Fic: Promised Land for xaara
Type of Submission: Fiction
Title: Promised Land
Author: nyoka
Recipient: xaara
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: Future!fic. Written to the prompt: "You ain't no kind of man if you ain't got land." Sam & Dean settled somewhere far away from other people. Thank you E for the beta. ~3,800 words.
Summary: It's been fifteen years since Dean and Sam first settled in the lush pasturelands of Montana, and some days Dean is still amazed they ended up here.
:::
On the last Thursday in October, with winter blowing its first cool breath over the land, Dean Winchester wakes with the sunrise, feeling the sort of peace he's only really begun to know during the last few years of his life. He stands for a while on the edge of his front porch, steaming cup of coffee in hand, watching the sunlight spill across the hilltop pastures. The land is changing its textures, its designs, and every morning Dean notices the new sharp, bold colors of the surrounding hills and valleys, thick with the reds, browns, and yellows of autumn.
In the sky there's just a smudge of pink clouds, and the day looks like it will be a clear one, bright and warm despite the chill in the morning air. A wind is sweeping down from the mountains, breaking heavy against the old farmhouse, shaking and scattering the fallen leaves, and trembling the branches of the neighboring trees. When the breeze brushes against Dean's face, he breathes in the crisp mountain air, before turning to look at his watch, thinking about all the work that he needs to get done around the homestead this morning.
It's been fifteen years since Dean and Sam first settled in the lush pasturelands of Montana, and some days Dean is still amazed they ended up here. Their property encompasses about a hundred acres couched in the foothills of the Big Belt Mountains, not far from the banks of the Missouri. Life in this quiet vastness is a far cry from the life of constant motion they grew up with on the road: asphalt has been replaced by sage grass, motel rooms by a small, white farmhouse. Everything here is so still, like time itself has paused to take a deep breath, to contemplate itself.
There's a simplicity here as well, a kind of peace Dean's mind and body took a while to adjust to. Going from hunting ghosts to hunting elk and deer wasn't the most natural of transitions. Sometimes Dean wonders what John would think about his two boys finally settled in one place, living off and for the land, far from the road, and waking up every day in their own little house on the prairie. Sam once said they were made for this place, to tame all this rugged land and wild horseflesh, to be covered in dirt, dust, and sweat, their bodies going brown in the hot sun.
Most days Dean and Sam see few other people, especially in the winter months. They go into town only when they need to restock on supplies, but they rely mostly on deliveries. They live off the land, off the grid, running the homestead on a system of solar power and generators, and in the winter heating the house with a propane heater and a large woodstove.
The Calloways are their closest neighbors to the north. They own a small quarter-horse ranch, and thousands of acres of grassland where cattle graze in the hills and horses run wild in the pastures. On occasion, Dean and Sam help the family with their cattle drives, rounding up the cattle and moving the herds into fresh grazing lands. During the summers, they also assist the family in running the studs at the ranch and pasture breeding the mares. They usually put the yearlings, along with the foaling mares and their colts, out to pasture during the fall.
A couple of times a year Dean and Sam get hunters passing through their place, having found their way to their front door though the word-of-mouth gossip on the hunters' grapevine. Even though the Winchesters have retired, they still offer sanctuary to any hunters in need, and a place for hunters to research information in their attic-turned-library, which contains all the old grimoires, books, and ancient texts Sam inherited from Bobby after his passing.
Mostly, these days it's just Dean, Sam, and the land. For Dean, this is more than he ever imagined he'd end up with.
:::
Dean works his way down to the barn, following the worn, zigzag path from the farmhouse that winds past the corrals, the paddocks, and the small coop where they keep a few hens. Their two-story barn is a large structure, with high hayloft windows and thick wooden rafters. Its dusty, shadowed interior smells like a mix of oiled leather, horsehide, and feed, a combination of straw, timothy hay, oats, and molasses. Walking through the stable area always brings to mind the long , hot summer months he and Sam spent fixing the barn up after deciding they wanted to raise a few horses.
The row of box stalls currently holds about eight of those horses. A couple are still dozing, but several are peeping their heads through the shutters, their ears twitching as they listen to the rhythmic clicking of Dean's bootheels over the earthen floorboards. Dean pauses first at Zeppelin's stall, smiles when she pokes her muzzle toward him, looking for a treat. He scratches behind the mare's ears, whispers, "How's my girl doing this morning?"
