Chapter Text
Waco, Texas
March 1887
Getting into the house had been easy. It was an old, three-room structure just far enough outside of town that no one would bother them. The field out back suggested the owners were once some kind of farmers, but whatever crops had grown there in the days of their youth had long since withered.
The place wasn’t exactly a fort, which wouldn’t be that difficult to slip into either, if years of experience had taught her anything. Light feet and a pretty face went a long way, after all. And when that didn’t work, her knife usually did the trick.
The couple had been sleeping when she’d first arrived, two white-haired old crones practicing for kingdom come. The toughest creature on the property was an ancient mule in the pen, and it had barely even snorted when she walked past it. Still, the old woman was sprightlier than she looked. All it had taken to wake her up was the slight click of a pistol’s hammer being pulled back.
And now the elderly couple was bloody and tied to chairs in the kitchen, probably wishing they hadn’t woken up at all.
“We don’t know where she is!” the man was pleading.
The outlaw’s serrated knife was stuck tip-down in the splintering wood of the table, right next to where she sat, boots dangling off the edge as her legs swung back and forth. It was almost childlike. There was a candle lit on the other side of her, its tiny flickering light playing shadows on her face. Her brimmed wool hat sat atop spiraling dark waves. Her eyes were two black holes in the darkness.
“Heard you the first ten times,” she said. She grabbed the knife by the handle and ripped it out of the wood. She held the point out to the man’s face, and he winced away from it. “Funny. I still don’t believe you. So, I’ll ask again: Where’s your daughter?”
The man kept wincing.
She sighed loudly and dropped her arm back to her lap. “Fine,” she said, exasperated. “Have it your way.” She slid off the table, ready to make a move.
“What do you want with our daughter?” the old woman spoke up, attracting the outlaw’s attention.
Finally. They were getting somewhere.
The outlaw changed course, striding up to the woman instead. She crouched down in front of her on the wooden-slated floor and looked up into her eyes. “She has something that belongs to my boss. And, trust me, you do not wanna keep him from his property.”
The woman shook her head. “She wouldn’t have stolen. We raised her better.”
“Oh, trust me, she did. But it’s not too late.” The outlaw lifted up her knife again. “Tell me where she is and I’ll go easy on her.”
There was a moment, just there in the eyes, when it looked like the old woman would give in. But then her face hardened. The outlaw lifted herself up to a stand, hands pressing into her knees as she went. “Looks like we’re doing this the hard way.”
“She wrote us a letter!”
She looked at the man. His eyes were wide. “A letter?”
“Jack, don’t—”
“Shut up.” The outlaw turned back to the man. “You were saying something about a letter?”
The man nodded. His eyes flittered to his wife, as if asking her forgiveness. “It was posted out of somewhere in Kansas.”
“Where? Dodge?”
The man shook his head. “Please, we don’t know anything else. It’s been over a year since we’ve seen—”
“Where in Kansas?” the outlaw pressed.
The man glanced at his wife again, and then back to the outlaw. He would talk. He was too scared not to.
He drew in a breath, and gave up a name.
Lawrence, Kansas
May 1887
Dean pressed down on the footbrake and pulled on the reins, and the two horses came to an ambling stop in front of a storefront with a hanging wooden sign proclaiming, Wells, Fargo & Co., Banking & Express. The sign was creaking on its hooks. The morning sun lit up the entire main strip from end to end, from the courthouse to the dentist’s office with its signage in the shape of a tooth promising painless extraction. Dean could personally attest to the falsehood of that advertisement.
It was still fairly early, but people were already up and about to begin their day. Garth, the General Store clerk, was sweeping the boardwalk in front of his shop’s entrance. Kevin Tran was rolling a new silver tub toward the back door of his mother’s laundry storefront. Carts were rattling along, piled high with barrels of water and crates of coal for delivery. At the end of the block, a group of builders were piling wood for the construction of the new saloon. People were entering and exiting the hotel dining room on their way to and from breakfast.
The stagecoach beneath Dean came to a shuddering halt, its front wheel stopping just shy of a ditch in the road. The black paint on the wood was covered in a fine layer of dust, but Dean was more concerned with the grime that stuck to his skin from the past week. He was concerned with Sam’s hygiene, too, because he stunk to high heaven.
That’s what nearly a month on the road would do to a person. When they’d first left Lawrence, the warm days still needed to thaw out from the frigid nights. The morning grass had still been crunchy underfoot. Since then, they’d made deliveries from Wichita to Boulder, and now Dean was sweating just sitting in the coach’s driver box.
His ass hurt from so much sitting, and his shoulder complained when he tried to rotate it from pulling on the horses' reins. He tested out his range of motion again and winced.
He squinted over at Sam in the shotgun side. He was snoring, with a sawed-off gun resting across his lap. Dean swatted him. “Wake up, sunshine. We’re here.”
Sam snorted as he startled awake. He blinked in the daylight and eventually straightened up in his seat to look around. Dean ignored the fact that, sometimes, his overgrown oaf of a baby brother still reminded him of the little kid who used to collect caterpillars to watch them turn into butterflies.
“You’re a terrible guard, you know that?” Dean griped, but it was more teasing than anything. “You got any idea how long you’ve been asleep? Since Topeka. What if somebody tried to hold us up, huh?”
Sam lifted his hat off his head to run his hand through his sweaty hair. It was getting way too long, and Dean had to remember to break out the scissors and tie him down later. Sam readjusted his hat and said, “Gun’s right here, Dean. Last I checked, you’re still able to shoot.”
Dean snorted derisively. “I can shoot you in the ass.”
Sam grinned. The stage shifted under him as he stood up and stretched. Dean didn’t bother standing before getting out. He draped the reins over the singletree crossbar and slid down to the road. He reached over his head to stretch out his back, his spine cracking as it realigned. He was sorer than he thought.
Sam was already sifting through the carriage. He pulled out the box of US mail and brought it over to the boardwalk before returning for the sealed crate loaded with currency and gold. Dean grabbed the mail, because it was always the lighter of the two boxes, and ignored the scowl Sam sent his way. He took it toward the bank, leaving Sam to trail after him with the crate.
Arms laden, Dean opened the front door with his shoulder and held it open with his foot so Sam could get through. Behind the booth, Bobby was counting out the money in the till in preparation for the day.
“Hey, Bobby,” Dean called when he glanced up. At the same time, Sam greeted, “Hi, Bobby.”
“Boys,” Bobby answered, setting down the money and closing the register. “Took you long enough. I was about to write to the Marshal tellin’ him to start searching for your dead bodies.” He opened up the security door leading to the back of the booth for them to trudge through.
“Yeah, ha-ha,” Dean grumbled. “You try riding with him twelve hours a day.”
“Me? I’m the one who has to put up with your singing,” Sam shot back.
They set their haul down against the vault on the back wall for Bobby and Rufus to sort through. Another stage messenger would come around to collect anything that wasn’t labeled with Lawrence as its final destination.
“I’m the one that’s gotta deal with the aftermath of your bean diet,” Dean said.
“I see you’re both in a pleasant mood,” Bobby droned, probably just to silence their bickering. They usually got like that after a few weeks on the trail, where they generally only had each other for company—during meals, on the stage, while making camp at night, or during stops at the stations along the way. Every now and again, they’d have a passenger, but it was usually just the two of them. Every waking second. Together.
All they needed was a few hours apart, and then it would be like nothing happened.
Dean shot Sam another look before turning his attention to Bobby. “We just need some shut-eye. How’ve things been here?”
“About the same,” Bobby answered with a shrug. He folded his arms over his chest and leaned into the booth. “They finally started working on Talbot’s new saloon. Just what we need.”
“What, you a teetotaler now?” Dean snorted.
“Another saloon is fine,” Bobby said with a wave. “Another business lining Talbot’s pockets ain’t.” Dean couldn’t argue with that. But the rich stayed rich for a reason.
“Looks like there’s been a little bit of excitement. What about that wanted poster? What’s that about?” Sam asked as he crossed over to the booth’s window. He peeled off the small poster hanging there and held it up. There wasn’t a sketch of the sorry sap they were after, but the bounty was close to ten grand. Dean’s eyes popped. He hadn’t even noticed the poster when he’d walked in, but now he was seeing dollar signs.
“Is everything okay?” Sam asked, brows now pinched with concern in Bobby’s direction. But it was pretty clear that, whoever this outlaw was, he hadn’t tried to rob this bank. Bobby probably would have mentioned that sooner. Just to be sure, Dean glanced at the vault. It was secured tight, and it hadn’t been updated with a newer model, so everything was probably fine.
