Chapter Text
The sunset in rural Kansas is an impeccable, almost indescribable sight this evening. Orange and pink bursting across its prairie grass yellow sky, all beaming from the sun dipping behind wheat riddled hills.
A golden horse gallops in wild, majestic strides across wide open plains.
And here Dean is, unable to appreciate it because Cas is driving him fucking crazy.
He can’t believe the silence between them has dragged on for hours without a single one of them budging on the proverbial chessboard. Cas is forcing him into initiating, into cracking the awkward icy layers between them. Not with a gentle touch, no, at this point it’ll require a fierce amount of hacking away.
When Zeppelin’s Bring It On Home starts playing on a loop for the second time, Dean pulls rather sharply into a gas station right off the highway, an open sign dangling from one rusted chain on its windows.
He turns the dial on the volume, as low as it can go without shutting it off entirely.
“Okay, man,” Dean starts when he’s neatly parked in front of a pump, the sound of his voice startling Cas out of whatever daydream he was entertaining. The guy goes stiff, pale, like he’s about to throw up. Dean tries to have sympathy for him, really. It’s not like Cas has been human long, and so many things must be new to him, but he’s not giving Dean an inch. Not even trying to. “If you have something to say, say it.”
Castiel meets his eyes, wringing his hands.
“Dean, I apologize, have I—”
“Is this one of those, like ‘vows of holy silence’ nuns do, or? ‘Cause you’re fucking killing me here.”
Cas squints, not one to usually fold in an argument.
“You haven’t spoken to me either, Dean.”
“Maybe I got nothing to say,” Dean snipes, twisting the keys out of the ignition. “But I can tell you do. You’re not good or even damn near convincing at withholding shit, so don’t bullshit a shit-dweller.”
“I have nothing I need to say. I was enjoying the music, and the—the sights.”
Dean scoffs, and dismissively goes, “Whatever, I don’t need this right now,” before exiting the car. With an aggressive slam of the car door, he starts considering as he puts in his card info at the pump that this is why Cas never tries to talk to him about anything, and why they never succeed at communication.
He knows his temper is born of the ugly order instilled by his father, yet that never seems to lessen his guilt over the existence of it. And even more so, it never seems to tamper the anger bubbling up inside.
Cas gets out of the car and disappears into the gas station, likely to use the facilities.
Dean watches him while he’s not aware.
He watches the way Cas cracks his neck, how his shoulders slump in exhaustion. How Cas holds the door open for an elderly woman with a cane and passes her as non-invasively as possible. He watches him go.
He was going to watch him go to Heaven and never return, a few weeks back.
Close the door behind him and never return.
Dean inhales deeply, unsteady on his feet and feeling each groove of the gas pump’s handle bar digging into his palm. The scent of gasoline and raw wheat mingles in his nose until he starts to feel nauseous.
Or maybe he’s nauseous for other reasons.
Dean waltzes over to a bush behind the gas station, pisses in it, and zips himself back up on the way back to his Baby. Castiel isn’t back yet, so he runs an appreciative hand over her sleek hood before sliding into the driver’s seat. He works on calming himself down by rummaging through his cassette tapes. By the time he’s landing on Credence Clearwater’s greatest hits, Castiel is stumbling into shotgun, two slushies in hand. A bag of snowballs sticks out of his flannel pocket as well, but Dean is distracted by the bright red slushie being shoved into his hand, and the apologetic look on Cas’ face paired with the sweet treat.
Castiel is holding a blue slushie for himself.
“Cherry,” Cas promises, like Dean would disapprove otherwise. “I know you like Cherry Pie, and I couldn’t locate any pie, so.”
“Thank you,” Dean says, because he’s stunned.
Because he doesn’t deserve this.
“And I’m sorry.” Cas grimaces. “You’re right. There are things, Dean, well…the point is, I’m not used to having the time and physical space to focus on all the thoughts that a human mind is capable of. I was trying to sort through them all, figure out my…feelings, as it were…about certain things that have happened recently. I fear the time got away from me, and I wasn’t being attentive to your presence.”
“You’re worried about God,” Dean assumes. “Metatron. The whole shitstorm.”
Cas’ swishes his jaw and says, “Amongst other things.”
Dean sighs and says, “Cas, I don’t need you to be attentive, I just need you to tell me when something’s bothering you. Listen.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry too, ‘kay? You’re right, you’re human now and fuck knows what messes humans are. I can’t expect you to just know the social cues of awkward silences. I just thought…” that going on this hunting trip would be able to fix what’s wrong with us.
“I’ll do my best to be more honest and open with you,” Cas promises, shutting the car door on his side. He seems chipper to be moving on from the subject. “Would you like a snowball? This was one of the first things I tried before you found me. It’s frankly absurd that these aren’t considered a delicacy.”
“No, buddy, they’re all yours. Thanks for the slush though, it’ll definitely keep me up.”
“Better to stay alert on the road at night than not.”
“See, you’re learning stuff.”
Cas smiles widely after sipping his slushie, and his teeth are decorated a sheen of blue. Dean laughs, full for a moment of nothing but pure, affectionate amusement, and cranks up Have You Ever Seen The Rain.
Maybe it’ll be okay. Maybe they can make it.
At around eight, a light on the eternal dark strip of highway inches closer.
“There it is,” Cas announces, and Dean doesn’t know how the ex-angel can see that far away. He loathes to think it might be because he’s getting older and can’t see as far in the distance as he used to be able to.
Then, it comes into view.
A small, brownish-green sign lit by a cheap street lamp.
Erosion Ranch - 15 Miles
“Call Sam and let him know we’re twenty minutes out,” Dean tells Cas, pushing down on the gas pedal a bit harder, eager to get into a bed as quickly as possible. “Ask him how his research has been going.”