She flicks her ears, nickers softly. Dean strokes behind her ears again and runs his hand up and down her long neck as he listens to her heavy breathing. Zep's his favorite, although Sam claims the real reason Dean bought her was because she reminded him of the Impala. Dean had laughed at the time, but he suspects maybe Sam was onto something. Zep is big and classic after all, with a sleek, black shine, and beautiful curves and lines. She's an old girl too, but she runs fast as anything. Not a day goes by that Dean doesn't miss the Impala, but when he's riding Zep, it's the closest he's ever felt to driving his girl again.
Dear pours Zep's oats first and assures her that he'll be back to brush her down soon. Her dark eyes follow him as he visits her neighbors, a small bay mare named Winnie, and Colt, Sam's favorite gelding, a giant, buff chestnut that fits his little brother's overly-large frame perfectly. While Dean lays down all the feed, the horses whicker noisily for his attention, and he clucks his tongue and pats their noses to quiet them. He plans to run them all through their paces later, but he'll spend most of the early morning in the stables, grooming the horses and mucking out the stalls.
Dean works on Zep first, untangling her mane, calming and soothing her with words and touch. He brushes her down with a rubber curry comb, circling into the soft down of her thick, black coat. He then rubs her down with a sheepskin mitt until she gleams. Dean's got an itch to ride her, and he eyes his leather saddle with a wistful sigh. Later, definitely. He'll see if Sam wants to head up to the mountains tonight, maybe spend a couple of days there before the nights get too cool.
:::
After chores are done, Dean heads back to the farmhouse and showers with their thick, homemade soap, washing the dirt and scent of horsehide from his rough skin. When he looks at himself in the mirror, he runs a hand through his short, tawny beard, chuckling at the few new strands of grey sneaking in. More often than not these days he looks in the mirror and sees Dad staring back at him. It's strange to think he's the same age now that John was when he died.
It's not that Dean minds aging, even though Sam likes to call him 'old man' just to mess with him. Some days Dean's body aches with the salty truth of time's passage. Old aches and pains make themselves known more than they used to; an old knee injury cramps with the coming rain, and his joints lock up when he rides too long, too hard. They are all the inevitable result of a life spent getting tossed and thrown - too many broken bones that were never set right, and long arms and longer legs bent up in the interior of a classic car for too many hours in a day.
Dean can't complain; he's lived a long life, longer than he probably should have, on earth and in hell and everywhere in between. These days he knows that the miles ahead are far shorter than the ones he's already traveled, and there's a strange, sad comfort in knowing that this is the last stretch of the journey.
Freshly showered, and dressed in a flannel shirt and worn jeans, Dean heads downstairs and finds Sam in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove. The rich smells of a late breakfast - biscuits, bacon, coffee, and eggs - fill the air and make his mouth water.
"Hungry?" Sam asks without looking up from what he's stirring. "Food's about ready. There's fresh coffee on the counter."
"Thanks, Sammy," Dean says, grabbing a coffee cup from the dish rack.
The coffee is dark and rich, and Dean breathes in the steam rising off its surface. He sweetens the brew with a little sugar, and sips it quietly as he takes a seat at the small kitchen table. "Did you go into town this morning?" he asks.
"Yep," Sam says, nodding as he moves towards the counter, grabbing two bowls from the cupboard. "Got a few supplies. More feed. Saw Ben Crowder at the general store. Turns out he's got a grey we might be interested in buying from him."
Dean nods, watching Sam spoon oatmeal into the two bowls. Sam places the bowls down on the table, before bringing the other dishes of food out and taking a seat across from Dean. It took years of Dean's patient tutelage, but Sammy finally learned how to cook a decent meal, and Dean couldn't be prouder.
"Zep wants to go riding tonight," Dean comments as he piles food onto his plate and starts digging in.
"Does she now?" Sam asks, eyebrows quirked.
"That she does," Dean grins, shoving a piece of biscuit into his mouth and chewing around a smile.
"Then we better take her out tonight," Sam laughs softly, scratching at the thick, dark beard covering his chin. These days Sam lets his hair grow long, wild and untamed, much like the land he loves.
Looking at Sam now, it's hard for Dean to picture the short, snotty-nosed little boy he used to make tomato soup for when he caught a winter cold. The boy who used to put his small hands in Dean's own when walking to first grade. The boy who use to sneak into Dean's bed at night, too afraid of the dark.