“Oh, yeah. That’s just up as a precaution,” Bobby told them. “Some new bandit that’s been making a name for himself in the paper. Nicholas Pike or something or other. Goes by the name Lucifer.”
Dean couldn’t help but laugh. “Think he’s overcompensating a little there?”
Bobby hummed, like he agreed but didn’t want to make light of the situation. “Well, on top of robbery, him and his gang have been going around burning homes and businesses to the ground. Usually with people still inside. Rufus thinks he’s trying to liken the murders to hell-fire, but what does that idjit know?”
“But he’s not here, right?” Sam asked. “I mean, in Lawrence?”
“Last I read in the paper, he was in Tulsa. Doubt there’s any reason for someone like that to hit up some backwater town like Lawrence.”
Dean plucked the poster from Sam’s hand and read it over again. There was probably nothing to worry about, but that bounty was awfully tempting. Dean almost wanted this Lucifer fella and his gang to roll through Kansas. “Ah, you never know, Bobby. They say Lawrence’s got the best corndodgers for miles. Let that entice him, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
Sam laughed, and it was kind of insulting. “Yeah, right. What are you gonna do?”
“I can take ‘im!” Dean defended, voice going up an octave in offense.
Bobby snorted, and Dean didn’t appreciate being ganged up like this. “Your brother thinks he’s the next Wyatt Earp.”
Dean crossed his arms, the poster crinkling against his side. He licked his lips, tasting salt and dirt, and tried to come up with a good retort. The best he could do was, “Shut up.”
“Anyhow,” Bobby said. He took the poster back and stuck it to the window again. The glue on the bottom corners had thinned, causing the parchment to curl back loosely. Bobby tried to smooth it back down before giving up and heading back to the register. Dean’s fingers itched excitedly as he counted out their salary and handed it to each of them.
“Don’t go gambling it all away tonight,” Bobby warned.
Dean and Sam shared a mischievous look. Sam said, “We don’t gamble, Bobby.”
Dean finished, “Yeah, what we do is art.”
Bobby merely grumbled and said, “Yeah, you’re right. Artists don’t see a penny for their efforts, neither.” Before either of them could respond, Bobby added, “And I better not see you headed for Rowena’s place.” His eyes were on Dean, because everyone and their mother knew Sam didn’t pay ladies for their time. Because he was a nice boy or whatever.
Dean gaped, again affronted. And Sam wasn’t doing him any favors as he teased, “Come on, Bobby. Dean doesn’t do that stuff anymore, now that he’s a married man.”
“Hold on!” Dean argued, heart jumping. He didn’t need any rumors getting started. The gossip around town was bad enough. He didn’t care what people thought of him, really, but he wished people would butt out of his personal life. “We’re not married.”
He wasn’t married. He just . . . had companionship. Why was everyone in his life so obsessed with labeling it? He was fine without a label. They were fine.
Sam shook his head, but he was grinning. Bobby looked humored, too, but only to the well-trained eye. “You’re as married as they get, boy.”
Dean didn’t have to stand around and listen to that kind of talk. “You ladies done yapping? Because I’d like to get my stage off the road before someone decides it’s up for grabs.” He turned on his heels and threw the security door open. Sam was chuckling as he followed him out, but Dean let it slide.
“And go bathe,” Bobby called after them. “You smell like fresh shit.”
“Bye, Bobby,” Sam threw over his shoulder as they exited the bank. Dean didn’t bother with a farewell.
The sun had climbed higher in the sky, and it had turned into a white-hot orb that bleached the blue around it. Dean shielded his eyes with his hand. The boardwalk on this side of the street wasn’t covered like it was across the way. Dean glanced across the street, his eyes falling on one storefront in particular.
He realized Sam was talking. “. . . go home and get something to eat. We can always come back later to wash the stage. Or wait ‘til tomorrow. Bobby probably won’t have another route for us for a few weeks, anyway, so there’s no rush.”
Dean wasn’t really listening, because he had other priorities in mind.
They had to return the stage back to the home station first, and maybe Bobby was right about them needing a bath. Dean sniffed his armpit and grimaced. He’d probably have to launder these clothes twice, they were so full of sweat. But there was something else he had to do first: something that took precedence over bathing and sleep, and even his empty stomach.
“I dunno. Might make a stop at the doctor’s first.” He played it up as he cradled one shoulder and rolled it back. “My shoulder’s been killing me.”
It took a second to process, and then Sam let out a breath of laughter and glanced off across the street. “Right. Sure it is.”
“It is,” Dean insisted, and didn’t allow Sam the satisfaction of replying. “You wanna return the stage? And lead Baby home. She deserves a rest.” He paced closer to the sturdy, black Colorado Ranger mare, her rump spotted with gray and white. She was still harnessed to the stage as he ran his hand down her smoky-colored mane. The hair was coarser than usual, all matted with filth. She needed to be brushed. “Ain’t that right, girl?”
Chevy’s ear flicked as a fly buzzed by, and Dean took that to mean she agreed. Next to her, Sam’s favorite horse, Bones, a chestnut Azteca, snorted.
Dean glanced over his shoulder and said, “I’ll meet you back home in a couple hours.”
Sam only pretended to be annoyed. He acquiesced and climbed up into the stage’s box before picking up the lines. “See you in a bit,” he said, and spurred the horses into motion. The stage lurched before trailing along.
“And cut your damn hair!” Dean called after him. Sam shot him an obscene gesture from behind that only made Dean laugh. He shook his head and started in the direction of the doctor’s office.
Red dripped off of Castiel’s hands. It slid down his forearms and palms to collect on the tips of his fingers. The droplets splattered back into the basin of similarly color-tainted water. It looked pinker in a pool. Perhaps that was only because the basin was white.
He dipped his hands back in and splashed more water up his arms one last time before deciding, despite the blood flakes still lining his fingernails, that it was good enough. He grabbed the cloth hanging off the side of his apothecary hutch and turned around to lean against the ledge.
His eyes fell on the operating table in the center of the room. It was mostly clean now, all but for that stubborn stain in the wood that he couldn’t wash or sand out. His predecessor, who apparently was too cheap to launder sheets to cover the table during surgery, had left it there.
The damp cloth was still in his hands, and he wasn’t so much wiping them dry anymore as he was keeping them occupied. He closed his eyes and narrowed his thoughts down to the scratch of cotton against his skin.
It was already shaping up to be a hot day. The sun outside was bleaching the dusty street of Massachusetts Avenue into a light tan color. The glare it caused came through the rectangular window in the front door, leaving patches of dirt-streaked light on the floorboards along with the backward shadow of the chipped paint decal: Dr. Novak, Physician & Surgeon.
There wasn’t much of a breeze either, so the only sounds that came through the open window were the click of boots on the boardwalk whenever someone passed by, chatter, and the occasional horse snort. And flies. There was one buzzing around the room right now. He could hear it.
Back home, on a day like this, women would be holding parasols above their heads to shield themselves from the sunrays. Castiel carefully blanked his mind of the past. He reminded himself that Lawrence was his home now; it had been for quite some time.
Presently, the office was quiet. It was a welcome respite, especially after such an exhausting night. He almost hated the summers, even though they were the most lucrative time of the year. It was the same for every merchant and business in town, the same as it was for every cattle and boomtown on the map—and those too new even for that. Summer was when the herders came through, with their droves of longhorns to be sold in every town and city between Texas and Chicago.
The cattle weren’t the only things they brought.
They tended to arrive with enough money to drink, gamble, and whore themselves into either jail or an early grave. Or, in many cases, Castiel’s office. When the cowboys were in town, he rarely made it back home to sleep. Most summer nights, he slept on one of the two patient cots in the back room. When both of those were full, he made due in his desk chair.
He refused to sleep on the operating table. That was most likely asking for bad luck.
Regardless, summer hadn’t even officially begun yet. It was the very beginning of cattle season, and Castiel had a creeping suspicion it would be a long one.
The bell above the office door jingled as someone entered. It took all of Castiel’s will not to sigh at the intrusion, and instead opened his eyes to the customer, ready to greet them with a pleasant, “Hello, what seems to be the trouble?”
But he ended up having to blink multiple times because he was certain the person in front of him was nothing but a mirage. He stood up from his lean, lips parting and heart quickening. “Dean?”
