Chapter Text
Cas Novak took his final bow, his guitar slung over his back. The crowd’s response was deafening. As soon as he walked off the stage, his smile disappeared. His band and the roadies were already breaking down the instruments and sound equipment. “Good show tonight, Casadesus,” Gabe, his brother and manager, said with a slap on Cas’ back. “Sellout crowd.”
“Are we leaving tonight?” Cas asked, removing his Stetson, so he could slip the guitar strap over his head. He handed the Martin off to a stage hand.
“Yep, gotta be in Shreveport for tomorrow’s show.” Gabe handed Cas a towel to wipe the sweat from his face.
“I’m tired, Gabe. When is the next break?” This tour was taking its toll on Cas. They’d done ten cities in fourteen days.
“After the New Orleans show, you’ll have three days before we do the rounds in Texas.” Three days. It wasn’t even worth going home. Not that home was anything special. He had a nice mansion near Nashville that Gabe picked it out for him a couple years ago. To Cas, it was just a place to sleep.
“I’ll be in the bus,” Cas said, stepping around his brother and heading down the corridor leading to the area where the buses were parked. Knowing what was waiting outside, he put the hat back on his head. A tall chain link fence kept the fans from getting near the buses, but it didn’t stop them from calling out to the singer. Cas plastered on another smile and waved before boarding his bus. His driver, Balthazar was sitting on the couch watching television. He glanced up and paused the program.
“You're home early, Darling.” The Frenchman had been driving his bus for the last four years and they’d become friends.
“I didn’t feel like hanging out with the guys tonight.” Cas took off his Stetson and tossed it on the small table he used to eat, write music, and answer his fan mail. “I’m going to go to bed. Gabe said we’re leaving tonight, so don’t let anyone disturb me.”
“Too late,” Balthazar shrugged and pointed towards the back of the bus where Cas’ bedroom was located.
“Meg?”
“Who else?” Balthazar chuckled and unpaused the television. Cas counted to ten and strode into the bedroom. Meg, his keyboard player, was sprawled across his bed, wearing nothing but a pair of panties and one of his shirts.
“Hello, Lover,” she purred, stretching to show off her body to its best advantage.
“Not anymore, Meg. You need to go.” Cas began unbuttoning his shirt.
“Come on, Cas, you’ve been all stressed out and tense lately. Let me help.” She sat up, tucking a strand of her dark, wavy hair behind her ear.
“Meg, please, just…” He dragged his fingertips through his hair. It was damp with sweat. He wanted a shower. “…damn it, can’t you just move on?” It only happened a handful of times right after Meg joined the band. He’d been in a bad place and just needed a warm body. Meg was good for a roll in the sheets and she didn’t want any entanglements. She’d spread her legs for some of the other band members and even Gabe had gotten a taste. If she wasn’t such a good musician, he would have fired her a long time ago.
“Move on? You act like we were engaged or something.” She stood and began to pull on the pair of red jeans she’d worn on stage. “I just want to fuck, Cas, not have your babies.”
“I know, but I just don’t…” What? Cas didn’t know how to finish his sentence. He was just tired of life on the road. Tired of the groupies that were willing to drop to their knees to service the country music star if he even smiled in their direction. Mostly, though, he was tired of being unable to create.
Meg took off Cas’ shirt, leaving her nude from the waist up. He wasn’t the least bit interested. “Your loss, Cowboy.” She tugged on a tight t-shirt and walked towards the narrow doorway.
“Don’t go out chasing dick. We’re leaving tonight as soon as the buses are loaded.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, leaving his room. Cas fell back across his bed, knowing he was too tired to sleep. With every CMA Award win, Cas lost more of himself. He knew it sounded ungrateful to complain about a life some people would kill for, but he missed being able to write music and lyrics. The last hit he had was written by someone else. With a frustrated groan, he got up and finished undressing.