Dean smiles, remembering the first time they passed through Montana. They stayed with an old marine buddy of Dad's in a little mountain town called Chesterfield. Dean had to be about fourteen or fifteen that summer; he remembers how Sam followed after him on stubby legs, chasing him through the tree-thick valley, wrestling him down to the forest floor until they were both covered in dirt and leaves. That had been a good summer, full of blue skies and bright suns, long days spent swimming in the river whenever it got too hot.
When Dean closes his eyes, it's almost as if no time has passed. He can picture Sam reading his X-Men comics on the porch, while Dean himself tinkered with the car; he remembers listening to the steady sound of Dad's heavy boots hitting the wooden floorboards as he paced around the living room. Even now, more than a quarter of a century later, Dean still expects Dad to come bursting through the front door at any moment, telling them to get some training in before the sun sets, and to pack up everything tonight because they're hitting the road in the morning, tracking a witch coven in Biloxi.
Watching Sam now, Dean can still see hints of the same boy he guarded so carefully all his life. But Dean also sees a man, much older and wiser, who's learned to channel his emotions into the land around him, who's learned to be still and quiet with himself, who's learned a special kind of peace in this place.
There are some things Dean and Sam still don't talk about too much. Dean suspects parts of them will never stop dreaming about the things they've hunted and the people they've lost. There will always be long nights spent remembering their experiences in hell, thinking about what their actions did to the world, did to each other. But through the fog of memory, their years on the road - their years as hunters - seem so long ago. All that remains are snapshots of lives led under a soldier's burden, sepia-toned images of those saved and lost, monochromatic stills of the endless miles they travelled and all the people and places they left behind.
:::
These days Dean is a man of habit and ritual. He always drinks his first cup of morning coffee black, his second cup with two sugars. He checks the salts and wards around the house at the same time every morning and every night. When he rides he always wears his same pair of lucky denims, his favorite dark, mud-crusted boots, and the soft brimmed hat he bought off an old cowboy in Missoula a few years back.
When Dean sets out with Sam in the late evening, the sun has already dipped low onto the mountain-rimmed horizon; a blue-black night waits to break through. They top the rise together, looking out over their property. From the hilltop, they have a panoramic view of the river valley, the surrounding mountain ranges, the fields of soft waving grass, and the sloping meadows.
Dean's riding Zeppelin, and Sam's on Colt; together they wind their way across the northern plains, following the small creek that meanders through their property. As they settle the horses into a steady walk, Dean stares off into the distance, imagines he can see wild horses running free in the high grasslands; some days he dreams of running beside them.
As they ride, the day melts down and the light falls away. The early night is moist and thick, heavy with the scent of damp grass, pine, and juniper. When they reach the eastern boundary of their land, they move the horses into a steady lope, cutting through the vast meadows. In the distance Dean can make out the fading sky and the darkening rocky terrain of the foothills sprawled beneath it, the miles of sage brush, pasture, cedar trees, and yucca in all directions. Snow already covers the high mountain peaks, a promise of the coming winter.
Dean feeds Zep a little more rein, clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and urging her into a slower trot as they near one of their favorite campsites, a moonlit clearing near a small brook, surrounded by groves of tall pine and aspen.
"Race you there," Sam says, tugging at Colt's reins and nudging his heels into the chestnut's flank. The tall gelding snorts and dances underneath him, ready for the sprint.
"Hell yeah," Dean smirks, leaning forward and patting Zep's neck. Dean stretches his legs in the stirrups and shifts in his saddle, loosening his hold on the reins before urging the horse forward.
"Let's go," Sam shouts, his horse kicking up dust and rocks as he shoots past Dean. Colt's hooves resound like thunder as they beat against the dry earth. Dean laughs, clicks to Zep, and sends her bounding after them, flying past the thick patch of trees that line the final mile before the clearing.
Racing through the grasslands on horseback is a vastly different experience to racing down the smooth asphalt of the road in a classic car. When he's riding, Dean loses himself to the sheer power and freedom of the act itself. There's nothing quite like the feel of Zeppelin moving underneath him, so alive and powerful; there's nothing like the feel of the mount's coiling and straining muscles, the forceful pounding of her legs hitting the earth below.
With a final burst of speed, they move through the wide stretch of meadowland and sprint the short distance to the center of the clearing. Arriving at their destination, Dean and Sam pause side-by-side on their dancing mounts, breathing hard, feeling all-over euphoric. They take in the small, snake-curved brook and the soft gurgling of the clear water bubbling over the rocks.
Dean's tired, but he feels good. When he dismounts, Zep snorts, nostrils flaring as she begins to cool down. Dean pats her neck softly, whispers, "That's my girl." He leads her to the water, lets her drink her fill, and watches as Sam does the same with Colt.