Sam kept back on this trip which Dean encouraged, wanting to get Castiel to himself for a while to talk stuff over. Stuff he hasn’t even begun to breach for obvious reasons. Not to mention, Sam is still recovering from almost dying and is in no shape for even the quaintest of salt and burn’s, which this case likely is. Erosion Ranch came on their radar on their last ride back to Lebanon when they made a pitstop in Viola, Kansas. The townsfolk at the Saloon there told them how the local cattlewoman who owns Erosion Ranch was struggling to keep employees on site due to the poltergeist activity on the property. The activity of course increased when she started efforts to sell the place, unable to handle it by herself.
Dean looked up the place after he was sure Sam was safe from dying, and once Castiel was safe and sound in their bunker. The poorly ranch owner Sue Marie Sawyer was still struggling to make ends meet.
He called her almost immediately, pretending to be representing himself and a friend looking for ranch work. He claimed his friend to be in training since he didn’t want to come across as too competent. Dean doesn’t know the next thing about farm work and if they’re going to go undercover he can’t talk himself up too much. Which made it very convenient that Mrs. Sawyer quickly came across so in need of help.
He’d only mentioned one friend which is another excuse he used for Sam.
Sam wasn’t exactly going to be able to do work when he needs to sleep sixteen hours a day currently. The dude’s basically an occasionally sleepwalking vegetable (greenbean, if Dean has to put a name to it).
In the meantime, Sam is researching the ranch for them. According to a group of drunken slobs at the saloon, Erosion has been around for over a century, passed down through the family. Dean is positive Sam will have answers about who is haunting the property if he and Cas come up short. Which they might.
Dean caught Cas squeezing toothpaste into his mouth last night like the stuff was candy, so he’s not confident that their undercover performance as two ranch hands will come off as convincing or normal.
“Yes,” Cas says into the phone speaker, the thing tucked so closely to his ear Dean’s not sure how he hears anything at all. “Speaker? How do I do that?” Dean rolls his eyes. “Oh! I see—yes. Here.”
Suddenly, Sam’s voice is filtering through the car.
“You’re on the speaker device now, Sam,” Cas explains.
“Hey, Dean. How’s the drive?”
Dean didn’t particularly want to talk to Sam right now which is why he told Cas to call, so he ignores his rankled nerves and answers as gently as he knows how to be on a bad day.
“Cas got slushies, so real peachy.”
“You hate slushies,” Sam replies, a laugh in his voice.
“Shut up, dude,” Dean snaps, because he can practically hear the depressing droop of Castiel’s shoulders. “No, I don’t. You must be thinking about something else. Hey, just—what do you got for us, Braniac?”
“Nothing yet. Some socialite that owned it died of a poisoning in Nebraska a year or so after he passed the place down, but I doubt it’s connected.” There’s a pause, and some rustling of paper. “Oh! Get this. There’s a reason why the place is called Erosion Ranch. It used to be called Erosion Rock before the place was sold and converted There’s a canyon between the ranch and a neighboring pasture that’s apparently so treacherous you’re not legally allowed to get even thirty feet from the thing. I’m sure the ranch hands have ignored that though, considering it's right on the property, but I’m going to keep looking into it.”
“Great, well, if you don’t hear from us, Cas and I fell into the big, scary ditch.”
“Canyon, Dean,” Cas corrects, unhelpfully.
Dean rolls his eyes harder.
“Much scarier,” Sam agrees with Cas. “Good luck, you two. Keep me updated.”
“Thank you, Sam. Please take care.” Cas miraculously clicks the end call button before Sam, and tucks it away into his flannel pocket. The snowball wrapper is in there, emptied now because Cas has zero self control. He’s like a dog. Dean is going to have to teach him portion control which is crazy, considering Dean doesn’t have any. He just doesn’t want Cas dying young from indulging in a dozen burgers a day.
“Run it by me again,” Dean suggests. “So I know you got it right.”
Cas exhales, irritated. Dean doesn’t care; he needs to know this.
“I’m Cassidy Novak. I started my apprenticeship in Lebanon a month or so ago, and I’m accompanying you to Viola because I need cash. You are Silas Dean Winchester. I call you Dean because you’re so worried I’m going to slip up and forget your code name that you went out of your way to waste time and print an ID that says it,” Cas snarks, eyes narrowed to slits. Dean tries not to smile. “You started herding in Canada, in the mountains. A few years back. I won’t specify when. Kansas is more unfamiliar to you.”
“All this because neither of us is going to know jackshit about working a farm and I don’t want her to expect nothing extraordinary out of us, alright? I don’t really want to milk a cow or any of that.”
“I wouldn’t mind, since I have done farm work in the past.”
“What? You fucking—what?”
“I have not visited Earth often, but when I did, I helped on the farm where Jesus Christ was born. Many of us did, as humans of that era…well, their idea of hygiene was severely lacking in those days and we did not wish the son of God to contract an illness, especially when it was easily avoidable with the proper environmental maintenance,” Castiel explains plainly. “I herded goats, milked cows, and swept the stables.” He smirks and faces a uniquely baffled Dean when he adds, “It was God’s honest work, Dean.”
“Hah, hah.” Dean sputters, “Man, I forget you’re as old as dust.”
“Regardless,” Cas points out, “You won’t be fishing. I’ll help you.”
“Fishing?”
Cas frowns, seemingly sure he was using the right word. Dean grasps for what he meant when it clicks.
“Dude, do you mean ‘floundering’?”
“Ah. What’s the difference?”
“Difference is one works, the other doesn’t,” Dean grouses, more ruffled than he wants to be. He ain’t the one with feathers. Well, now neither of them are. “Okay, we’re five minutes out. Get your game face on.”
“Is that anything like the face you tell me I’m making when we play board games?”
“No, that’s your constipated face. Please don’t do that.”
Cas wracks his brain for the rest of the drive, attempting to figure out what a game face might look like, and doesn’t speak until Dean is pulling through the open gates of the ranch. It’s a dimly lit dirt road down to the front door of a big house. It makes up a blend of stucco, beige stone, and untreated wood columns.
The roof needs work, shingles missing in multiple spots.
A woman closer to her mid-seventies than catching her death, like those at the saloon would’ve led Sam and Dean to believe, sits in a rocking chair on the porch, scribbling on a pad of sticky notes. A couple lay crumpled on the chestnut end table by her hip, a few more sticking to the surface and in a notebook she’s holding. She waves when she catches them pulling up, gesturing vaguely to the empty spot beside a Jeep.
