a game that I cain't play - SN fic - PG
Title: a game that I cain’t play
Fandom: “Supernatural”
Disclaimer: the beautifully broken brothers aren’t mine. Neither is their father. Title from George Strait’s “The Cowboy Rides Away”
Warnings: spoilers for pilot; possible out-of-characterness; lack of verisimilitude, maybe, as I’ve never been a boy.
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 3910
Point of view: third
Dedication:
smilla02. Thank you for the lovely birthday present.
Notes: part of my Dean canon
The summer he was sixteen, Dean rode a horse for the first time since he could remember. He was a big black gelding called Griffin and the owner, a widow named Dolores Smith, didn’t know what all he was a mix of. “A little of this, a smidge of that,” she explained. “My boy David was the only one he let on, so if you can make it, good for you.”
It was as close to a blessing Dean would get. It was also permission.
-
Dad heard tell of a hunt in eastern Kentucky, something that had defeated every hunter so far. He spent the spring researching, waiting for the school year to end; the hunt had waited for decades: it would keep a few more weeks.
Sam was twelve and approaching the rebellious stage quickly. He fought Dad nearly every step of the way, determined to be as difficult as possible. Dean employed every trick he knew, trying to keep the peace.
That summer, Dean asked Dad if he could take a job. They needed the extra money and it would keep Dean from going insane.
“So long as it doesn’t take away from the hunt,” Dad said, “if you can find one, go ahead.”
Dean checked around town-the small grocery was hiring, and the mechanic. Dean knew cars as well as he knew guns, but the store would drive him crazy. He told Mike he’d think about the position and went home to sleep on it. As he walked the rundown road, he saw the pasture with three horses: a Paint mare, a Morgan mare, and a big black gelding. The two mares were grazing peacefully, but the black was cavorting around, tossing his head and snorting.
Dean drifted closer to the fence, completely fascinated. He studied the contours of the black, the play of muscles beneath his skin, the smooth way he moved.
A shrill whistle sounded and the black wheeled around, took off towards a large house in the distance. Slowly, the mares trotted after him.
Dean watched them go and hopped the fence, followed. He was probably about to get shot, trespassing-or maybe stomped to death, if the black returned. Dad would kill him if that happened.
But the image of the black dancing around wouldn’t leave him. He had to get closer, to touch-and he didn’t understand because he couldn’t remember-we are horse people, love, always have been-
As he approached the house, he saw the barn behind it. The Morgan vanished between the doors and Dean snuck close, being as quiet and inconspicuous as possible.
“What are you doin’ on my land, boy?” a harsh, rickety voice demanded.
He spun around falling into a defense position Dad had drilled into his mind and body.
A woman stood there, old. Wearing faded jeans and a faded shirt, leather boots on her feet. She held a shotgun in her hands, leaned on a shovel. And a big white dog stood beside her.
Dean tried looking as harmless as possible and bet he failed.
“Well?” she demanded, hands tightening on the gun.
“I saw the horses,” he said. “I just wanted to get closer.”
“You a thief?” she asked, raising a brow.
Well, yes, he answered internally, but widened his eyes. “Oh, no, ma’am,” he denied. “I’ve never seen horses so close and they were-” He searched for a word to convey what he wanted and settled on, “Magical.”
She softened. Not a lot, but enough that he noticed. “You’re a dangerous boy,” she observed and the dog bounded over to him, begged for attention. Dean knelt down and scratched behind the dog’s ears, rubbed along his side. “That’s Dice; my granddaughter named him.”
“Hullo, Dice,” Dean said, laughing as the dog leaned in close.
“C’mon, boy,” the old woman called, moving to the barn. “Let’s introduce you to the horses.”
Dean stood and followed, Dice beside him.
“This is Melon,” she said, pointing to the Morgan. “And that’s Pinto.” She nodded to the Paint.
The black was waiting at the end of the barn. “And the prince down there, he’s Griffin.”
“Beautiful,” Dean murmured and felt the lady’s eyes.
“Well?” she asked. “You gonna help me or not?”
She put him to work that afternoon, feeding and watering the horses, grooming them. Melon was the darling, the one who did her best to help a green boy. She stood there and whuffled softly, making everything easy. And Pinto was the spirited one who moved away every time he got close, laughing at him.