Dean kneels down by the brook, lifting his cowboy hat to mop his sweaty forehead with his shirtsleeve. He then washes his hands in the cool brook and splashes some of the water on his face before pulling his hands out and letting the drops fall from his fingers. Sam hands him a canteen of fresh water and Dean drinks until his own thirst is quenched, and then stands up to look at their surroundings.
They're in the middle of nowhere, but it feels like a lit bit of everywhere. Out here the world is wider, and the land goes far in all directions. Dean can almost imagine there's no end to it, can't imagine anything else in the world but this.
They set up camp, reusing one of their old fire-pits to build the campfire. While Dean secures the horses, Sam fetches kindling and dry wood to feed the flames. When they get the fire going, they sit on the spare logs circling the ring, huddling close to fend off the night chill. They share a bottle of Jack Daniel's and talk about some of the sights they saw on their way up the trail.
They both smell of musky sweat and sweet grass, horse and saddle leather, scents Dean's come to closely associate with their quiet life in Montana. It's strange to think it's just the two of them up here on this mountain, so far from the machinery of the world. These days everything in their life is stripped down to the elements. All the objects of their world can be outlined by the night sky - fire, tree, mountain, horse, brother.
Dean takes another long swig of whiskey, enjoys the heat of it moving down his throat. Sam stands up and heads to the other side of the fire, where he unpacks their supper supplies: a few cans of beans, potatoes, fried okra, and instant coffee. While Sam heats up the food, Dean tosses sticks on the fire, watches the flames leap and throw sparks against the sky.
Sam talks as he cooks, about some of the projects he wants to complete around the farm. An affectionate smile lights his face as he spins stories about the students in the online course he's teaching. They both talk a little about the books they're reading and highlight some of the craziest stories they heard on the latest news broadcast. Dean finishes his beans as they begin to talk about past hunts, and for a while it's like they're spinning fanciful campfire stories about vengeful spirits and haunted houses. Tonight is so similar, yet so different, from the array of chilly nights they spent out in the wilds of nature hunting werebeasts and yetis. Another lifetime ago.
As the fire burns down to embers, they both lean back on their elbows to watch the sky. This is big sky country and never has a name been more apt. The stars are thick and bright overhead, and it brings Dean back to the days spent camping outside with Sam and Dad when they couldn't afford a motel for the night. Dean remembers how he and Sam used to make up names and stories for the constellations before Bobby sat them down one summer night and properly taught them how to travel by the stars.
As night falls heavy around them, they're quiet together, lost in thoughts and memories. Dean wants to bring up the hunt at that haunted dude ranch outside of Dallas when Sammy was eleven. It was the first time they both rode a horse, and of course Sam just had to go and fall off one and break his arm. Dean remembers how he had to help Sam write out his homework for the next few weeks and how Sam swore he'd never ride again.
"Remember the dude ranch in Texas?" Sam asks, breaking through the quiet.
Dean laughs, rough and heavy. Sometimes they're so in tune, it's damn near scary. Supernatural even. Dean looks toward his brother, his silhouette sharp against the warm light of the campfire. Says, "Yeah, yeah, I remember."
Remembers Sam face down in the dirt, tears leaving smears on his face. Remembers racing to Sam's side, and Sam grabbing onto him so tight it hurt. Sam was still so small then, baby fat in his cheeks and belly, and Dean remembers the way he tried to hold onto Sam all night, to will the pain away. Nothing much changed over the years, with Dean holding onto Sam as tight as he could, learning to let go when he had to. Dean use to crave those times Sam let him hold on - those moments of stillness and connection in their otherwise difficult lives.
"Vengeful spirit of a cowboy," Sam says after a moment, shaking his head. "The horses were so spooked."
"And you wouldn't go near a horse for years after," Dean teases, getting up and rounding the fire ring to sit closer to Sam. They settle against each other, shoulder-to-shoulder.
"That's because they scared the shit out of me." Sam laughs, ducking his head. "Until I came here...home."
Dean cocks his head toward Sam, smiles softly. Sam grins back, face fire-flushed and bright, lined deep with the passage of years.
Home. It's never been easy for them to call anywhere home, and even after all this time in Montana the concept still feels too novel, too unsure. But damn, sometimes it feels just right.
They go silent again, listening to the crackling flames and the nickering of the horses. Tonight, they'll feed more memories to the fire, offer up more stories to the night sky. Tonight, they'll share their history with the land.