Cas is the first out of the car, shaking the approaching woman’s hand.
“Hello, Mrs. Sawyer.”
“You must be Cassidy,” she greets, and Dean is unsure how the hell she knows that. He’s hauling himself out of the car, making sure everything’s locked up for the night before joining them. “And you’re Silas?”
“You can call him Cas. And I go by Dean, generally, ma’am.” He shakes her hand politely, putting on that midwest charm he’s always got stashed away for such occasions. “How’d you know this was Cas?”
She blushes in the dim lantern light and smiles.
“Oh, I’d recognize that gruff, handsome voice of yours from the phone call instantly, young man.”
Dean’s?
Frankly, it’s been a while since he’s been a handsome young man, so he preens a little before collecting himself. Then he remembers to be confused by her backwards statement and responds, perhaps too fast,
“Cas here usually gets the compliment for the gruff and handsome vocal chords for good reason.”
Why the fuck did he just say that? Cas is staring at him with wide eyes.
Luckily, Sue Marie just chuckles and says, “Yes, but you sound so similar to my late husband, Neil.” And with a mischievous yet simultaneously apologetic look, addresses Cas. “Sorry, dear, I know a chainsmoker’s voice when I hear it.” At Dean’s startled guffawing—like, hand pressed flat to his belly level of cackling—and Castiel’s uneasy, non-plussed expression, adds, “Oh goodness, have I assumed wrong?”
“I extremely doubt this guy’s ever touched a cigarette,” Dean tells her, with a coy glance to Cas when he says, “Even before becoming a…born again Christian,” and tries not to laugh more at his immediate bemusement.
“I have a low voice because I vibrate my false vocal chords when I speak,” Cas delicately explains to her, and at least has the common sense to explain himself further when she naturally looks confused. “A technique Tibetan Throat Singers use. I’m afraid, for me, it’s become involuntary.”
“I had no idea it was a disability, I sincerely apologize.”
“It’s not—”
“—a problem at all,” Dean interrupts, desperate to keep Castiel’s identity under wraps. The fact he needs to reign him in at all at this stage of the hunt isn’t boding all too well but they can’t jump ship now. “You don’t gotta worry ‘bout us quitting, ma’am. I’m afraid both of us are desperate for the work right now.”
“And I’m desperate for the workers,” she replies with a shrug. Sue Marie shifts her weight from sandal to sandal. “It’s been a nightmare, keeping anyone on the roster. Are you…believers in the supernatural?”
Dean quirks his lips.
“You could say that,” Cas answers for them. “But we’re certainly not frightened by it.”
“You could say we’ve had experiences where we’ve learned we can harness our beliefs over demons,” Dean says vaguely, trying to tap into that religious undertone he hinted at earlier with his Christian joke.
“Well, I hope you’ll hold onto that mindset,” she whispers. “If I don’t herd the Bison to the pastures over Old Tumble by the end of the fall, I’m afraid it’ll be too much for the ranch.” Off their looks, she elucidates. “Old Tumble is what the locals call the canyon in the back. I’m sure you’ve heard about it.”
Dean nods, even though without Sam he definitely wouldn’t have.
“Not much. We’re supposed to maintain a distance, correct?” Cas questions, being responsible.
“It’s not so unstable that standing five feet away would be a bad idea, but I wouldn’t stand right on the cliff’s edge,” Sue Marie warns. “And there’s a path around the canyon’s red areas. I’ve marked it all out on a map for you, and that’s where I’ll have you two herding the Bison. It’ll just take you some time.”
“That’s what we’re here for,” Dean promises, feeling a bit guilty.
He’s not sure he and Cas are going to be able to manage this, at least not before they solve the case. This nice, older woman is going to lose her family ranch most likely. However, hey, maybe they’ll luck out.
Save more than just lives.
“Would you like to grab your belongings?” she suggests. Dean nods and heads over to pop the hood of his car. He gathers his and Castiel’s duffels. “You have a gorgeous car. Not something I’ve ever seen a ranch hand pull up in. I’ll keep the barn cat inside so he doesn’t scratch up your paint. Gravy can be a menace.”
“I’ll park it off site tomorrow. Don’t wanna keep the little guy cooped up inside,” Dean offers. He also knows his allergies will act up every night if he’s stuck in a house with a cat. “And thanks, it’s my Dad’s. When he was alive, he owned a ranch of his own, so I like keeping this part of him with me on the road.”
It explains away why he has a collector’s Impala driving around ranch to ranch.
Sue Marie nods wistfully, letting Cas hook her arm through his as they ascend the porch stairs.
“We can talk more in the morning. I take care of the cows, goats, the chickens. So you two won’t need to worry about all of that commotion unless I need lifting. The cows are red anguses. They’re sleeping right now so you might not have seen them pulling up. They like to hang around in the shadows of the maple grove. They despise the sun more than maggots,” she chuckles, leading them up past the porch and the front door into the cozy foyer. A stairway immediately meets the tips of Dean’s boots. Upstairs, Sue Marie shows them to the bedroom. There are two twin beds hugging opposite walls, and between them, a big circular window overlooking the significant population of Bison. Beyond them, the ominous canyon.
“Old Tumble,” Dean recognizes, an uneasy lilt to his voice.
Spelunking always looked suicidal as shit.
“You can see her from almost any location on the ranch,” Sue Marie murmurs, sounding reserved. She shakes herself from whatever mood she’d been stuck in and says, “I’m sorry I can only offer you boys the one bedroom. I had another guest room but I had to convert that into a crammed office for tax season.”
“This’ll do us just fine,” Dean assures.
“Thank you, Mrs. Sawyer,” Castiel hastily adds, getting better at the whole ‘grateful and sweet’ persona than Dean is these days. He cups her hands between his and she grins at them.
“It’s been a while since I’ve had both help and gentlemen at that. It’ll be nice to host you boys.” Her hands linger on the doorway, her wedding ring glinting in the lamplight. She still wears it, and it tears at a solemn heartstring in Dean’s chest. “By the way, the upstairs bathroom is right out here to the left, at the end of the hall.”