But the lady told him to leave Griffin alone. “He’ll bite ya soon as look at ya, boy,” she chuckled. “Could only ever stand me or David, my son.”
They worked mainly in silence, Dean only speaking to make sure of something. After the horses were seen to, she asked him to help with some other stuff around the house and barn. She served him a couple of sandwiches and water, watched him wolf it down. He thanked her quietly, sincerely, pouring his soul into the words.
“This place is too much work for my old bones,” she told him, walking back with him to the barn. “And I don’t have the patience to hire on some half-serious teenager. Used to be, I had David, his kids, Sarah and her brood-and Micah. Oh, I miss Micah more every month.” She smiled at him then looked at Melon, happily chewing away. “I worried that I’d have to sell-these horses and Dice are the only family I got left. They don’t take to just anyone, you know; you’re the first person Dice’s liked in a long while.”
Dean figured he knew where this was going and she didn’t disappoint him.
“Want a job, kid?”
He nodded and smiled and stuttered on the words to thank her.
She held up a hand and he calmed. “Make no mistake, boy. It’ll be work. The stalls have to be mucked, the horses seen to, exercised. There’ll be repairs around the place. Unless you mean business, don’t sign on.” She smirked. “And, fair warning: I’m a harsh taskmistress.”
He assured her he’d never been more serious and could see by her eyes she believed him.
“I’m Dolores Smith,” she said, holding out a hand.
“Dean Winchester,” he replied, taking it and shaking.
-
That night, he couldn’t shut up about Ms. Smith or Melon or Pinto or Dice, but mostly about Griffin. He didn’t notice the looks Sam and Dad shared, didn’t realize this was the most animated he’d been in years.
“Can I, Dad?” he finally cut himself off, turning pleading eyes on his father. “I swear I’ll be available for any hunt.”
Dad nodded. “Take the job for the summer, Dean. I think it’ll be good for you.”
Dean grinned and dug into his spaghetti.
-
He returned to Mike the next day and told him that he’d found another job, helping a lady with her horses.
“Ms. Smith?” Mike asked and Dean nodded. “She’s a lovely old girl. I remember when her kids ran the streets. Her daughter Sarah was the prettiest thing I ever laid eyes on.” Mike sighed. “It’ll be a good job, kid. Take care of her.”
Dean nodded again. “I will.”
Mike clapped him on the shoulder and sent him on his way, saying, “I have to get back to work, son. And you’ve got an old woman to see.”
Dean rushed off, flew through town, barely containing his glee at being so near horses. He’d devoured every book he could find, whenever he had time. He watched horse races, horse shows, and rodeos. He loved them.
And now he was able to touch them, to smell them, to be close.
Griffin was dancing in the field again, while Melon and Pinto grazed, side-by-side. Griffin tossed his head, seeming to ask them to join in, but they ignored him. Dean chuckled and Griffin looked his way.
“Hey, boy,” Dean said and climbed up the fence. Griffin moved closer and Ms. Smith’s words echoed in his head: He’ll bite ya soon as look at ya. But Dean was captivated by Griffin’s perfection, the flawless way he moved, the defiance and-and magic written in his coat and his eyes, every part of his body.
Dean held out a hand and Griffin stretched his neck, daintily sniffed, eye on Dean. Melon and Pinto watched, then Pinto pranced over and shoved Griffin out of the way. Dean scratched along her nose and she turned against the fence, presenting her neck for rubbing. Dean obliged her with a delighted laugh.
Once he was sure Griffin wouldn’t savage him, Dean clambered over the fence. Melon trotted over and whuffled at his hair. Pinto stood at his back, between him and Griffin, constantly flicking her ears around. Dean slipped through the mares, headed for the house; Pinto snorted and moved back to her patch of grass, but Melon stayed with him.
Dean looked over his shoulder; Griffin was watching him go.