-end-
Title: Promised Land
Author: nyoka
Recipient: xaara
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: Future!fic. Written to the prompt: "You ain't no kind of man if you ain't got land." Sam & Dean settled somewhere far away from other people. Thank you E for the beta. ~3,800 words.
Summary: It's been fifteen years since Dean and Sam first settled in the lush pasturelands of Montana, and some days Dean is still amazed they ended up here.
:::
On the last Thursday in October, with winter blowing its first cool breath over the land, Dean Winchester wakes with the sunrise, feeling the sort of peace he's only really begun to know during the last few years of his life. He stands for a while on the edge of his front porch, steaming cup of coffee in hand, watching the sunlight spill across the hilltop pastures. The land is changing its textures, its designs, and every morning Dean notices the new sharp, bold colors of the surrounding hills and valleys, thick with the reds, browns, and yellows of autumn.
In the sky there's just a smudge of pink clouds, and the day looks like it will be a clear one, bright and warm despite the chill in the morning air. A wind is sweeping down from the mountains, breaking heavy against the old farmhouse, shaking and scattering the fallen leaves, and trembling the branches of the neighboring trees. When the breeze brushes against Dean's face, he breathes in the crisp mountain air, before turning to look at his watch, thinking about all the work that he needs to get done around the homestead this morning.
It's been fifteen years since Dean and Sam first settled in the lush pasturelands of Montana, and some days Dean is still amazed they ended up here. Their property encompasses about a hundred acres couched in the foothills of the Big Belt Mountains, not far from the banks of the Missouri. Life in this quiet vastness is a far cry from the life of constant motion they grew up with on the road: asphalt has been replaced by sage grass, motel rooms by a small, white farmhouse. Everything here is so still, like time itself has paused to take a deep breath, to contemplate itself.
There's a simplicity here as well, a kind of peace Dean's mind and body took a while to adjust to. Going from hunting ghosts to hunting elk and deer wasn't the most natural of transitions. Sometimes Dean wonders what John would think about his two boys finally settled in one place, living off and for the land, far from the road, and waking up every day in their own little house on the prairie. Sam once said they were made for this place, to tame all this rugged land and wild horseflesh, to be covered in dirt, dust, and sweat, their bodies going brown in the hot sun.
Most days Dean and Sam see few other people, especially in the winter months. They go into town only when they need to restock on supplies, but they rely mostly on deliveries. They live off the land, off the grid, running the homestead on a system of solar power and generators, and in the winter heating the house with a propane heater and a large woodstove.
The Calloways are their closest neighbors to the north. They own a small quarter-horse ranch, and thousands of acres of grassland where cattle graze in the hills and horses run wild in the pastures. On occasion, Dean and Sam help the family with their cattle drives, rounding up the cattle and moving the herds into fresh grazing lands. During the summers, they also assist the family in running the studs at the ranch and pasture breeding the mares. They usually put the yearlings, along with the foaling mares and their colts, out to pasture during the fall.
A couple of times a year Dean and Sam get hunters passing through their place, having found their way to their front door though the word-of-mouth gossip on the hunters' grapevine. Even though the Winchesters have retired, they still offer sanctuary to any hunters in need, and a place for hunters to research information in their attic-turned-library, which contains all the old grimoires, books, and ancient texts Sam inherited from Bobby after his passing.
Mostly, these days it's just Dean, Sam, and the land. For Dean, this is more than he ever imagined he'd end up with.
:::
Dean works his way down to the barn, following the worn, zigzag path from the farmhouse that winds past the corrals, the paddocks, and the small coop where they keep a few hens. Their two-story barn is a large structure, with high hayloft windows and thick wooden rafters. Its dusty, shadowed interior smells like a mix of oiled leather, horsehide, and feed, a combination of straw, timothy hay, oats, and molasses. Walking through the stable area always brings to mind the long , hot summer months he and Sam spent fixing the barn up after deciding they wanted to raise a few horses.
The row of box stalls currently holds about eight of those horses. A couple are still dozing, but several are peeping their heads through the shutters, their ears twitching as they listen to the rhythmic clicking of Dean's bootheels over the earthen floorboards. Dean pauses first at Zeppelin's stall, smiles when she pokes her muzzle toward him, looking for a treat. He scratches behind the mare's ears, whispers, "How's my girl doing this morning?"
