mean he won’t need to get down sometime.
“He’ll come Bobby. If I ask him, he’ll come.”
Dean turns the big stallion around his good leg, executing a perfect spin. Then they effortlessly move out at a ground-eating lope.
**
The closest town isn’t much. But it has a telegraph and that is the first place Dean heads.
Dean walks Mac to the hitching post in front of the post office. He shifts his weight in the saddle; Mac eases his hindquarters over, a simple leg yield that leaves Dean in perfect position to dismount.
Dragging his bad leg over the saddle after a long ride is a bitch. He grabs the leg and physically man handles it over the cantle and bedroll. Then with all weight on his left leg he braces his arms against the saddle and slowly lowers himself to the ground.
Once on the ground Dean balances his weight against the big black. He takes deep a breath of horse, leather and sweat, then leans heavily on Mac. He grabs a handful of mane, re-orients himself, and then pivots to the cane. This is regroup time. Dean braces himself on Mac, breathing hard through his nose. His leg protests the change from rider to walker, the dull ache spiking to fucking shitshitshit. He pats the horse, turns then with a sharp breath and takes a step.
Step, hitch, breath. Step, hitch, breath. But Dean straightens himself out, squares his shoulders and makes his way to the telegraph office.
The message to Sam is short.
Pa’s gone missing Stop I need your help Stop Meet me in New York Stop.
The problem is it’s a three-day ride to meet a train. Dean palms his cane, takes another deep breath and makes his way back to Mac.
Three days and he’ll be on his way to Sam.
***
The night before they hit the train station, Dean sits by the fire. He leans back against the saddle and bedroll thinking about Sam. Damn kid. Fuckin’ college boy. But he smiles into the flames. He wishes Sam were here now - that, and for a cup of coffee.
He checks his handgun, makes sure the rifle is within reach. His Pa didn’t raise a dumb kid and there is no one here but him and Mac. No one to depend on, but no one he needs to watch out for either.
With Pa gone, well it seems harder somehow. Or easier, he isn’t sure. There is the sound of hoof on rock and Mac bangs him sharply with his head, demanding a rub.
“You’re a pushy bitch, eh?”
Then because no one can hear him anyway. “Ahh, who’s my baby.”
Dean falls asleep to the quiet sound of Mac nibbling on grass.
***
The town is big compared to what Dean is used to. Mac seems to think so too. The stallion jigs his way into town, shaking his head and jingling his bit.
“Easy, Mac.”
The black settles to a walk, steps out confidently, ears forward. But he offers a heavy snort when a woman with a pram pushes her baby across the dirt street.
Dean can feel the horse tense under him, muscles coiling. Mac is all forward energy, a moment away from vertical, but Dean reaches down and soothes the sweaty neck. He lets his weight and voice calm the horse. Mac blows one more time then moves off when Dean asks.
“Atta boy.”
It doesn’t take long to find the train station; it is the reason this town was built. The dismount is even worse than usual. Three days of hard riding has put Dean in a world of hurt. He grimaces; it’s not the riding but hitting ground afterward that takes his breath away. It makes him rethink morphine usage, makes him grab for the flask he keeps in his vest. His right leg trembles with effort as he pulls his cane from in front of the saddlebag. If he wasn’t hurting so bad he would take Mac to the livery. Right now, it is all he can do to make his way into the station.
The attendant peers at him through his glasses, carefully watching his progress through the small station.
“You okay there, son?”
Dean just can’t deal with good intentions. Not now.
“’M’ fine.” It grinds out like broken glass.
Maybe the guy has seen worse, maybe not, but it shuts him up. Dean buys the ticket then lurches back to Mac. The stallion whickers softly when he approaches. He sounds like home.
Dean mounts back up and walks Mac to the livery. He gets him settled. Feeds him a flake of hay and a handful of grain. The stallion noses him out of the way, Dean temporarily forgotten with the promise of sweet feed.
“Smart ass.”
Dean hears a chuckle from the corner of the barn. A boy, younger than Sam, steps out of the shadows. He reminds him of his brother at fifteen, all angles and legs. The kid nods to Dean, then at Mac.
“Sure is a fine lookin’ horse, mister.”
Dean leans up against the barn stall, shifts his weight to his left leg.
“Yeah, he is. You work here?"
“Yes, sir.” The boy smiles at Dean but his eyes are all over Mac. Like the horse is Jesus’ second coming. Dean recognizes the look.
“What’s your name?”
“Caleb, my pa owns the place.”
Dean takes a quick look around. The barn is clean, the stalls heavily bedded. He’s already checked the hay, and Lord knows that Mac seems to like it. There’s a bucket of fresh water in every stall. It’s obvious the kid cares about this barn and the horses in it.
It’s a good place.
“You ride?” The boy looks at Dean like maybe he is addled, gestures with a nod of his head at the barn full of horses but he is too respectful to make a stink about it.
“Yes, sir.”
“Ya wanna job?”
The kid quirks an eyebrow in his direction. “Probly so. Whatcha need?”
Dean gestures to Mac.
“Take care of him for me. Keep him fit and happy. Turn him out some; ride him if you’ve a mind to. He’ll listen fine but he can be a handful sometimes. He’s a stud, so keep him away from the girls unless you are lookin’ for a foal in eleven months.”
Dean peels off a wad of money. Hands it to the boy. It is probably more than the kid has ever seen in his life.
“You watch him, boy. I’ll be back. Not sure exactly when, but make sure Mac there is taken care of and you’ll get more when I come back. Can you do that for me?”
The boy looks shocked. At the money and at the stallion but more importantly, at Dean.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll hold you to it, kid. I come back and Mac here ain’t as happy as a pig in mud and I will kick your sorry ass into next week.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dean hands him the address to the ranch. It’s got Bobby’s name on it and the local telegraph.
“You run into any problems, you call Bobby Singer. I’ll be in touch.”
Mac has popped his head over the stall and roughly bumps Dean. Dean gives him a final scratch to the forehead.
“My name’s Dean. Dean Winchester.”
Dean steps out of the darkened barn and into the street. He moves awkwardly toward the train station, his cane more than one kind of crutch.
saberivojo.livejournal.com/27860.html#cutid1 Part 2 Finding Sam