Dean was grinning from ear to ear. His beard had grown in, and there was dust from the trail still caking the lines of his face and his clothes, which meant he hadn’t gone home yet. His freckles were hidden, but his eyes were stark green against the filth and sunshine. “Hey there, Doc. Glad I caught you. Got something between my legs that’s in need of professional attention.”
Castiel only allowed a twitch of a smile. He walked around the operating table to meet Dean by the door as he palmed off his hat. His hair was sticking to his forehead. “That sounds serious,” Castiel answered dryly, eyeing him up and down. “I think that requires immediate bed rest.”
Dean’s eyes darkened, still something playful about them. When Castiel was close enough, Dean reached down to grab his wrist. He brought Castiel’s arm over his shoulder and tossed his hat onto the table before his other hand grazed Castiel’s hip. “Can’t say I’ll be doing much resting.”
Castiel tightened his hold around him slightly and let himself smile as Dean leaned forward to kiss him. It was strange how the warmth of the day was comforting now. He pressed the flat of his hand between Dean’s shoulder blades, savoring the kiss. It had been three weeks since he’d had this. He’d missed him.
Dean hummed when he drew back, keeping his hands on Castiel. Castiel took a second just to look at him. He said, “When did you get back?”
“About ten minutes ago,” Dean said. He pulled away further but wrapped his hands around Castiel’s suspenders. He walked backward and hopped up on the table, guiding Castiel the whole way. As he did, he was saying, “Rode all night to get back. Sammy headed on home already, but I thought I’d find you here first. Didn’t want to wait ‘til tonight.”
Castiel nodded and allowed a sigh. “That was probably a good idea. Who knows if I’ll make it home later.”
“Cas,” Dean scolded—or complained. “C’mon, don’t tell me you slept here last night, too.”
He could easily say that. “I didn’t sleep here last night,” he confirmed, “because I didn’t sleep.”
“Cas.”
“You just said you hadn’t slept either,” Castiel reminded him. He placed his hands on Dean’s thighs.
Dean grumbled, “One of us shoulda kept the bed warm.”
Castiel didn’t tell him that their bed was never warm without Dean in it. Possibly because it still felt like Dean’s bed. In Dean’s house. Castiel had a room on the Winchesters’ homestead for the last nine years, in the stable house behind the main one. He’d rented it at first, after he’d arrived in Lawrence. Six years later, Dean moved into the stable house, too, and Castiel no longer paid rent.
But sometimes it still felt like he did.
Often, when Dean was away on his route, Castiel preferred to spend the majority of his time at the office. Perhaps he even made excuses to work through the night, even in the colder months.
“Warm it for me,” Castiel told him, squeezing Dean’s thighs before pulling away. He went back to his apothecary and unrolled the leather pouch of surgical knives. He could feel Dean’s eyes on his back.
“Jesus,” Dean hissed, causing Castiel to peer over his shoulder. Dean was glancing at the water basin. “Was there any blood left inside the body?”
Castiel grimaced and went back to his task. “Mick Davies got himself shot last night. His arm was mangled. I had to amputate it.”
Dean groaned out in disgust and shivered squeamishly, even though he was anything but. “Shot by who?”
“Who do you think?”
“Goddamn rustlers,” Dean said with a click of his tongue. “Mick doing okay?”
“He’s fine, considering. Sleeping it off in the back.” Castiel tipped his head toward the wooden door in the back of the room to indicate it. “The cowboy who did it is with the sheriff.”
“Yeah, he better be,” Dean mumbled. And then, brighter and louder, “Well, hey, if you don’t have any customers now, why don’t we go home for breakfast?”
Castiel wished. After the tools he needed were laid out, he rolled the rest back up and rubbed at his eyes, trying to rally himself. “There’s a fresh body coming in for an autopsy. It should be here any minute.”
When Castiel turned back around, Dean was shrugging. “So? He’ll still be dead tomorrow.”
Castiel shot him a look. Dean shot him one back. Castiel sighed. “They wanna bury him this afternoon. You go home. I’ll try to follow in a few hours. And take Lincoln. He needs to be fed.”
Dean hopped off the table, swiping his hat up but not putting it on. “How’ll you get home?”
“I’ve walked it before.” The Winchesters’ homestead was only a couple miles out of town. It wasn’t far.
“Oh, fuck no,” Dean told him, adamant. He stepped closer, until Castiel was trapped between the apothecary and Dean’s body. “Tell you what, I’ll bring him back into town tonight. Me and Sam’ll probably want to come back, anyway. We just got paid, and you know I play a better game when you’re rolling my cigarettes.”
It was tempting, even if Castiel would rather spend his free time asleep. But Dean had a strange ability to tempt Castiel into almost anything. “Deal. If you can keep anyone else from bleeding out tonight.”
Dean smiled again, eyes crinkling. “Deal.”
Castiel’s eyes dropped down to Dean’s mouth, and his lips itched to kiss him again. Only, the bell above the door rang, and Dean quickly leaned out of his personal space, rubbing at the back of his neck as he did. They both glanced at the newcomer.
“Miss Kline,” Castiel greeted, brightening. He liked Kelly. She was fairly new in town. She arrived about four months previous, already heavily pregnant. Despite that, Rowena had given her a place to stay at the bordello. Other than that, Castiel didn’t know much about her past. She’d come from the south, and she’d apparently worked a few towns on the circuit for a year before ending up in Lawrence. He assumed she’d left her old residence after falling pregnant, but she usually changed the subject when it was broached.
The other girls at the brothel loved to speculate about Kelly’s past. Castiel had treated enough of them to hear all the wild rumors. He didn’t take part in the gossip. He considered Kelly a friend. She was kind and warm, and she seemed eager to keep her child once it was born. Most girls would give their babies up, or find an abortionist. But Kelly had taken to the idea of motherhood.
“Hello, Dr. Novak,” she said as she ducked into the room. She tucked a strand of her cropped hair behind her ear and smiled softly in the two men’s direction. “Mr. Winchester.”
“Hey, Kelly,” Dean said. “Still no baby?” He’d asked it as if it weren’t painfully obvious.
“No,” she laughed, her hand resting on her stomach atop her skirt. “I’m told, any day now.” She glanced at Castiel, as if checking to make sure she was correct. And she was. Actually, it might have been any hour, rather than any day. “God knows, I need the relief.”
“Yeah, good luck with that.”
“Thank you.”
Dean turned back to Castiel and put his hat back on. “Guess I’ll leave you to it. See you tonight?”
A soft smile pressed against the corners of Castiel’s mouth, and he nodded.
Accepting it, Dean started toward the exit. “Have a good day, Kelly.”
“You, too.” They waited until Dean was gone, the two of them standing on opposite sides of the room and looking at each other. Castiel heard Dean’s footsteps receding down the boardwalk outside, until the sounds of them were indistinguishable from the others. Kelly was biting back a teasing smile. She said, “You two are good together.”
Castiel tried not to roll his eyes. He busied himself by turning back toward the basin. The fly that had been buzzing around had landed on the edge. He swatted it away and moistened his hands again. “We’re rarely together,” he told her, and he hadn’t meant to sound so severe about it.
Behind him, Kelly said, “I don’t think distance matters. He loves you, doesn’t he?”
Castiel realized he’d stopped drying his hands. The cloth was held between them, but he wasn’t moving. He rattled his head, trying to shake up the thought his mind had gotten stuck on. The thought: I don’t know.
The thought: When it suits him.
“Maybe,” he admitted. “Sometimes.”
“And I know you feel the same,” Kelly said.
When Dean was with him for an extended period of time, the answer again was, maybe, sometimes. When Dean was away, the answer was, usually. In times like these, when Dean first got back, it was, always.
He forced a laugh and turned around. “Kelly, you didn’t come here to talk about Dean Winchester.”
She must have known it was a deliberate distraction, but she allowed it. “No,” she said, moving further into the room. She fingered at the edges of her shawl, eyes downcast. It was a little odd. Kelly was usually more direct. It concerned him.
“Is everything alright?”
“Well,” she answered thoughtfully and rolled her eyes as if it was a silly complaint, “the morning sickness is back.”
Was that all? “Have you been taking the medication I gave you?”
Her smile faltered. “I ran out a few weeks ago. I would have come sooner but—Well, I still need to find a way to pay you, and—The drug just makes my heart beat so fast, anyway, and—”
“Kelly.” He put his hands on her shoulders, trying to calm her. It took a moment, but she met his eyes. “I understand the concern, but it’ll relieve the illness. And, I’ve told you before, don’t worry about payment. I just want to see you and your baby healthy.”