She flicks her ears, nickers softly. Dean strokes behind her ears again and runs his hand up and down her long neck as he listens to her heavy breathing. Zep's his favorite, although Sam claims the real reason Dean bought her was because she reminded him of the Impala. Dean had laughed at the time, but he suspects maybe Sam was onto something. Zep is big and classic after all, with a sleek, black shine, and beautiful curves and lines. She's an old girl too, but she runs fast as anything. Not a day goes by that Dean doesn't miss the Impala, but when he's riding Zep, it's the closest he's ever felt to driving his girl again.
Dear pours Zep's oats first and assures her that he'll be back to brush her down soon. Her dark eyes follow him as he visits her neighbors, a small bay mare named Winnie, and Colt, Sam's favorite gelding, a giant, buff chestnut that fits his little brother's overly-large frame perfectly. While Dean lays down all the feed, the horses whicker noisily for his attention, and he clucks his tongue and pats their noses to quiet them. He plans to run them all through their paces later, but he'll spend most of the early morning in the stables, grooming the horses and mucking out the stalls.
Dean works on Zep first, untangling her mane, calming and soothing her with words and touch. He brushes her down with a rubber curry comb, circling into the soft down of her thick, black coat. He then rubs her down with a sheepskin mitt until she gleams. Dean's got an itch to ride her, and he eyes his leather saddle with a wistful sigh. Later, definitely. He'll see if Sam wants to head up to the mountains tonight, maybe spend a couple of days there before the nights get too cool.
:::
After chores are done, Dean heads back to the farmhouse and showers with their thick, homemade soap, washing the dirt and scent of horsehide from his rough skin. When he looks at himself in the mirror, he runs a hand through his short, tawny beard, chuckling at the few new strands of grey sneaking in. More often than not these days he looks in the mirror and sees Dad staring back at him. It's strange to think he's the same age now that John was when he died.
It's not that Dean minds aging, even though Sam likes to call him 'old man' just to mess with him. Some days Dean's body aches with the salty truth of time's passage. Old aches and pains make themselves known more than they used to; an old knee injury cramps with the coming rain, and his joints lock up when he rides too long, too hard. They are all the inevitable result of a life spent getting tossed and thrown - too many broken bones that were never set right, and long arms and longer legs bent up in the interior of a classic car for too many hours in a day.
Dean can't complain; he's lived a long life, longer than he probably should have, on earth and in hell and everywhere in between. These days he knows that the miles ahead are far shorter than the ones he's already traveled, and there's a strange, sad comfort in knowing that this is the last stretch of the journey.
Freshly showered, and dressed in a flannel shirt and worn jeans, Dean heads downstairs and finds Sam in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove. The rich smells of a late breakfast - biscuits, bacon, coffee, and eggs - fill the air and make his mouth water.
"Hungry?" Sam asks without looking up from what he's stirring. "Food's about ready. There's fresh coffee on the counter."
"Thanks, Sammy," Dean says, grabbing a coffee cup from the dish rack.
The coffee is dark and rich, and Dean breathes in the steam rising off its surface. He sweetens the brew with a little sugar, and sips it quietly as he takes a seat at the small kitchen table. "Did you go into town this morning?" he asks.
"Yep," Sam says, nodding as he moves towards the counter, grabbing two bowls from the cupboard. "Got a few supplies. More feed. Saw Ben Crowder at the general store. Turns out he's got a grey we might be interested in buying from him."
Dean nods, watching Sam spoon oatmeal into the two bowls. Sam places the bowls down on the table, before bringing the other dishes of food out and taking a seat across from Dean. It took years of Dean's patient tutelage, but Sammy finally learned how to cook a decent meal, and Dean couldn't be prouder.
"Zep wants to go riding tonight," Dean comments as he piles food onto his plate and starts digging in.
"Does she now?" Sam asks, eyebrows quirked.
"That she does," Dean grins, shoving a piece of biscuit into his mouth and chewing around a smile.
"Then we better take her out tonight," Sam laughs softly, scratching at the thick, dark beard covering his chin. These days Sam lets his hair grow long, wild and untamed, much like the land he loves.
Looking at Sam now, it's hard for Dean to picture the short, snotty-nosed little boy he used to make tomato soup for when he caught a winter cold. The boy who used to put his small hands in Dean's own when walking to first grade. The boy who use to sneak into Dean's bed at night, too afraid of the dark.
Dean smiles, remembering the first time they passed through Montana. They stayed with an old marine buddy of Dad's in a little mountain town called Chesterfield. Dean had to be about fourteen or fifteen that summer; he remembers how Sam followed after him on stubby legs, chasing him through the tree-thick valley, wrestling him down to the forest floor until they were both covered in dirt and leaves. That had been a good summer, full of blue skies and bright suns, long days spent swimming in the river whenever it got too hot.