“What time do you want us to start tomorrow?” he asks before she leaves.
“Oh, a couple hours past dawn would be fine. I’ll make you breakfast before then, though, if you like.”
“We would appreciate that greatly,” Cas answers, saddled with glee. He’s a horse when it comes to food lately, and Dean can’t blame him. Food is pretty damn delicious when it doesn’t taste like molecules.
“My partner here could eat a house if it were biodegradable.”
“I’ll make extra pancakes, then.” She winks. “And some bacon.”
“A woman after my own heart,” Dean muses as she shuts the door.
Dean hands Cas his bag and they gaze at each other, sentiments that won’t spill over bubbling up their throats. Dean averts his eyes first, and says, “After the ranch work tomorrow, we’ll try to see how willing the old woman is to open up about the property’s history. We’ll also test for cold spots, electronic spikes.”
“That sounds efficient,” Cas offers.
Dean huffs in agreement.
Then, out of nowhere, asks, “All that stuff about your vocal chords, ehm, that true?”
Cas cocks a brow.
“When I first entered this vessel, I wasn’t accustomed to the mechanics of vocal chords. By the time I realized I was utilizing the wrong muscles, I found it more natural to keep using the ones I was used to.”
“Huh,” Dean vocalizes.
It explains why Jimmy popped up sounding so high-pitched.
Kinda sweet also, that Castiel’s voice belongs to him and only him.
Cas drops his bag on the bed by the right of the window. It doesn’t matter to Dean. The beds are identical, with orange comforters and army green sheets and pillows to match. Dean unpacks his own on his side and they share a comfortable silence for a few minutes before Cas asks, “Would you like to shower first?”
“I’ll probably shower in the morning, have at it.”
Dean wouldn’t say no to some alone time to gather his wits, anyway.
Cas nods and vanishes down the hall.
Dean doesn’t know where his mind strays. He gets in a t-shirt and boxers, gets under the covers, has his head tucked over a folded arm as he stares up at the wood-slatted ceiling, and it feels like seconds still by the time Castiel is back, naked as the day Jimmy Novak was born, a small towel draped around his hip.
“Dude,” Dean squeaks and Cas meets his eyes.
His hair is slicked back, and he’s pink and panting from the heat of the shower.
“Yes, Dean?”
Dean has no clue what he was going to say, and he gawks for a minute longer than he should before he manages to stammer out, “You’re dripping all over the floor. Anyone ever teach you how to dry off?”
“My apologies.” Cas frowns, taking that very towel keeping everything very safe away to dry his dripping hair and shoulders. Suddenly everything is not safe, it’s extremely dangerous and Dean’s eyes are back on the ceiling and they’re staying there, mouth ajar because he can’t remember how to close the damn thing.
“That better?”
“If you want me to give you an answer, that towel better be back around your waist, so help me—” the words all come out of Dean’s mouth, rushed and jumbling together.
“Of course. A moment.”
A rustle of fabric, and snap of a waistband.
“Alright,” Castiel says, and like a Victorian noblewoman, “I’m decent.”
Dean swallows and looks. Cas is in ugly white boxer shorts, and nothing else, but anything is an improvement from—before. His hair is all ruffled up, sticking out ten different ways. “You gotta brush your hair dude or—if you sleep on it, it’s gonna stick like that or get worse. It’s—dry, though. Uh, good.”
Cas sighs impatiently.
“There are too many rituals to upkeep the human body.”
“Not as many as you’re thinking. Personally I don’t care if it looks like you had a roll in the hay,” Dean says, kicking himself. Why is he even talking? “But, y’know, we’re supposed to be professionals.”
“So it’s an aesthetic choice.”
“Listen, you do you man. You look fine. Maybe just brush through it with your fingers.”
It’s a bad thing to say because Cas starts doing just that, arm muscles flexing as he strokes through his hair and tames the strand down behind his ears and over the back of his skull. He hums a bit as he does.
Dean clears his throat. “That’s fine. Better already. You can brush it out in the morning.”
Cas sits on the bed, staring at him.
“I didn’t bring a hairbrush.”
Dean doesn’t know why that of all things is what makes his heart ache. Cas looks so small like this. Half-naked, sitting on a bed in the middle of Kansas, appearing vacant without Dean’s shitty guidance.
He deserves better than me, Dean thinks.
Not for the first time.
“You can borrow mine, okay?”
Cas smiles, so truly grateful that Dean feels sick.
“You’ve been very patient with my transition.”
“Hey, that ain’t true. I got on your case for not yapping with me in the car.”
Cas tilts his head, chastising.
“There’s no need for you to deride everything commendable that you are, any time I deign to give you a compliment, Dean.” There’s a wry twist of his lips when he concludes, “It doesn’t become you.”
Dean scoffs, roiling at the audacity as Cas lays down for bed.
“Shut off that light, would you?” Cas grumbles, tucking the comforter close to his chin.
“Shut off that light, would you,” Dean mimics, pitchy and pissed off.
Nevertheless, he does.
The room is cast with moonlight. Dean glances once more at the canyon beyond the pastures and sighs, feeling uneasy again. Sleep doesn’t come soon; it comes hours later, alongside a pounding in his temples.
“Oh my dear, have you only brought sneakers?” Sue Marie asks over breakfast, clearly appalled by Castiel’s choice of attire. Dean kicks himself because it was his responsibility to make sure he fit in.
The thing is, Cas is borrowing most of his clothes but his shoes are Sam’s. He don’t have Dean’s nice, delicate size elevens. Cas and Sam share monstrous thirteen narrows, so he took one of his brother’s dozen sneaker pairs. It’s not as if Sam had cowboy boots lying around for Cas to slip into though right about now Dean is wishing they would’ve stopped at a goddamn Boot Barn and bought some. And ain’t that an image. Dean luckily is wearing boots that fit into the rancher code. He lets out a considerable sigh.