She considered, and then nodded. She seemed reluctant but grateful. Trustful. Castiel shot her a disarming smile before letting his arms fall away. He turned back to his apothecary and opened the cabinet up top. He pulled out the glass bottle of powdered cocaine and a small, empty vial to transfer a few doses into.
When he was finished, he stopped up the vial and brought it over to her. “Remember to mix it with water when you drink it.”
She nodded again and slipped the vial into her purse. Something else seemed to be bothering her. “Is there something else?” A thought struck him: “Is the baby okay?”
“Oh, yes! Of course,” she assured, seeming startled. And then, “It isn't anything like that. It’s just . . .” Her arm went around her stomach again, as if she were shielding the child. She cleared her throat, and held her chin up to admit, “I’m afraid, Castiel.”
He wasn’t really certain what to say to that. Dean had told him that his bedside manner tended to be a bit awkward. Perhaps someone like Rowena would be better suited for a conversation like this. But, then again, he doubted Rowena wanted a child running around her bordello. She’d likely tell Kelly to give the child up to an orphanage, but he already knew Kelly wouldn’t. They’d discussed that option. The nearest orphanage was outside Kansas City, and Kelly didn’t want her child raised by the Catholic brothers.
He tried his best to console her, despite the nervous trill it sparked under his skin. He was certain he’d say the wrong thing. “That’s perfectly normal. Many new mothers feel unprepared before the birth of—”
“It’s not that,” she interrupted with a wave, but she didn’t appear prepared to continue.
Castiel thought back to all the leaky-mouthed gossip he’d heard from the other soiled doves. They said Kelly was the daughter of a governor, and she ran away with a man that her father didn’t approve of, only to be abandoned when she became pregnant. They said she was on the run from her former madam after having an affair with the woman’s husband. They said she was captured by a band of highway robbers on her travels and managed to escape after they’d taken advantage of her.
He doubted her misfortunes piled so high. In truth, she was probably just a sporting woman who’d been impregnated by one of her clients. Whatever the case, Castiel suspected she knew who the father was.
He wondered if this had anything to do with him.
“Then what is it?” he asked, not wanting to press too far.
She glanced out the window as if to make sure they wouldn’t be interrupted. She said, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to protect him.”
Castiel canted his head to the side, eyes narrowing. “Why—Why would he need protecting?”
For a brief moment, it looked as if she might tell him. She got as far as opening her mouth and drawing in breath, but then she clamped it back shut and shook her head flightily. “It’s nothing. I’m being silly.”
“Kelly,” he said. He reached out again and took her hands. “Whatever it is, I’d like to help. You can trust me.”
She softened somewhat, doe eyes lighting with hints of a smile. “I know. Sometimes, I think you may be the only person I can trust.”
Then why not tell him?
He tried to keep his expression from tightening. He couldn’t allow his own curiosity to get the better of him. He had to trust that, when she needed his help, she’d come to him. He forced himself to nod. “Then, whatever . . . whatever you need. When you’re ready.”
She pulled her hands out from between his. “You’ve already been so generous. I shouldn’t take up any more of your time.”
He shook his head, because none of that mattered. “It’s no trouble.”
With another, albeit shaky smile, she put her shawl back around her shoulders and told him, “I expect I’ll see you soon.”
“Yeah.” He placed his hand on her arm and helped her to the door. “Come back if you need anything else.”
The bell above the door chimed. He squinted against the sunlight bouncing off the road.
“Goodbye, Castiel.”
“Bye.”
She walked down the steps of the boardwalk and onto the dusty street, her skirt dragging on the dirt so that a fine film of brown stained the lilac cloth. She glanced up and down the road before stepping out onto it, but he had a feeling she wasn’t just wary of carts and horses. He watched her cross to the opposite side. Another fly zipped past his ear into the office.
The Winchester homestead was tucked and secluded into a basin of freshly budding trees on three sides. The main house, a wooden structure with smoke currently curling out of the stone fireplace, was situated closest to the dirt road that cut through the plains until the land met the sky in the distance—all green grass and golden wheat against the clear blue horizon. Their closest neighbors’ house was a mile away, but their property stretched much further. They owned that wheat; they had for as long as Dean could remember. When he was seven, they had to put up a fence to stop him from riding his horse through the crops and stealing stocks for bread.
Of course, that’s when Dean taught his horse to jump fences.
He turned Cas’ palomino Thoroughbred toward the beaten path that led through the entrance of the homestead’s perimeter fence. One of the logs near the trees had fallen down, and Dean made a mental note to fix it later on. His eyes swept along the rest of their land—the one his father had left to him after his death nearly nineteen years ago. Dean had been almost eleven when the Plain Indian Wars made him the man of the house.
There was the stable house toward the back of the property, the barn across the way from the main house, and the pen where they kept the horses. He spotted Chevy immediately as she grazed inside the pen. Bones and his brother, Dodger, were in there with her. Dean couldn’t have been too far behind Sam, but he was happy to see his brother had unsaddled and watered the horses without him.
His gaze swept back to the smoke from the house, which meant breakfast was cooking. His stomach rumbled at the prospect as he slid off Lincoln’s back and led him to the barn to unsaddle him. When he was done, he put some feed in a bucket, and the horse gave a snort of anticipation as if to hurry Dean along.
“Don’t be impatient,” Dean told him. Lincoln shook out his white-blonde mane. Dean argued back, “You learned that from Cas, you know. He's impatient, too.” He hefted up the feed bucket and made for the patch of sunshine spilling through the barn door. Lincoln followed after him, hooves thudding lightly into the dirt.
When they were outside, he nosed at Dean’s back, nearly toppling him over. Dean shot him a glare over his shoulder before leading him around the wooden well. “Don’t blame me that he works all the time. I don’t like it, either.”
He opened the pen, leading Lincoln inside, and the other horses must have caught the food’s scent because they all perked up. Dean spilled it into the trough and moved out of the way as the animals advanced. On his way out, he ran his palm across Chevy’s flank and gave her a gentle pat. She flicked her tail lightly against his chest before he slipped away.
A deep inhale filled his lungs with the scents of springtime, and more than ever he could feel exhaustion overcoming him. He was home now, and the trees were gaining their leaves, and the champagne-colored wheat fields were shuddering and rolling in the gentle breeze that swept through the land.
He was home, where the biggest threat in recent years had been tornados, and not something he had to concern himself with as of right now. He could rest.
He stepped onto the porch, the wood creaking beneath him as he swiped his boots so as not to track any dirt in. The shade the overhang provided was a bit of relief from the warm day. Dean could already hear chatter from inside, along with the familiar sound of lyrical laughter. He let it wash over him, as if it were a balm to the last few weeks, before opening the door.
“Oh, you don’t really mean that,” Mom was saying, sweet laughter still in her tone. She was seated at the table in the kitchen, one elbow propped up on the table as she cradled her cheek in her hand. She’d cropped her hair much shorter than the long blonde waves Dean was used to seeing whenever she wore it down. The fire was going behind her, a giant cauldron of water sitting on the grate inside, flames licking around the base. There was another lidded pot next to it, and Dean wondered what was cooking.
There was already a loaf of bread—fresh from the oven, by the smell of it—on the table, crumbs on the cloth it was set upon, and a few slices taken out. Sam, sitting at the end of the table, his back to Dean in the doorway, was munching on a honey-covered slice. They usually had more honey than they knew what to do with, thanks to Cas’ love of it. He kept asking to keep a hive of bees for himself on the property so he could get the stuff fresh. Dean kept telling him he’d think about it, and then never did.
“What doesn’t he mean?” Dean asked in ways of greeting.
Sam swiveled around. Mary glanced up, her smile turning warmer. “Hey, sweetie,” she said, and she shifted like she was about to stand.
“Don’t get up,” Dean told her as he palmed off his hat and walked around the table. He had to squeeze between the wall and Sam’s chair to do so, and he purposefully kneed Sam in the back. Sam responded by scooting the chair backward to trap him, but Dean was too quick. He was out before his brother got the chance.
“Hey, Mom,” he said when he reached her and leaned down to peck her cheek. “I like the hair.”
“Oh, thank you. I was tired of putting it up all the time,” Mary said, patting his cheek before Dean drew away. He took with him the cloth set in front of her. “How’s Castiel? I’ve barely seen him all week.” She turned to watch Dean crouch next to the fire and used the cloth to take off the pot’s lid. Oatmeal was bubbling inside.
“Yeah, kinda figured you wouldn’t be back so soon,” Sam interjected.