When Dean closes his eyes, it's almost as if no time has passed. He can picture Sam reading his X-Men comics on the porch, while Dean himself tinkered with the car; he remembers listening to the steady sound of Dad's heavy boots hitting the wooden floorboards as he paced around the living room. Even now, more than a quarter of a century later, Dean still expects Dad to come bursting through the front door at any moment, telling them to get some training in before the sun sets, and to pack up everything tonight because they're hitting the road in the morning, tracking a witch coven in Biloxi.
Watching Sam now, Dean can still see hints of the same boy he guarded so carefully all his life. But Dean also sees a man, much older and wiser, who's learned to channel his emotions into the land around him, who's learned to be still and quiet with himself, who's learned a special kind of peace in this place.
There are some things Dean and Sam still don't talk about too much. Dean suspects parts of them will never stop dreaming about the things they've hunted and the people they've lost. There will always be long nights spent remembering their experiences in hell, thinking about what their actions did to the world, did to each other. But through the fog of memory, their years on the road - their years as hunters - seem so long ago. All that remains are snapshots of lives led under a soldier's burden, sepia-toned images of those saved and lost, monochromatic stills of the endless miles they travelled and all the people and places they left behind.
:::
These days Dean is a man of habit and ritual. He always drinks his first cup of morning coffee black, his second cup with two sugars. He checks the salts and wards around the house at the same time every morning and every night. When he rides he always wears his same pair of lucky denims, his favorite dark, mud-crusted boots, and the soft brimmed hat he bought off an old cowboy in Missoula a few years back.
When Dean sets out with Sam in the late evening, the sun has already dipped low onto the mountain-rimmed horizon; a blue-black night waits to break through. They top the rise together, looking out over their property. From the hilltop, they have a panoramic view of the river valley, the surrounding mountain ranges, the fields of soft waving grass, and the sloping meadows.
Dean's riding Zeppelin, and Sam's on Colt; together they wind their way across the northern plains, following the small creek that meanders through their property. As they settle the horses into a steady walk, Dean stares off into the distance, imagines he can see wild horses running free in the high grasslands; some days he dreams of running beside them.
As they ride, the day melts down and the light falls away. The early night is moist and thick, heavy with the scent of damp grass, pine, and juniper. When they reach the eastern boundary of their land, they move the horses into a steady lope, cutting through the vast meadows. In the distance Dean can make out the fading sky and the darkening rocky terrain of the foothills sprawled beneath it, the miles of sage brush, pasture, cedar trees, and yucca in all directions. Snow already covers the high mountain peaks, a promise of the coming winter.
Dean feeds Zep a little more rein, clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and urging her into a slower trot as they near one of their favorite campsites, a moonlit clearing near a small brook, surrounded by groves of tall pine and aspen.
"Race you there," Sam says, tugging at Colt's reins and nudging his heels into the chestnut's flank. The tall gelding snorts and dances underneath him, ready for the sprint.
"Hell yeah," Dean smirks, leaning forward and patting Zep's neck. Dean stretches his legs in the stirrups and shifts in his saddle, loosening his hold on the reins before urging the horse forward.
"Let's go," Sam shouts, his horse kicking up dust and rocks as he shoots past Dean. Colt's hooves resound like thunder as they beat against the dry earth. Dean laughs, clicks to Zep, and sends her bounding after them, flying past the thick patch of trees that line the final mile before the clearing.
Racing through the grasslands on horseback is a vastly different experience to racing down the smooth asphalt of the road in a classic car. When he's riding, Dean loses himself to the sheer power and freedom of the act itself. There's nothing quite like the feel of Zeppelin moving underneath him, so alive and powerful; there's nothing like the feel of the mount's coiling and straining muscles, the forceful pounding of her legs hitting the earth below.
With a final burst of speed, they move through the wide stretch of meadowland and sprint the short distance to the center of the clearing. Arriving at their destination, Dean and Sam pause side-by-side on their dancing mounts, breathing hard, feeling all-over euphoric. They take in the small, snake-curved brook and the soft gurgling of the clear water bubbling over the rocks.
Dean's tired, but he feels good. When he dismounts, Zep snorts, nostrils flaring as she begins to cool down. Dean pats her neck softly, whispers, "That's my girl." He leads her to the water, lets her drink her fill, and watches as Sam does the same with Colt.