-
Ms. Smith was in the barn rearranging tack. “We used to have ten horses,” she told Dean as he walked in. “One died of old age; he was near-on forty. Two others were sold-after Micah died and David left, no one could control them. Mango, Melon’s sister, was killed in an accident on the interstate; an eighteen-wheeler hit her trailer. One of my daughters and two of my grandsons died, too.” She gestured for him to move a large saddle. “My Palomino, Flute, got colic. Windchaser, Pinto’s mother, died a few weeks after Micah. He’d had her since she was a filly. Dr. Martin, the vet, couldn’t explain it; she was healthy, middle-aged.”
“Broken heart?” Dean ventured and Ms. Smith smiled sadly.
“I believe so,” she replied.
“And the tenth?” Dean asked, moving another saddle.
“A Percheron we had for a few months. One of Micah’s old friends had a family emergency and had to get rid of his horses for a bit. We kept Elessar, a steady gray, for a while. He was a good horse.”
Dean stretched and glanced out the barn to where Melon stood. Ms. Smith followed his gaze. “She’s a sweetie, my old Morgan. I’ve had her since she was barely a year.”
“I think she likes me,” Dean said, walking out the barn to gently rub Melon’s soft nose.
Ms. Smith laughed and Dice rushed over, demanding attention from his person. “Horses can’t be taught, Dean. You’re either born for ‘em or you’re not. And you-you’re a horse person.” She studied him for a second. “You ever ridden?”
He shook his head and drifted along Melon’s flank, petting her. “If I did, I can’t remember.”
“Well,” Ms. Smith called as she entered the tack room, “we’ll have to rectify that sometime soon.”
Dean jerked around, eyes wide. “You serious?”
“C’mon, boy,” she hollered. “My old bones cain’t do all the work.”
Dean hurried into the barn.
-
That night, Dean sang endless praises of Ms. Smith. He still didn’t notice Dad or Sam’s shared looks, the smiles creasing their faces. He didn’t notice his excited gestures or the light in his eyes.
But Dad and Sam did, and they silently agreed to keep peace with each other for as long as they could, because Dean was so happy.
-
Three weeks after the job started, Ms. Smith said, “ Griffin hasn’t been ridden in months. My boy David was the only one he let on, so if you can make it, good for you.”
But by her eyes and tone, he knew she had faith. She went back to the house, calling, “There’ll be baked chicken for lunch, whenever you’re hungry.” She snapped for Dice to follow.
Melon and Pinto were out in the field. Griffin was in his stall, keeping one eye on Dean and the other on his half-full feed bucket.
“Maybe I should start on Melon,” Dean mused, walking into the tack room for a bucket. “Or Pinto.” He made sure his chosen had a curry comb, a soft brush, and a hoof-pick before heading to Griffin’s stall. “No,” he continued, thinking aloud and letting himself in. “If Ms. Smith didn’t think I could handle you, she wouldn’t have said that.”
Griffin flicked an ear at him and Dean softly patted the gelding’s neck. “You’re a good boy,” Dean murmured, keeping his voice even and calm. “You don’t want to bite me; I promise, compared to them oats, I don’t taste all that good. Honest.”
He set the comb to Griffin’s side and began gently rubbing. He combed all over, then brushed, talking all the while, describing Dad and Sam and what little he could remember of Mom. He went slowly and surely, in no rush at all. And when he backed away to drop the brush and grab the pick, Griffin followed. He leaned down to whuffle at Dean’s hair, to lightly lip at his sleeve, and Dean giggled, gently shoved his head away.
He bent over and firmly gripped Griffin’s foot, did his best to be quick and thorough. Griffin suffered through each hoof and Dean wondered where the beast Ms. Smith had implied the black was had gotten to.
“Of course,” Dean said, “I haven’t saddled you yet, so there’s still time.”
He fit the halter over Griffin’s head and led the gelding from his stall, tied him to the post. He patted Griffin as he walked by toward the tack room, determined to always let the big black know where he was.
Griffin snorted as Dean laid the saddle pad on him, but he tossed his head when Dean placed the saddle over it. “Sorry, boy,” Dean breathed, making sure it was even. “I can imagine how much you hate this part.”
The black snorted again and Dean replied, “Okay, I can’t. Not like I’ve ever worn a saddle; you’re right about that.” He stuck out his tongue and Griffin tossed his head a second time. Dean swiftly tightened the cinch and pulled it through, softly apologizing the whole time. Griffin stamped his hind hoof and Dean’s gaze shot to his ears.