Dean lifted the pot from the grate, since it would be hell to clean if the oatmeal burned to the bottom, and brought it over to the table. “Ah, he’s working. Like always.”
“Will he be home tonight?” Mary asked.
Dean tried for a smirk because he really didn’t know the answer, but he could hope. “If I have to drag him by his ears.” He collected three bowls and spoons from the pantry cabinet and brought them over, too.
Everything was exactly where he’d left it—which, truthfully, he hadn’t expected to return to a reorganized pantry, but it was still a comfort. The rest of the house was quiet, with Mary’s bedroom through the door behind the kitchen, and the bedroom he’d once shared with Sam on the other side of the house. The bath was in the small, enclosed deck on the other side of the fireplace, a door that Dean had built himself connecting the rooms. It wasn’t much, but it had always been enough for them.
But, sometimes, he got the feeling it wasn’t enough for Cas. Not that Dean really blamed him. He knew, after growing up in a big city like Chicago, Lawrence probably felt like the ends of the earth. For a few years, when Cas was still their renter, Dean constantly expected him to pack up one day and move on to another town. All these years later, Dean still half-expected that. He wanted this to be Cas’ home, too, in more than just name. He just didn’t know how to provide that.
“Anyway,” Dean said, clearing his throat in an attempt to steer the subject elsewhere. “What does Sammy not mean?”
It took a second for Mary to understand his meaning, but then her eyes lit up in recognition. Sam got there first, though. “Nothin’, nothing. I was just telling Mom about how everyone who works at the station in Salina is an idiot.”
As Mary laughed, Dean scooped the porridge into the bowls and slid them in front of his family. He brought his own, nestled between his palms, to the other side of the table, and sat down. “Uh, yeah, he absolutely means that, then,” he said, annoyance spiking from the memory. “You tell her about how they tried to swap out our bum wheel with one three sizes smaller?”
Sam seemed happy to keep complaining. Dean spooned his oatmeal into his mouth.
After breakfast, Dean brought a bucket of the heated water to the stable house out back. It was a small, one-room thing—nothing but a fireplace, a table, and a bed pushed up against the back wall. But it was home.
Except, at the moment, it was more of a pigsty. The second Dean opened the door, he nearly tripped over one of Cas’ boots. He glared down at it like it had just insulted his mother, and then brought his eyes up to the rest of the damage. The unmade bed. The stale bread on the table. The dinner chair over by the window for some reason and strewn with clothes that were supposed to be in the dresser. The dresser, of course, was nearly empty, and the middle drawer was hanging open. Even the crucifix on the wall over the piece of furniture was inexplicably lopsided.
Just once, Dean would like to come home to a clean house.
“Dammit, Cas,” he grumbled and closed the door behind him. He set the water on the table before going around and grabbing the stray objects so they could be put in their correct places. He didn’t bother making the bed, since he was planning on taking a nap, anyway. The bread was gone for, but at least it hadn’t attracted any mice. It would probably make good food for the birds, because Dean would be damned if he’d waste food.
The water was lukewarm by the time he was finished setting everything right. He sloshed it into the basin on the dresser, anyway, before stripping out of his clothes. He shaved and scrubbed himself down as best he could. He’d need a real bath to get any real caked-on grime off, and if he wanted to soak his aching muscles. But god knew Sam would take his sweet time bathing, so Dean would just have to wait.
Clean enough, he got into fresh clothes and dumped the browning water out the window. And then his eyes landed on the bed. The simple fact that it was still unmade meant Cas had slept in it at some point while Dean was away, but he wondered how long ago that was. He was almost reluctant to climb in and see just how cold the blankets were.
Their bed always seemed too big without Cas sleeping next to him. That might have been because his old bed back in the main house had been so damn small, he’d outgrown it by the time he was a teenager. Or maybe it was because he found it easier to sleep in Cas’ presence.
He let out a breath and ran his hand through his now damp hair. He needed to sleep. His body was sluggish and his eyes were drooping. But his mind was still whirling, his senses still honed for any bandit or Native scout that might come upon their camp in the middle of the night. His fingers still flexed like he was sleeping with his gun wrapped inside of them.
He needed to calm himself, so he guessed it was lucky his best friend was the town’s doctor. He went back to the dresser, a small apothecary chest that Cas usually left at home sitting atop it. He rifled until he found a vial of small opium tablets. Upon a cursory glance, there wasn’t any whiskey around to mix it with, so he simply took off the cork and swallowed one without dissolving it first. He assumed it wouldn’t be the end of the world.
Hoping that would do the trick, he settled into bed above the blankets and stared up at the graying wooden planks of the ceiling. Beneath his untucked shirt, the chain around his neck slowly slid from his chest to the pillow. He reached under his collar and pulled the necklace out.
Two bronze items were hanging from the chain. One was an Anasazi symbol of protection that Sam had bought for him at a roadside merchant years ago during their travels. The other was newer: a tiny, plain Christian cross. Dean wasn’t much of a believer in either religion those trinkets represented, but the one from Sam had been a gift. And the other was from Cas, who had given it to him one night before Dean took off on a job.
Dean still remembered protesting when Cas had taken the cross from around his own neck and placed it in Dean’s palm. But, like always, it was an argument Dean lost, and he was grateful he had. It probably wouldn’t do much good for protection, just like Sam’s gift wouldn’t. For that, Dean would rely on his Colt. But it was a comfort to have a piece of Cas with him when they were apart.
He fiddled with the cross between his fingers before bringing it to his lips. Then, he tucked the necklace back under his shirt and went to sleep.
Somehow, Dean managed to keep his promise. The night was a lively one, but as far as Castiel knew, no one had been stabbed or shot, and no one came frantically looking for him.
He spent the evening in one of the saloons in town, sitting at the table with a bottle of whiskey and tobacco as Dean bested a group of men at cards for hours. The game attracted quite the crowd of spectators, and for a moment it seemed like a fight might break out when one of the men appeared to be cheating. Dean managed to diffuse it by sternly telling the man to “play poker,” and the cowboy appeared to get the hint well enough.
For the better part of the night, Sam had been trying his hand at the faro table and seemed to be doing well. Castiel was never much of a fan of poker, and he wasn’t foolish enough to think he could buck the tiger; but he did enjoy a game of dice from time to time, so long as Dean was around to blow on them before he tossed. There was no dice game that night, though, and he was too tired to be upset or care much either way. He was content to sit at Dean’s elbow and share in the excitement of the game.
As the night wore on, someone started to play a tune on the piano, and one of the actresses from the troupe that had rolled into town began to sing. Many of the men fell silent, their attention on her as she put on the show. Some of them grabbed a woman and began dancing; and Dean tipped his hat at Castiel, a bright grin lighting his watery, intoxicated eyes, as he offered his hand.
Castiel followed him away from the tables and closer to the piano, his hand set in Dean’s warm, callused palm, as the singer continued on:
I’ve been thinking a long time, my darling,
Of those sweet words you never would say,
But the last of my fond hopes have vanished,
For they say you are going away
It was still second nature for Castiel to warily glance around before dancing with Dean in public. But there was no need for concern here like there was in the cities. Even now, there in that saloon, he saw a few of the cowboys cozying up to one another. He supposed long weeks on the trail or on the ranches without any women around changed a man’s attractions; or perhaps their proclivities leaned toward men to begin with, as his own did. Perhaps there were even a few among them who, like Dean, weren’t picky about gender.
It was one of the many reasons Castiel preferred life in a small cattle town to the societies like the one he was brought up in. The frontier was wild, and there were better things to get caught up about.
I have promised you, darling, that never
Would words from my lips cause you pain;
My life will be yours forever,
If only you will love me again
He held Dean close to him, his chin tilted to rest on Dean’s shoulder, their fingers entwined; his other hand was on Dean’s side as they rocked together. When Dean was away, Castiel never quite knew how much he missed him until he returned. He wondered if Dean knew that. Castiel wondered if he’d ever have the guts to say it aloud, and to hear what the answer might be.
Just remember the Red River Valley
And the cowboy who loves you so true
It was close to two o’clock in the morning by the time they headed home, according to the clock on the town hall’s tower. The three of them collected their horses from the corral and road home. Sam was a little unsteady on his feet as he bid them goodnight and headed for the main house. Dean teased after him, his arm slung around Castiel’s shoulders, and Castiel could feel his rumbling laughter at his side. The bright moon was lighting up the sky, overtaking the stars and casting the world in silver.