Dean kneels down by the brook, lifting his cowboy hat to mop his sweaty forehead with his shirtsleeve. He then washes his hands in the cool brook and splashes some of the water on his face before pulling his hands out and letting the drops fall from his fingers. Sam hands him a canteen of fresh water and Dean drinks until his own thirst is quenched, and then stands up to look at their surroundings.
They're in the middle of nowhere, but it feels like a lit bit of everywhere. Out here the world is wider, and the land goes far in all directions. Dean can almost imagine there's no end to it, can't imagine anything else in the world but this.
They set up camp, reusing one of their old fire-pits to build the campfire. While Dean secures the horses, Sam fetches kindling and dry wood to feed the flames. When they get the fire going, they sit on the spare logs circling the ring, huddling close to fend off the night chill. They share a bottle of Jack Daniel's and talk about some of the sights they saw on their way up the trail.
They both smell of musky sweat and sweet grass, horse and saddle leather, scents Dean's come to closely associate with their quiet life in Montana. It's strange to think it's just the two of them up here on this mountain, so far from the machinery of the world. These days everything in their life is stripped down to the elements. All the objects of their world can be outlined by the night sky - fire, tree, mountain, horse, brother.
Dean takes another long swig of whiskey, enjoys the heat of it moving down his throat. Sam stands up and heads to the other side of the fire, where he unpacks their supper supplies: a few cans of beans, potatoes, fried okra, and instant coffee. While Sam heats up the food, Dean tosses sticks on the fire, watches the flames leap and throw sparks against the sky.
Sam talks as he cooks, about some of the projects he wants to complete around the farm. An affectionate smile lights his face as he spins stories about the students in the online course he's teaching. They both talk a little about the books they're reading and highlight some of the craziest stories they heard on the latest news broadcast. Dean finishes his beans as they begin to talk about past hunts, and for a while it's like they're spinning fanciful campfire stories about vengeful spirits and haunted houses. Tonight is so similar, yet so different, from the array of chilly nights they spent out in the wilds of nature hunting werebeasts and yetis. Another lifetime ago.
As the fire burns down to embers, they both lean back on their elbows to watch the sky. This is big sky country and never has a name been more apt. The stars are thick and bright overhead, and it brings Dean back to the days spent camping outside with Sam and Dad when they couldn't afford a motel for the night. Dean remembers how he and Sam used to make up names and stories for the constellations before Bobby sat them down one summer night and properly taught them how to travel by the stars.
As night falls heavy around them, they're quiet together, lost in thoughts and memories. Dean wants to bring up the hunt at that haunted dude ranch outside of Dallas when Sammy was eleven. It was the first time they both rode a horse, and of course Sam just had to go and fall off one and break his arm. Dean remembers how he had to help Sam write out his homework for the next few weeks and how Sam swore he'd never ride again.
"Remember the dude ranch in Texas?" Sam asks, breaking through the quiet.
Dean laughs, rough and heavy. Sometimes they're so in tune, it's damn near scary. Supernatural even. Dean looks toward his brother, his silhouette sharp against the warm light of the campfire. Says, "Yeah, yeah, I remember."
Remembers Sam face down in the dirt, tears leaving smears on his face. Remembers racing to Sam's side, and Sam grabbing onto him so tight it hurt. Sam was still so small then, baby fat in his cheeks and belly, and Dean remembers the way he tried to hold onto Sam all night, to will the pain away. Nothing much changed over the years, with Dean holding onto Sam as tight as he could, learning to let go when he had to. Dean use to crave those times Sam let him hold on - those moments of stillness and connection in their otherwise difficult lives.
"Vengeful spirit of a cowboy," Sam says after a moment, shaking his head. "The horses were so spooked."
"And you wouldn't go near a horse for years after," Dean teases, getting up and rounding the fire ring to sit closer to Sam. They settle against each other, shoulder-to-shoulder.
"That's because they scared the shit out of me." Sam laughs, ducking his head. "Until I came here...home."
Dean cocks his head toward Sam, smiles softly. Sam grins back, face fire-flushed and bright, lined deep with the passage of years.
Home. It's never been easy for them to call anywhere home, and even after all this time in Montana the concept still feels too novel, too unsure. But damn, sometimes it feels just right.
They go silent again, listening to the crackling flames and the nickering of the horses. Tonight, they'll feed more memories to the fire, offer up more stories to the night sky. Tonight, they'll share their history with the land.
-end-