“I packed the wrong bag for you didn’t I?” Dean smirks at her. “It’s my fault. He used to work as an electrician, and he’s got a totally different duffel bag for those trips. Sorry Cas,” he fake apologizes.
Cas nods, catching on quickly.
“I was resigning myself to doing the work…in sneakers.”
“None of that,” Sue Marie argues generously. “I’ll give you a pair of my husband’s.”
In her absence, Castiel shovels several bites of waffle into his mouth and then reaches for the pile of bacon stacked on the edge of his plate. She’s taking a while so he almost finishes the entire damn plate, not that he needs the extra time for that. Dean chuckles and warns, “Slow down, George of the Jungle.”
Mouth full, lips shiny with syrup, Cas mumbles, “I don’t understand that reference.”
“Few do,” Dean admits, putting on the charming smile when he sees Sue Marie returning. His light mood quickly drops when he sees the shoes. They’re a gorgeous navy pair of cowboy platforms, decorated with sparkling golden floral designs, matching on either side. The heels are a metallic gold material, clicking together as she pads up to the table. They’re sexy and cool as fuck, and Cas doesn’t seem to care at all.
“Thank you, er, ma’am,” Cas says to her, the moniker not coming naturally.
Sue Marie doesn’t notice, distracted by something.
Dean nudges, “Something wrong?”
“Oh nothing. His—the clothes always just seem to show up in some place new everytime I’m looking for them. I hope my age isn’t starting to show,” she replies, insecurely fiddling with the hems of her sleeves.
Dean frowns and exchanges a knowing glance with Cas.
Misplaced objects are definitely a sign of a spirit.
They’ll have to poke and prod on the subject of the dead husband later while they’re at it, because it seems likely the haunting is the product of his presence. He just hopes Cas won’t be wearing a haunted object while they work or he’ll have to set his feet on fire. Dean snorts at the idea and keeps eating.
Cas looks stupid good in the boots.
Ridiculously good, really. Like Doctor Sexy.
Dean is getting a lasso prepared, a trick he was taught by Bobby a long time ago, and Cas is rolling up his sleeves. While autumn is at its peak, the sun is still beating relentlessly down on the wide open pastures.
He’s trying not to look at Cas as the guy adjusts his shoes, calves flexing in those tight jeans.
“I think it’s the husband. We should probably tip off Sam.”
“I thought so too,” Cas agrees, fishing out his cellphone. He’s typing in the number. It takes a few minutes for Cas to relay everything they’ve learned, and most importantly, nudge Sam into researching the husband and Sue Marie’s family before hanging up. Cas sorts away the phone but doesn’t look like he’s left the conversation. Soon, he asks, “Dean, is there a reason you keep insisting I be the one to call Sam?”
Dean shrugs and lies, “Nope.”
Cas scoffs—actually scoffs—at him.
“Okay,” Dean snaps. “You’ve had an attitude all morning. The hell is that about?”
“I have not.”
“If you make me say ‘have too’ like a fucking child, so help me.”
“I’m really tired, Dean,” Cas grits out, aggressively unbuttoning the first two buttons of his flannel. A big, strong chest peaks out, tan and smooth, shining with sweat. Dean forgets what he was mad about, which is rare. “And I’m sweating. My jeans feel heavy. I’m hot. Some of my bones hurt from that mattress shaped brick upstairs. Being stuck in a dimensional form is exhausting. Not everything is about you. I am not used to schedules, and mornings, and—and bodily discomfort, and, and—wanting to sleep in.”
Dean softens, realizing there’s a tint of embarrassment in his voice.
“Hey, man. I’m sorry. You gotta realize I keep forgetting you’re not an angel now.” He smiles, hitting Castiel’s shoulder playfully. “I didn’t know you’d be a sleepyhead. You can get a nap in later, okay?”
“Sorry, I’m cranky.”
“I know, buddy. I see that.”
“How do you manage it? I feel exhausted all of the time,” Cas mutters.
“Lots of coffee. And painkillers. And alcohol.”
“I didn’t have coffee this morning.”
“That was your first mistake.”
Cas nods, and says, “I’ll try it tomorrow.”
Dean is glad Cas isn’t asking for pills or drink, but he’s not going to say that.
“The lady makes a damn good cup. I had some myself. We can test to see if you like sugar in yours, or honey?” Cas perks up, and Dean smiles wider. “Yeah, I got you figured out, Mr. Bumblebee Whisperer.”
The crinkle of dried leaves signals Sue Marie’s approach.
She has changed into her ranchwear, cowboy boots and thick jeans and flannel to match the burgundy color scheme of her fit. An ascot is tied around her neck. Frankly, she’s an adorable older woman. Dean’s smile is genuine as she closes the distance between them with a burlap bag of, “Molasses soaked oats.”
Dean and Cas glance at each other, and she clarifies, “The head honcho goes crazy for these. You’ll be best off leading her around the canyon. The rest should follow. A few will linger, but you have a few weeks to get them all around the bend and to the pastures next door. I’m selling the herd to my neighbor.”
“Did you say ‘her’?” Dean questions, still hung up on that.
Sue Marie looks suspicious for the first time since they arrived.
“Surely you know Bison are generally matriarchal, and follow a female lead.”
“Bison are newer cattle for Dean. He’s used to horses and sheep,” Castiel supplies, to negate the suspicion crawling up between them. Sue Marie nods, and hands Cas the map where she sketched out a safe herding route.
“Any way we can tell who the head honcho is?” Dean asks, peering at the map.
“She’s pregnant and is easily the biggest of the gang.”
“Ah.” Dean laughs to himself and nods at the map. “This doesn’t look too complicated.”
“It’s not. The work ain’t the reason ranchers keep dipping on me.”
“We won’t disappoint you,” Cas promises, which Dean thinks is slightly cruel considering they almost definitely will disappoint her. Unless Cas is harboring some secret Bison herding tricks under his sleeve.
From what he remembers his dad telling him on the road, Bison aren’t to be trifled with.