When they were inside the stable house, Castiel started toward the table to take off his boots, but Dean grabbed him by the hand and reeled him back in. Their chests knocked together, taking the air from Castiel’s lungs, but it would have disappeared anyway with the way Dean had wrapped his arms around him. He met Dean in a kiss and brought his hands up to take off Dean’s hat. He tossed it to the side so he could run his fingers through his hair. It was a little longer than Dean normally wore it, and Castiel would have to trim it later. But, for the moment, he enjoyed the extra inches he had to cling to.
By the time the kiss broke, Castiel felt stirring in his lower abdomen. He could taste whiskey again, and it must have come off Dean’s tongue. Castiel licked his lips, chasing the taste. Dean hummed, eyes dark and hooded as they looked at him, chin tilted, and sly smirk firm on his features. “What d’you say you get those boots off and leave the rest to me?”
After weeks apart, Castiel wasn’t about to deny either of them. He always liked their pace on the nights Dean got home, when Dean was more tender and attentive than usual. He pressed his lips to the corner of Dean’s mouth and nodded before reluctantly pulling out of his arms.
He went to the table and sat down in one of the chairs. Some moonlight was spilling in through the windows, but he reached for the gas lantern in the center of the table and turned it on high enough to cast an orange glow around the room. He removed his hat first, setting it on the table, before pulling off his boots and socks. Dean retrieved his hat from the floor and smacked it twice to get the dirt off it before hanging it on a hook next to the door. Then, he went to the edge of the bed and lifted one leg up to wriggle his boot off.
It was around then that Castiel realized the place was clean, which was another advantage of Dean being home. He’d never been very good at tidying up after himself, not for a lack of trying. But he was usually rushing out the door in the mornings, too busy to come back during the day and bone-tired whenever he managed to make it home at night. He was glad a bit of normalcy could resume, and he’d get a clean house and hot, home-cooked meals now that Dean was back.
He stood up and removed his duster and necktie, dropping both on the chair. Dean was bent over, arranging his boots along the bottom of the bed. Castiel eyed him in that position for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek and contemplating Dean’s immaculately built form. He moved closer, determined, as Dean stood up, to grab him by the hips and turn him around.
Dean acted as if he’d been expecting it. He moved easily and was grinning into their kiss, pliant as Castiel backed him against the wall and slid his tongue hungrily into his mouth. Dean’s palms smoothed down his back, coming to a rest on his ass. He dug his fingers into the seat of Castiel’s trousers and hauled him in closer so their bodies could be flush. Castiel pressed his hips into him, groaning at the friction it caused.
After some time, Dean kissed down Castiel’s jaw and nipped at his Adam’s apple. Castiel’s breath came out choppy, and he tilted his head back to expose his throat, giving Dean better access. “Cas,” Dean said between pecks and sucks. “I don’t care if it makes my ass hurt even more. I’m riding you tonight.”
Castiel’s eyes opened, and he hadn’t even been aware he’d been closing them. He realized his throat was dry, too, and his lips were cracked from sucking in air through them. He dipped his head back down to nose at Dean’s cheek. His dick was begging for attention, wanting him to rut up against Dean again.
“I’d like that,” he whispered into the space between them.
After that, it was a rush of pulling off each other’s shirts and undoing their pants. Dean grabbed Castiel’s dick through the fabric, and started rubbing and teasing, and generally making Castiel’s knees get to the point of collapse. Before that could happen, Castiel grabbed Dean’s wrist, stilling him. He took the other wrist, too, and stretched Dean’s arms over his head. He held them against the wall with one hand, his other trailing the expanse of Dean’s torso as he kissed him deeply. Dean moaned and bucked his body forward to meet him. The cross hanging from his neck clinked against the amulet as they shifted.
When Dean ripped his wrists out of their hold, he quickly wrapped his arms around Castiel’s middle and off-balanced them both. A dizzying rush overcame Castiel as they tipped onto the bottom of the bed with a thud. His knee hit against the wooden bar of the end board, and feather quills poked out from the mattress to prick at him. Dean landed on top of him, punching a grunt out of him.
“Dean,” Castiel scolded. Dean grinned and picked himself up to straddle Castiel’s hips. His hands roughed up Castiel’s ribcage, settling on his chest. And despite his previous annoyance, his skin prickled in the wake the touch left behind.
“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” Dean told him. His cheeks were rosy in the flickering gaslight on the table—one side of him in shadows, the other illuminated in warmth. His full lips were slick and bruised with kisses, and he ran his teeth over his bottom lip as his eyes moved along Castiel’s torso.
Dean circled his thumbs around Castiel’s nipples, making his blood course with flames. Castiel grabbed on to Dean’s waist. Dean started moving on top of him, circling his hips and pressing his ass into Castiel’s groin. He was whispering soft encouragements. “That’s it, sweetheart. Just let me do the work. That’s it.”
Castiel moved his hands to the tops of Dean’s thighs, still mercilessly covered by his trousers. He dug his fingers in. His breath hitched when Dean changed his rhythm and sunk down further into him. He tried to buck back up into him, but it was hard to do under Dean’s weight.
It was easier to sit up, to trail his mouth along Dean’s chest and clavicle, to smooth his palms along his shoulder blades. Against him, the muscles in Dean’s stomach jumped, and he started whispering Castiel’s name in a stuttering mantra. Castiel rounded his hand to Dean’s belly and dropped his fingers below Dean’s unbuttoned waistband. Dean hissed, his body tensing before relaxing. Castiel took him out of his trousers and circled his thumb on the moist head of his dick.
Dean framed his jaw and tilted his head up into a messy kiss. He was keening into it, the sounds broken and fraught. Castiel got lost in the noises, and in the way their mouths moved together. He didn’t come back to himself until Dean pulled away and blanketed Castiel’s hand with his own to still it. “Thought we were comin’ together tonight?”
Castiel grinned up at him. Dean’s mouth was still so close to his, but he stopped himself from capturing it again. He nodded and let Dean off of him. Dean left the bed and moved toward the dresser with Castiel’s medical chest on top. As he opened it up and rifled through it, Castiel shimmied out of his trousers. He scooted up the bed so his knees wouldn’t hang off the end. His body was pulsing and heated, a thrill of anticipation going through him as he eyed Dean’s flushed chest and neck. The sight of him reminded Castiel how heavy his dick was.
“It’s in the side compartment,” Castiel told him, hoping to hurry him up. He knew he was running low on petroleum jelly, but they should have enough to get through the night. He’d just have to order more tomorrow.
“Hold your horses,” Dean told him, but he found the tin as he spoke. He twisted off the lid and brought the bottom half back to bed. His gaze scanned Castiel as he moved, landing appreciatively on his lower half. He didn’t say anything. He just handed the tin over and bent over to strip out of his pants. Castiel watched him, heart jumping when he caught sight of Dean’s cock curling up toward his belly.
“I think,” Castiel told him, extending his arm out to offer his hand. Dean took it, lacing their fingers together as he climbed up onto the bed. He knelt over Castiel’s lap. “You may have the finest body I’ve ever seen.”
Dean let out a breath of laughter. “Not too encouraging coming from a man who performed an autopsy this morning.” He draped his arm over Castiel’s shoulder, free hand combing through the hair on the base of his skull.
“You’re certainly more handsome than a dead man.”
Dean pecked his lips. “All right, enough with the romance,” he joked, just to cover up how pink his ears were turning.
Castiel took his hand out of Dean’s to scoop up some of the jelly. As he reached around, Dean parted his legs further. He met Dean’s stare. And then Dean’s eyes fluttered when he fit one finger inside him and swiped at his rim. Dean’s lips parted on a shaky breath. Castiel pressed the pad of his finger down teasingly before slipping into his hole.
Dean grunted, his shoulders going taught and his muscles tightening around Castiel’s finger.
“Dean, relax,” Castiel told him, keeping his voice even.
Dean breathed out, easing the tension from his body. “I’m relaxed,” he assured. Castiel believed him, so he pushed further inside to the next knuckle. Dean’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. Castiel eased him open, adding more jelly and another finger when Dean was ready for it. By the time a third finger was stretching him open, Dean was rolling back into Castiel’s hand and letting out loud groans.
His erection had waned some, so Castiel used his other hand to plump him up again. Dean rocked back and forth between his fist and fingers. He was gripping Castiel’s hair tight, and his moans were mixed with, “Cas . . . Castiel.”
Castiel was aching by the time he laid back and watched Dean sink down on him. Dean moved on top of him, mouth open and eyes far off. Castiel rolled his hips up to meet his thrusts. His hands scrambled for something to hold on to, and he ended up riding Dean’s motions on his hips—until Dean took one of his hands and tied their fingers together again.