“If a horse is about to attack,” Ms. Smith had explained, though Dean’d already known, “the ears’ll always warn you. Keep aware of a horse’s body language. Never, ever forget how big or strong they are.”
Dean warily approached Griffin’s head, bridle in hand. He made sure Griffin saw him before making another move. Then he worked swiftly, movements calm and sure. He kept up a steady stream of chatter, discussing the Arabian breed’s history. “They’re the children of the wind, you know,” he said. “Fleet of foot, over the desert sand. Beautiful.” He unhooked the halter from Griffin’s neck and let it fall. “But you’ll be just as magnificent, I bet. Maybe more.”
Before leading Griffin from the barn, Dean double-checked the stirrup length. Then, still talking, he walked from the barn and through the fence, Griffin keeping pace at his shoulder. Dean shut the fence behind them and Griffin looked toward the mares, neighing. Melon swished her tail and Pinto neighed back.
Dean swiftly stuck one foot in the stirrup and grabbed the saddle, swinging himself up. Griffin danced sideways a step, but Dean held on and settled into the saddle. He made sure the stirrups fit, then waited to see what Griffin would do.
Griffin stepped forward and Dean moved with the horse, trying to find his balance. He pulled his right hand back, gripping the rein; with barely a struggle, Griffin turned in a circle. Dean smiled and laughed, and gave Griffin his head, letting the horse go where he would.
It felt right. Dean marveled at the feeling; the only comparison he had was holding a gun, aiming, and pulling the trigger, but moving with Griffin felt better. He clucked and Griffin went faster, trotted. Dean laughed again and turned Griffin to the left, another circle. Griffin pranced and tossed his head, trotted quicker. Dean let him go, caught up in the moment.
But he felt it when Griffin prepared to lunge forward. He swiftly tightened the reins; if Griffin hadn’t been ridden in months, he couldn’t let the horse overdo it. Griffin pranced but slowed.
Dean moved with him, settling into Griffin’s stride. He watched the play of muscles beneath Griffin’s skin in wonder. He’d never seen anything as beautiful as the horse in all his life.
He clucked, letting Griffin trot faster. He trotted around the pasture for awhile, turning circles every so often, warming Griffin up. Luckily, it was a cloudy day.
Finally, he lightly kicked and Griffin surged forward, lengthening his stride. Dean whooped and held on, laughing and laughing, unable to stop. Griffin cantered around the pasture and it was perfect. Dean couldn’t imagine anything ever equaling it, ever being better. The wind whooshed past him; Melon and Pinto cantered with them, and Dean couldn’t believe he’d ever get tired of it.
-
That night, Dean was silent at the dinner table. He could already tell he’d ache in the morning. And he knew it’d kill him to leave after Dad finished the hunt.
“Something wrong?” Sam asked, eyes on Dean.
“I cantered today,” Dean said softly. “It was perfect.”
Sam frowned, searching for how that could be bad, could lead to his brother being morose.
“Your mother loved horses,” Dad said, focusing on his hamburger. “Sometimes, I thought she wouldn’t come back home, that she’d join the herd forever.”
Dean looked at his father, face full of wonder. “Really?”
Dad nodded. “She took you riding when you were little, put you on the saddle in front of her. I was always terrified one of you would fall off, but ya’ll never did. I don’t think there was a horse born that would throw your mother.” He smiled gently at Dean before taking a bite of his burger. “I bet it’s the same with you.”
-
Every day after that, Dean rode Griffin. Sometimes Ms. Smith got on Pinto or Melon and kept pace; sometimes she didn’t. Sam stopped by frequently, but he kept his distance from the horses.
Dean couldn’t understand. Sam showered attention on Dice and the two cats that showed up, but he shied away from Griffin, from Pinto-even from gentle Melon.
He shrugged when Dean asked. “They’re so big,” he said, like that explained anything. “Don’t they ever step on you?”
Dean shook his head. Sam shrugged again.
-
“Was I ever scared of horses?” Dean asked as he helped Dad research. Sam was taking a break, reading White Fang, which Dean had gotten him for Christmas the year before.