“If you need me,” Sue Marie tells them, “I’ll be milking the cows by the maple trees. Or seeing to the sheep in the barn.” The barn is closer to the maple grove than it is to the house, but Dean saw the place when he pulled up. Dean tips his hat (any excuse to wear a stetson, he’s gonna take it) as she heads off.
“Why the hell’d you make a promise we can’t keep?” Dean questions sourly, hiking his lasso and smaller duffel over his shoulder. He’s keeping water and granola bars that Sam packed for them in there.
“I am fairly confident we can keep it,” Cas argues mildly. “Why would I make a promise I couldn’t keep?”
“Not like you haven’t done it before.” Dean ignores the offense and hurt on Castiel’s face, mad at himself for even feeling the need to make a comment like that at all. He doesn’t know why these things just fall out of his mouth instead of actually facing the issue head on. It’s just easier to—be angry—let anger rule.
Sometimes, feeling right makes the issue feel resolved.
Dean snatches the map out of Castiel’s hand and says, as to ignore the burgeoning tension, “I’ll get us where we need to be goin’. You just follow and look pretty.”
Cas follows silently behind him as Dean uses the map.
They are easily able to pick out which of the Bison females is pregnant.
However, when Cas waves a handful of soaked oats at her, she stubbornly doesn’t budge.
“I could attempt to communicate with her.”
“The way you used to be able to talk to cats?” Dean recalls. “You’re human now, though.”
“It’s not an exact science. Even if she can’t understand me, I might be able to communicate in some respect, that it would be best for her to follow us.”
Something about this plan Dean doesn’t like but he’s got a lasso and his knees aren’t creaking today. He feels confident he could run away from a charging animal if he had to. Dean nods once to Castiel.
Cas approaches the majestic creature, towering and the color of chocolate.
Dean stands ready with his lasso. Cas glances back and gives him a thumbs up.
Cas talks with her. It’s very awkward. She keeps dragging her hoof through the dirt.
Then, when Dean fears she’s about to charge, she huffs so abrasively at him that a layer of snot covers the front of Castiel’s shirt. She trails away, dragging her feet as Cas stands there drenched in guck, stunned.
Dean nearly keels over with how hard he starts laughing.
“Dude, that was miserable. Look at you!”
Cas scowls, wiping a hand (gross) through the snot on his shirt.
“I just did the laundry at the bunker before we left.”
“I don’t even know if Sue’s got machines here, pal,” Dean wheezes. “You’ll probably have to soak those in the lake. Man, I haven’t had a laugh like that in a while.”
His heart skips when Cas looks over at him, affectionate and pleased by that.
“I’m glad my disarray is so amusing to you,” he teases softly.
“Very.” Dean slaps an arm on his back. “C’mon, we gotta figure something else out.”
Turns out, when Cas clacks the gold heels of his boots together, it scares the fuck out of the Bison. If they stand far enough away, they can get them to scatter a few feet forward just by making the metallic noise.
Dean figures there’s no longevity in the plan, though it’s a start for today.
He lets Cas take the lead on the Dorothy red slipper mission and takes his time at his side to try and spin his lasso in the air. It’s much harder in real life than it looks on TV. Cas keeps trying to give him advice.
“I don’t care how long you perved on humanity, no amount of watching other people do this shit is gonna help you, so I don’t need your advice,” Dean grumbles, whipping the rope against the dirt in his frustration. Luckily, it makes a snapping sound and gets the Bison to trot forward. “This is so irritating.”
“For the last time, Dean, hand it over.”
“You’re gonna get nowhere,” Dean tells him, but does as he’s told. “Waste of time.”
Cas proves him wrong damn near instantly, and maybe it would’ve made sense if he were an angel, but holy shit he’s human and he’s spinning the thing in the air like he’s putting on a show for a sold out rodeo. He spins it around his back, up in the sky, jumps and and out of it like it’s a damn jump rope. And he’s enjoying it, grinning as he does it, like it’s taking no effort at all. Like this isn’t the hottest thing Dean’s perhaps ever seen. He’s slack jawed with awe, and then Cas grins and loops the damn rope around him and tugs him in. Instantly, Dean’s crotch gets very tight and holy—they need to stop right the fuck now.
He pushes Cas away before the rope can pull him in and he nearly stumbles over on his ass. He accuses, “What the hell, man? Where’d you learn to do all that? ‘Cause it sure as hell wasn’t from Bonanza.”
“I’m a billion or so years older than you, Dean,” Cas reminds him primly, once he’s regained his footing. He retrieves the rope from around Dean and folds it up into the duffel, handing Dean a water and reaching to grab the other for himself. He chugs his own, throat working over the liquid like he’s never had a drink.
Dean tries not to stare, though frankly, he’s still thinking about the rope tricks.
About the scratchy graze of the material as he’d been tugged forward so easily by Cas’ clever hands.
Jesus Christ.
Dean takes small, shuddering sips of water.
He needs to get laid.
“Makes no damn sense,” he mutters, not sure what he’s referring to.
“She told us to come in before the evening hit,” Cas reminds Dean then, pointing to the dipping position of the sun. “Wanted to make sure we had a full dinner, remember?”
“Of course you’re thinking about food.”
“As if you’re not.”
The waffles were so good, Dean should’ve been. There’s other things on his mind.
“Yeah, whatever.” Dean takes the bag of oats and scatters them around in a line right around where they’ve decided to stop for the day. “Said she couldn’t afford the electric fencing, so giving them some feed should encourage them to stay put overnight. Might have to repeat this all tomorrow, though.”
“So we will, if we must,” Cas decides, not one to dwell on things.
Dean sighs and nudges his friend’s feet. Cas clicks his heels together, and the Bison go trotting.
Sue Marie prepares a chicken fried steak, with a side of green peas, for them.
Cas picks around the green peas like a toddler unable to stomach greens. Dean, despite his warnings about cholesterol and blood pressure to Cas, devours the plate in under fifteen minutes, all but licking it clean.
Since Dean is done early, he says, “Thanks for the meal, ma’am. You’re a real talent.”
She blushes and stares at her own plate, and he doesn’t need to be smart to know she’s thinking about her husband when she pokes at her own steak. “You’re a kind boy,” she admits timidly. “It’s nothing special.”