Castiel kept staring at him, watching the way Dean’s jaw worked, seeing the sweat collecting on his chest. Dean’s eyes swept down to meet him, and a smile spread on his cheeks, crinkling his eyes. He really was quite the sight to see.
With the beginnings of his orgasm slowly curling his toes, Castiel wrapped his fist around Dean’s cock and started working him. Dean’s free hand joined him, and they pumped him together until Dean was gasping and grunting. His body locked up, and he sat down further onto Castiel’s dick. He came into their hands.
Castiel’s orgasm hit soon after, making him buck up into Dean. They rode through the aftershocks together, chasing the last of it, as their bodies slowed to a stop.
His lungs were burning. He didn’t realize how sweaty he was until he reached up to run a hand through his hair. Dean was still on top of him, chest heaving as he caught his breath.
Dean winced when he pushed himself up, sliding Castiel’s spent dick out of him. He rolled off to the side and let out a breathy kind of laugh. Castiel turned his head toward him, beaming in return to Dean’s infectious smile. He was happy Dean was home, and his. At least for now.
As Dean lay on his back, Castiel looked down at his own body. He wiped his hand on the sheet. They’d made a mess of the blankets, but it wasn’t anything they hadn’t been able to wash out before.
Dean hummed, his eyes falling closed. “Okay, now I’m exhausted.”
“I’d have to agree,” Castiel told him. He could feel it creeping back into his bones, more powerful now that he was sated. His mind didn’t turn like it had these past weeks every time he tried to sleep. He thought he could drift off quickly.
“You know what else?” Dean asked, eyes still closed, voice sleepy. Castiel rolled his head against the pillow again to look at him. His profile was outlined by the orange light. He said, “I think I’ve taken a shine to you.”
Castiel felt himself smiling again, a close-mouthed thing. Every time Dean said that, it made him come alive.
He responded, “I think you better have.”
Something had spooked the horses. That’s what had woken Dean up. They were making a fuss, nickering and stomping around the pen. Dean blinked awake to the darkness, the muted silvery light of the moon now hidden behind a wisp of clouds outside. The temperature had dropped, sending shivers up his arms and legs. Cas was still fast asleep on his belly, hogging all the blankets.
Dean sat up, hearing the bed whine under him. Pain was thudding dully in his ass, and he had to shift his weight to stop it. He held his breath, listening out for any unrecognizable sounds. All he heard were the horses.
And then a shout cut through the night. It was long and loud, pained. It sounded like a woman being attacked. Dean’s stomach dropped out from under him.
“Cas,” he hissed, immediately shaking Cas by the shoulder as he scrambled out of bed.
Cas scrunched up in on himself, taking a sharp breath. “Mmm?”
Dean found his slacks on the floor and hopped into them. “There’s someone outside.” Where the hell was his shirt? He quickly scanned the floor.
“What?” Cas asked, sounding more alert. He’d lifted his head off his pillow and stared at Dean. Dean stared back, about to repeat himself, but then another cry echoed. One of the horses whinnied. Cas’ eyes went big.
As Dean slipped into his shirt, Cas jumped out of bed and hastily started dressing. Dean lifted the mattress to pull out his Colt from underneath, and pulled back the hammer as he moved to the window. He heard the whisper of wood sliding as Cas opened the dresser’s top drawer to retrieve his Derringer.
He stayed out of sight against the wall and peered outside. There were no signs of a scuffle, but there was a figure by the main house, doubled over as one hand was held out on the porch post for support. The other was clutching her stomach—her large, swollen stomach.
“Shit,” Dean hissed, the reality of the situation dawning on him. He rushed to the door and shoved his gun into his waistband. Cas was on his heels.
“Miss Kline!” Dean called. The figure in the moonlight brought her head up, but she was still bent over in pain.
Cas overtook him in a jog. “Kelly!” He was at her side in no time, his arms going out to support her. She let go of the post and hung on to him, one hand on his shoulder and the other in his.
She was talking quickly, voice weak. “. . . didn’t know where else to go. Please, help me, Castiel.” Dean barely heard her. He was too busy looking at the large, dark stain blooming on the front of her skirt. It was difficult to tell its color in the near darkness, but he suspected it was blood. His first instinct was that she’d been shot.
“Come inside,” Cas told her, his tone calm and measured, but he was afraid. Dean could tell in how clipped his words were, and how tightly he was holding himself. He glanced up, eyes connecting with Dean’s, and there was a controlled fear in them. “Dean, help.”
Dean was at Kelly’s other side immediately, and they helped her onto the porch and through the front door. It was awkward maneuvering her, and she was as heavy as bricks. Her hand was clammy as it clutched Dean’s, and her grip must have been an indication of how much agony she was in.
When they got inside, Dean didn’t even have to call out before Sam’s bedroom door opened. His hair was askew, and he was barefoot under his loose slacks. The cuff buttons of his shirt were undone. “Dean?” he was asking. Unlike the state of him, he sounded wide awake—and he was. Dean had seen Sam transition from out cold to sprinting in five seconds flat before. “Miss Kline? What’s—?”
“I need hot water,” Cas cut in as he led Kelly to the kitchen table. Dean let his hands slip away, and he stood dumbly in the doorway. He shared a severe look with Sam.
At that moment, Mary came through her bedroom door, still in her nightgown. “What’s going on?”
Cas quickly cleared the table of the kettle and plates. As he did, Kelly leaned forward against the wood, panting hard. “Hot water,” he repeated, voice snippier. “And blankets. Go.”
“On it,” Sam said at once. He squeezed past Dean and let the door clatter behind him as he rushed to the well. Mary had disappeared into her bedroom, and she came back with a bundle of blankets and pillows from her bed. She and Cas scurried to situate them on the table. Then, Mary quickly turned to the fireplace and began piling wood to rekindle the fire.
Dean kept looking at Kelly. Her hair was sweat-matted, and she was letting out grunts that suggested she wanted to scream. Dean couldn’t fathom why she’d come there. It wasn’t like Cas was a midwife. He wondered if Cas had ever delivered a baby, or if he’d just read about it in his medical texts. Mostly, Dean wondered if any of those books taught him how to deal with so much blood.
It seemed like a lot. Too much. Was that normal?
“Dean,” Cas said through gritted teeth. Dean blinked back into himself. “Get my medicine kit—and my tools.”
Dean didn’t think. He turned around and ran back to the stable house. He passed Sam at the well, hefting the full bucket back up from the depths by the rope. They acknowledged each other, long enough for Dean to know that Sam had questions, too, but that was all. They’d get their answers later.
When he got to the stable house, he opened Cas’ dresser drawer and pulled out his leather roll of tools to tuck it under his armpit. He made sure the medical chest was fully closed before snatching it up, too. He heard the contents inside rattle and shift, but the doors didn’t open to spill them out. He doubled back on his way out to grab the blankets from their bed, just in case more were needed.
Back in the main house, Kelly was situated against the blankets and pillows on the table, her knees up and spread and her skirt rucked up. She was gritting her teeth, grunting and crying, and her hair was soaking. She looked pale in the flickering light of the fire behind her. Dean looked away to give her privacy, because he shouldn’t have even been there. None of them should have been. Kelly should have stayed at the brothel, where she’d likely find better aid for this situation.
But Cas was bent over her knees, hard at work. Mary was next to her, gripping Kelly’s hand as Kelly squeezed hard. Sam was crouched next to the fireplace, stoking the wood and waiting for the water to heat up.
“What d’you need?” Dean said, hurriedly taking the medical kit to the pantry and placing it on the surface. He’d helped Cas out with surgeries once or twice, so he knew what some of the medications and tools were but not what the hell to do with them.
“Morphine,” Cas told him distractedly. Dean knew that one well enough. He picked out the small tincture of clear liquid. His fingers fumbled over the syringes laid out in the roll of tools as he tried to infer which of the three sizes Cas wanted. The largest had a thick needle, and three round metal finger grips; while the smallest was a fine point with a stopper. He grabbed the in-between size and brought the items over.
He watched, wide-eyed, as Cas measured out the right amount. “Hold her still.” Dean did as he was told, grabbing Kelly’s free hand. She immediately laced her fingers with his and squeezed so tightly, it hurt. Cas found a vein in her arm and administered the drug, his voice a little less calm as he explained, “This’ll help with the pain. It should start working in a minute’s time. Tell me if it doesn’t.”