“I don’t think so,” Dad answered. “You were never scared of any animal. I found you playing with a snake when you were two, and some big spider once.” He chuckled. “Your mother was like that, too. I kept expecting her to shriek if she found a bug or mouse, but she dealt with them herself, put them outside. Said her parents hadn’t raised her to fear nature, or disrespect it.” He smiled down at his book. “Her parents were good people, Dean. You’d’a liked ‘em, I think. Her mother was just like her, like you. Horse-fools, her daddy called all three’a ya.”
“Horse-fools,” Dean repeated, trying out the words. “I think I like the sound of that.”
“Dean,” Dad said seriously. “I’ve almost figured out what this thing is. It’ll be over in a couple of weeks, a month at the most. I know you’ve grown attached to that woman, her horses. But we can’t stay after the hunt.”
“I know,” Dean replied softly. “I know, Dad.”
“I’m sorry, son.” Dad’s voice was full of regret, full of sorrow. Dean couldn’t know he saw Mary in his mind’s eye, their baby in front of her, on the back of a giant gray horse, both laughing joyfully.
“I know you are, Dad,” Dean forgave him. “But saving people, hunting things-that’s more important than anything.”
-
A week before Dad hunted the spirits-he’d discovered a mine collapsed, killing dozens of men-Dean convinced Sam to get up on Melon.
“She’s a calm horse, Sammy,” Dean assured him. “And I’ll be leading her from the ground. Riding a horse is safer than driving a car.”
Sam sat like a lump on Melon’s back, uneasy. Dean talked as he led Melon around, trying to take Sam’s mind off his fear. He still couldn’t figure out how Sam was afraid of horses.
“It’s cool enough,” Sam said, after he was safely back on the ground. “But I’ll stick to my own feet.”
Griffin gently butted against Dean’s back and with a laugh, he pulled himself on from the dirt, no stirrups and no saddle. Sam gaped up at him.
“Are you insane?” his little brother demanded. “You’ll fall off!”
Dean’s laughter filled the air around them and he urged Griffin into a trot, then a canter. He molded himself to the black’s body, holding on with every part of him, and he’d never felt freer.
It was perfect. Horse-fools, Dad’d said. Dean could believe it.
-
“You come back one day,” Ms. Smith said when he told her goodbye. “I’ll hold onto that horse until I die, but he didn’t even take to David like he took to you.”
Dean nodded, burying his face against Griffin’s side. Dice whined at Ms. Smith’s feet.
“You’re a good boy, Dean,” she whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Come back one day, and this old monster is yours.”
He didn’t watch her go but listened to her steps recede. Dice rubbed up against his legs and Dean blinked back tears.
Dad was waiting at their house, and Sammy. Dean had known he couldn’t stay. That he’d have to leave. Griffin whuffled and Melon whinnied. She and Pinto were in the pasture, waiting for their brother.
“Children of the wind,” he said into Griffin’s dark mane and laughed. “I wish you happy running, Griffin.” He pushed off the big horse and rubbed at his eyes. Griffin swung his head around and gently butted into Dean’s chest. “Go on, boy,” Dean told him, moving away. “I have to leave.”
He didn’t look as he ran to the fence, didn’t glance over his shoulder as he hopped it, and he bit back tears as he rushed down the road. He heard the horses running with him along the fence, heard Griffin’s whinny-but he didn’t look.
Horse-fools, Dean thought as he slammed the door behind him. That must be why it hurts so damned much. Sam didn’t speak when Dean burst into the kitchen, chest heaving, gasping for air. He just offered Dean a compassionate glance and got him a glass of water.
Dad hustled them into the Impala; Dean bundled himself in the backseat and stared at his hands. Still, no one spoke. Dad turned the radio low. Sam sat in the front, flipping through White Fang till he found his spot.
Dean didn’t look out the window till they crossed into Tennessee.
-
The next day, Dad let Dean drive the Impala for the first time. He pointed the Impala down the interstate and Dad didn’t say anything when Dean broke eighty miles an hour.
In his mind, Dean saw Griffin racing the wind. And as much fun as driving fast was, it just couldn’t compare to being on the back of that horse.