“I disagree,” Cas says, mouth full of steak.
Dean is too endeared to bitch at him about manners.
Cas can be real charming sometimes, where anyone else in the world would look impolite.
“Can I ask you about your husband?” Dean questions carefully, and she looks surprised despite the fact she tends to bring him up in almost every conversation. “How did he die?”
“Oh,” she whispers. “It’s ironic, really. A heart attack.”
Dean frowns. That doesn’t sound violent or traumatic. Just a natural type of death, unless some trauma scared Neil so much that he fell into cardiac arrest. She must see the lack of context reflected in their eyes.
“Too much red meat.” She laughs humorlessly. “That special cookin’ you boys were praising.”
Cas stares down his plate like its grown thorns. Dean doesn’t know how to tell him he’s too young for a heart attack, especially when he hasn’t been human long enough to even dip into that type of terrible diet.
Yet.
“I’m assuming he was getting older, though,” Dean points out. “Maybe it wasn’t all steak and cheese, y’know? Some bodies just can’t handle change.”
“True,” Cas mutters, glowering at him.
Dean frowns. Is that a dig? Did Cas just make a dig at him? Because really, if anyone is going to be criticized for being unable to adapt to change, it’d be Mr. I Hate Having To Urinate Now-It’s So Tedious.
They’re getting off topic. Dean needs to figure out if the husband really is the poltergeist.
“He wasn’t facing any stress at the end of his life, was he?” Castiel asks, getting them back on track. As if he can still read his mind. Dean sips at a beer Sue Marie had graciously grabbed from a cooler for him.
“He was,” Sue Marie reveals. “It’s why he ate so much. That’s how he dealt with that kind of thing.”
“What kind of stress?” Dean asks, perhaps too pointedly.
Her eyes wobble and she looks down at her hands, picking at dead skin.
“I’d rather not talk about him anymore, if it’s all the same to you boys.”
Dean tries not to sigh. He’ll have to hear from Sam what he’s drudged up about the husband.
“We apologize,” Cas murmurs, draping a hand over Sue Marie’s. “You talk so highly of him.”
“Of course I do. I loved him, more than anything.”
“I understand.”
Dean can’t imagine Cas does understand. Angels don’t even have souls. Well, Cas is human now, so does that mean he’s got a spanking fresh new soul? Does Cas feel things stronger than he’s ever felt them?
The answer is obviously yes. Still, even after weeks of being human, Cas will moan when he stands under the sun, liking the feeling of the heat on his skin. He’ll laugh when a ladybug lands on his shoulder and tickles across goosebumps. He’ll sigh with pleasure after chugging a water bottle when he feels hydrated.
Somehow, all these thoughts make Dean’s head turn into a box of white noise.
He can’t sort out one thought from another; he gets lost staring at Cas. At how attentive and sympathetic he is towards this otherwise stranger they’re lying to. Using, in a sense. How can Cas allow himself to care? Or is Dean so broken, he long ago lost the ability to really care about what is right in front of him.
They’ve been talking without him listening for a while now, and Dean abruptly is jolted back into the conversation, watching Sue Marie inch closer to Castiel.
“Will you pray with me?” she asks, quiet and vulnerable.
Dean momentarily forgets Cas was an angel and nearly tells her that’s not something he does (and with the angels all fallen, why would it matter) but Cas looks ecstatic when she offers this, and nods, revealing to her, “It’s been a while since I’ve prayed. I would be more than happy to pray with you tonight.”
“Uh, I’ll handle dishes.” They both look at him and he coughs. “If that’s okay with you guys.”
Sue Mary doesn’t seem the type to insist he join their little prayer session, and she doesn’t. Cas doesn’t look perturbed either, even though he knows how much Dean prays. Christ, he prayed every night for a year in Purgatory, sometimes for hours at a time. The thing is, he only ever prays to one being. One man.
And that man doesn’t have access to his angel ears anymore.
Nor would he have answers to the questions that plague Dean lately.
“Thank you, Dean,” Sue Marie tells him, and very swiftly, he’s left alone in the kitchen.
Dean lets himself drift off by the kitchen, trying not to think about anything important as he rinses dishes and dries them. That barn cat Sue Marie mentioned yesterday finds him and hops up along the mantel of the window overlooking the maple grove where the red angus cows begin to settle down for sleep.
“Hey, precious,” Dean murmurs, scratching under its chin. Gravy is an older grey tabby, and very personable. It starts purring when he rubs its chipped left ear. “Just you and me in the atheist club, huh?”
The cat slips away, out through the cracked open window and into the night.
His paternal instinct is to stop the cat, the way he would stop Sammy from running away, but he tries to remind himself that the cat is an outdoor creature. It knows how to take care of itself. The way Cas doesn’t. The way Cas would’ve died if he hadn’t found a payphone in time after his fall to call Dean.
“Your son needs you,” Dean whispers to the blackness outside. A cross dangled on the window frame, hanging mockingly over the sink stained by time. “All your kids need you. Where the hell did you go?”
The cross sways in the wind, haloed by moonlight cutting through a far-away wheatfield.
Dean is settled into bed later, keeping a lantern lit low by his bedside so Cas doesn’t trip over his own feet. He has his walkman on, listening to rock and roll which of course isn’t helping him sleep but is blocking out all the noise that’s accumulated in his temples and will likely result in another headache.
Cas enters after ten, looking weary yet satiated.
There is a small huff of acknowledgement between them when Cas sees Dean is awake.
Cas starts his bedtime process, going for the shirt first, then shoes.
Dean tries not to be hyper aware of every movement Cas is making, though he can sense when Cas freezes and doesn’t keep stripping. He’s very aware of it actually and can’t resist a gauging glance.
Cas is staring at the sole of his shoe, face scrunched up like he’s solving a tough math equation.
Tugging off his headphones, Dean shuffles up into a sitting position.
“You good?” he asks, gruff with drowsiness.
“What did Mrs. Sawyer say her husband’s name was again?”
Dean searches inward, scratching at his head.