She nodded quickly, grimacing.
“Sam, how much longer?”
“Uh—another couple minutes,” Sam told them.
“It needs to be boiling.”
“Got it.”
Dean patted Kelly’s hand once before slipping away to join Sam at the fire. He glanced into the cauldron, where the first bubbles were beginning to line the bottom. There was a cloth in Sam’s hand, and he was wringing it, nervous. Dean realized he was grinding his own teeth. His eyes flashed toward the table, and then to Sam.
“Why the hell would she come here?” he whispered, and Sam’s gaze flickered up to him. “And how did she get here, anyway? You’re telling me she walked two miles in that condition?” He shook his head, trying to make sense of it.
Sam thinned his lips and took in a thoughtful breath. Next to them, the fire popped. “Maybe she didn’t want anyone to know the baby’s coming.”
Dean’s brow collapsed. “Why?”
Sam glanced at Kelly, and then back. He slapped the cloth into Dean’s hand. “I dunno, Dean. I’m gonna get more water.” He stood up and rushed from the kitchen.
Dean stayed frozen for a long moment, blinking at the empty space where Sam had been. He tried to make heads or tails of what Sam had meant. Then, he shook his head and looked into the water pot. It seemed heated enough now, so he dipped the cloth in and brought it over. Mary took it from him, folded it, and handed it to Cas.
Kelly had stopped yelling so much, which was a relief until Dean looked down at her. She was lying back against the pillows, head lolling and eyes fluttering. She looked cold, despite all the sweat. Dean brought his hand up, meaning to check her temperature, but then formed a fist and dropped it back to his side.
When Cas handed the cloth back to Mary, it was thick with blood. Mary blinked down at it, stunned, and it made something tight clamp up in Dean’s stomach. “Castiel,” she said, keeping her voice low. “There’s a lot of blood.”
That seemed to make Kelly come to. She lifted her head slightly, eyes half-opening. “Wha—what?” she said, delirious.
“It’s okay,” Cas snipped before he could get his frustration in check. Dean tensed his jaw, trying to stifle the urge to go over to Cas and lay a calming hand on him. Cas breathed out, and it was pretty clear that nothing about this situation was okay. “Don’t worry, Kelly.”
“No—no, Castiel,” she said, slowly shaking her head. “If I don’t—You have to protect the baby. My parents. Take him to my parents—”
“Kelly, I promise, you’ll be fine.”
Shit. She really wasn’t going to be fine.
Dean laid a hesitant hand to Kelly’s shoulder and tried to smile. “Don’t worry, Miss Kline. You’re in good hands.”
At that moment, Sam came back with another bucket of water, some of it sloshing out of the side in his haste. Dean wet the cloth again before Sam dumped the bucket into the cauldron for heating.
Not long after that, Cas instructed Kelly to start pushing. Mary was still holding her hand and dabbing her brow. Sam was on her other side, reminding her to breathe. Dean did his best to stay out of the way. He kept his arms at his sides, fists tightening each time Kelly’s wailing pierced through the house. His heart was pounding in his ears, urging him to do something useful, but he didn’t know what.
“Kelly,” Cas said at one point, and there was something about his voice now. It was less tense—a little lighter. Dean blinked over at him attentively. “You’re almost through. Just a little more.” He wasn’t exactly smiling, but there were hints of breathless pride in his eyes. “Just a little more.”
Kelly let out another yell, and then there was crying. It took Dean half a second to realize it was the baby. Cas was standing up, the blood-slick child in his arms. He was grinning down at it, holding it against his chest like it was precious. A laugh bubbled up Dean’s throat, and he didn’t really know why. He was aware of Mary and Sam letting out joyful breaths, too.
Cas looked up, eyes latching on Dean, holding his gaze. Dean beamed at him. And then he realized they should probably cover the child up. He collected an extra blanket from the floor and brought it over to Cas. They swaddled the baby up together, and Dean noticed that the front of Cas’ white shirt was stained red. His hands and arms up to his elbows were slick, too.
“Take him,” Cas whispered, handing over the baby. Dean’s heart leaped in panic because he didn’t know what the hell to do with an infant. Especially when it was still screaming. He wrapped it in his arms and tried rocking it. The baby was swollen and pink, eyes shut and mouth open. It was the smallest thing he’d ever seen.
He blinked down at the child as its cries lessened.
Cas had resumed his position on the opposite end of the table, and Dean realized he should hand the baby off to its mother. Kelly had collapsed against the pillows, her breath coming out in shallow wheezes. He went up to her, and she seemed to perk up a little. “It’s a boy,” he told her.
Despite the drugged exhaustion on her face, she smiled and reached for the boy as Dean settled him in her arms. “A boy,” she said, smiling widely. “Jack.”
“That’s a beautiful name,” Mary whispered to her.
Dean looked next to him, at Sam. Sam was still grinning, and his eyes were glistening. He wiped at his mouth before clamping his palm to Dean’s shoulder.
And then Dean looked to Cas, meaning to share in the happiness. But Cas was bent over again; when he glanced back, his face was drawn and severe. He locked onto Dean’s eyes. Dean went cold, his lips parting.
On the table, Kelly’s grip around the baby was slipping. Her chin was dipping, and she would quickly raise it again in small bursts as if she were struggling not to fall asleep.
Dean paced toward Cas. He tried to keep his eyes up, but he could see just how much blood was soaking the blankets around Kelly’s legs. “What d’you need?” he whispered.
Cas stared back at him, nostrils flaring and jaw clamped as he tried not to panic. His throat worked.
“Cas,” Dean said, trying to snap him out of it.
Nodding, Cas ran a shaky hand through his hair. It left behind a smear of blood on his forehead. “Um—A syringe,” he said. “The big one.”
Dean nodded, but he thought Cas was missing something. “Okay. What drug?”
“Just the syringe.”
Dean didn’t understand it, but he did as he was told. He collected the biggest syringe from the roll and brought it back. Cas took it into one hand, and then held out his other. He stuck it into his arm.
Dean jumped. “What the hell are you doing?”
Cas pulled up the stopper, his blood filling the instrument. “She needs blood.”
Dean was horror-stricken. “Cas—”
“She needs blood,” Cas repeated, more irritated. “Get out of my way.” He took the needle out and walked around to the side of the table. Sam blanched at the syringe, but he didn’t question it. He lifted the baby from Kelly’s arms, and she didn’t protest. Her body went limp. Cas leaned over her, his hands adjusting her head to the side and sweeping her hair away from her throat. He jammed the needle into her neck.
Kelly’s eyes fluttered.
“She needs more,” Cas reported, and went to stick himself again. Dean was at his side before he’d made a conscious decision to move. He grabbed Cas’ wrist.
“Are you crazy?”
“I’ll survive, Dean,” he said, trying to swat Dean away.
Dean didn’t budge. “What if she needs more after that? And after that? You gonna bleed yourself dry?”
“Dean!”
“Dammit, Cas, no! You need blood?” He pushed up his sleeve and stuck his arm in front of Cas, because he’d rather bleed out himself than watch Cas do it. “Use mine.”
Cas’ eyes softened, mouth falling open. He shook his head somberly. “Dean . . .”
The baby started crying again. Sam bounced and shushed him to no avail.
“Castiel,” came a frail, croaking voice from the table. Kelly’s eyes were open. Her lips were blue in the firelight, skin waxy and dull. Cas was instantly at her side, taking her hand in both of his. “Castiel, you have to—Please, take him—Take him to my parents. Waco—Texas. Please. Promise me.”
Mary reached up and brushed back Kelly’s hair with her fingers. She was looking down at the woman mournfully. Dean wondered if the two of them had ever even met before.
“Kelly—” Cas whispered, and Dean felt his own heart break from the sound.
“Promise me you’ll protect my son. You’re—I trust you, Castiel.”
Cas shook his head. “Why does he need protecting, Kelly?”
Kelly blinked, and her eyes didn’t open back up. “His father. He’s—he’s looking for him.”
“Who’s his father?” Cas asked, suddenly urgent. Kelly didn’t respond. “Kelly, who’s the baby’s father?”
It took Dean some time to realize Kelly was speaking. Her voice was so low, her lips barely moving. “He’s the devil,” she repeated. “He’s the devil . . . the devil . . .” She breathed out.
The fire popped. The baby cried.
“Kelly?” Cas said. He shook her arm, and she moved limply. “Kelly?” But he must have known.
Dean averted his gaze to the floor. And then he looked up, his eyes landing on the child in Sam’s arms.
Jack.