“Nolan, uh, no. Neil, I think. Why?”
“And she told us these are her husband’s, no?”
Cas waves the sexy cowboy boots at Dean which, heaven that don’t fucking exist anymore please have mercy, Dean needs like a hole in the head right now. Swallowing, Dean nods.
“These say Freddy R. at the bottom.”
“So? Maybe they’re hand-me-downs.”
“Which would imply a shared last name. These don’t say Freddy S.”
“Dude, I don’t know. I doubt it means anything,” Dean grumbles, however, there’s a tugging at his gut that says otherwise and is next to positive that Castiel is onto something.
“Hmm.”
“Lay down, get some rest. We’ll figure it out tomorrow, okay?”
Cas sets the shoes down, and folds his shirt. He doesn’t move beyond that despite Dean rolling over to get comfortable. He’s staring into the middle distance, obviously still dwelling on what’s written on the shoes.
“Cas, man, you’re being a gargoyle right now. It’s creepy as fuck.”
“It’s been quiet at the ranch,” Cas points out. “I have a theory Sue Marie is withholding truths, and that information might not necessarily paint the picture we think it might. Have we considered there isn’t a spirit at all?”
Dean snorts.
“Man, you wish. Not in our lifetime. There’s always a damn ghost.”
“Right.”
Dean rolls over again, mattress creaking. Cas is sluggishly moving under sheets, down to his boxers, limbs stiff and telling. Dean sighs and lifts himself out of bed, startling Cas out of his train of thought. He meets him by his bedside and puts a hand on his arm before asking, “You going to freak out on me, Cas?”
Cas glowers.
“If you’re implying I’m scared of a haunting, I’ll remind you—”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about your sympathy towards Sue Marie.”
Cas’ throat bobs and he averts his eyes.
“Dude, it’s not a bad thing that you feel, y’know, bad. You just gotta remember we’re lying and we’re prying because it’s gonna help her in the end. If we can get rid of this haunting, she can probably figure out hiring people that won’t run off at the first sniff of sulfur, and she’ll get to keep her family property.”
Cas bends his wrist so he can touch the hand on his arm. Dean goes still.
“It’s….I know that, Dean.”
Dean is too mesmerized watching his fingertips stroke over the back of his hand, and the shivers that crawl up his arm from the very spots where they touch. He isn’t able to speak, though Cas marches on.
“There is something she’s not telling us, something sensitive. I think it’s a likely possibility that if there's no spirit, her husband might’ve done something to turn the town against her. Perhaps they created a poltergeist to ruin her business. She refuses to speak on the character of her husband, despite loving him.”
“It’s also really painful to talk about people you love, Cas.” He tastes bile in his throat when he’s forced to clear up, “'Specially when they’ve croaked. That could be all it is.”
“Perhaps.”
“You gonna be able to sleep?”
Cas meets his eyes with a challenge.
“Are you?”
“Touche. See you at the ass crack of dawn, alright?”
Dean separates them. Suddenly, he feels cold, and painfully awake.
“I don’t see how dawn would—oh, yes. Alright.”
Dean snickers and mutters something about how Cas should never change, all things he’s said before, but he catches himself as he pulls the comforter over his shoulder. He doesn’t think Cas caught it, despite being the one to make the dig about Dean being unable to handle change earlier. Christ, he means it. If Cas changes, becomes an echo of that future drug addicted whoreish version of himself, he’d be a mess. He needs Cas the way he is: his guiding star, his rock, the man that makes Dean feel righted in a wrong world.
Hell on Earth, where the fuck did this thought process come from?
“Goodnight, Dean,” Cas voices into the dimly lit room with a yawn.
“Goodnight, Cas,” Dean murmurs, knowing he’ll barely sleep a wink.
Sue Marie has to oversee a lamb’s birth in the early morning hours.
Dean and Cas are left to fend for themselves.
Cas devours an English Muffin and Dean grabs an apple for himself from the fruit bowl by the fridge. Dean is making sure the barn cat’s water is filled up before they head out to the pasture to continue herding when there’s a knock at the door. Dean glances at Cas who has a jelly smear on his nose and sighs. He heads over to the front door and opens it a crack to reveal a man holding an empty crate.
“Uh, hello?”
“Mrs. Sawyer got new ranch hands?” the man asks with a waspish edge. The guy’s about thirty something years old. He’s ginger on his head, scruffy beard, and legs where they stick out from ugly shorts. He has strong thighs, not that it’s something Dean first notices about a man. He deems it safe to let the guy in.
“I’m Cyrus,” he greets, body language cautious. “Nice to meet you fellows.”
“Like Miley?” Dean jokes, glancing back at Cas who is as much help as a stone.
“May we ask why you’re here?” Cas questions.
“I collect all the milk the Missus farms and I sell it in town,” he explains to them. “I can wait if she’s tangled up with something out back.” He scrutinizes them unsubtly. “Y’all must be new in town.”
Cas explains their cover stories with ease and Dean relaxes when he can tell Cyrus buys it without doubt.
“I can go see if she’s finishing up with the lamb,” Cas suggests, scuttering off. He shoots a wink at Dean and for a moment, Dean’s heart skips sideways with confusion before he realizes it’s for the mission.
Good idea, Dean thinks.
Dean offers coffee, since the pot is still hot.
Cyrus gratefully takes a cup, setting the crate down, so Dean goes in for the kill.
“This might be totally off base but the woman of the house has been pretty unforthcoming with her past, and I’m super curious here.” Dean watches Cyrus sip his coffee and waits for him to swallow before asking, “What is the deal with the husband? She said he had a heart attack but she’s been so…tetchy.”
Cyrus goes rigid and stares down at the floor.
“He had a mistress, and it’s not something the Missus talks about.”
That makes a lot more sense. Dean nods.
“That would cause a lot of stress on a guy, and would explain things.”
“Yeah, well,” Cyrus starts hoarsely. He sets his coffee mug down and takes Dean’s out of his hand, oddly, and sets that down as well. “Maybe it would’ve ended how most affairs do, if he hadn’t killed her first.”