After his shower, Cas pulled on a pair of gray sweats and got into bed. He picked up the thriller he’d been trying to finish for the last week, but it didn’t hold his attention. He reached for his phone and opened the Pandora app. Lacing his fingers behind his head and crossing his ankles, he let the music do it’s magic.
Well, the midnight headlights blind you on a rainy night
Steep grade up ahead slow me down makin' no time
But I gotta keep rollin'
Those windshield wipers slappin' outta tempo
Keepin' perfect rhythm with the song on the radio
But I gotta keep rollin'
Ooh, I'm driving my life away
Lookin' for a better way for me
Ooh, I'm driving my life away
Lookin' for a sunny day
Cas recognized the song, though he hadn’t heard it in years. The singer’s baritone had a sensual quality that Cas found he liked. He looked at the screen. Dean Winchester. The name was familiar. He swiped his finger across the screen of his phone and typed the name in the Google search bar. Cas stared at the dozens of images of a young man, probably in his early twenties. He was a beautiful man and there was an impish sparkle in his eyes as he smiled for the camera.
The first link was Wikipedia. Apparently, Dean Winchester was a rising country star about fifteen years ago and suddenly disappeared from the public eye. According to the website, he’d been only twenty-three when he fell off the media’s radar. Intrigued, Cas opened up link after link. An hour later, Cas stared at the ceiling, contemplating what he’d found out.
The young singer’s first CD went platinum. He was touring the country, but gained a reputation of being a heavy drinker. There were records of bar fights and even an arrest. That’s when the story ended. Even the images of the man were out of date. He had really fallen off the face of the earth.
The humming of the bus’ tires soothed Cas’ mind and he was almost asleep when he sat straight up. Quickly, before the thought drifted away, he raced into the living area and sat down at the table. He opened the box of blank sheet music that had been mocking him for months. Picking up the Ovation he used to write songs with, Cas began to compose and soon got lost in the melody.
When the bus stopped at three a.m. to gas up, Cas was finishing up the lyrics. Balthazar looked in at him from the driver’s area. “Weren’t you whining about being tired?”
Cas looked up and grinned. “I just wrote a song.” Balthazar’s eyebrows rose. Only his driver and Gabe knew about his yearlong inability to write.
“Good for you. I guess the producers will get off your back now.” Cas hoped so. The record execs were careful not to piss him off because he was their cash cow, but they’d been unhappy with his lack of original songs.
***
It was barely eight, but Dean was already sweating. The hay was loaded in the back of the ranch’s trailer and ready to be hauled to the barn for storage. Benny, already shirtless in the dry west Texas heat, motioned for Dean to pull the truck forward. He closed the gate and crawled in next to Dean. “It’s not even fuckin’ July yet. We’re in for a bad summer, Boss Man.”
“Yeah. This afternoon, we need to check the stock tanks. And we’d better pray the pond doesn’t dry up.” Water was expensive when you were running a spread like Dean's. Unrelenting dry weather could make or break a small ranch.
When the truck stopped in front of the hay barn, both men got out and started the strenuous job of unloading the bales and stacking them for the winter months. When they were done, Dean squinted at the sun, guessing it was close to eleven. “Might as well eat lunch now.”
They got back into the truck and headed back to the field where the baler was sitting idle. Bobby, Dean’s godfather, pulled off his baseball cap and whistled. “Hotter than Satan’s ass crack out here,” he complained as he climbed down from the tractor. “We breaking for lunch?”
“Sure are,” Dean answered, pulling a cooler from the bed of the pickup. He’d packed sandwiches and bottled water that morning. He passed them out and the three men sat in the shade thrown from the tractor. Dean reckoned they had a couple more hours of baling before he could get to the stock tanks. Dean could hear his prize herd of Texas Longhorns lowing in the distance. Chewing on a blade of dried grass, Dean leaned back against the tractor’s tire and shut his eyes. It would be nice to take a nap, but he couldn’t afford it.
Later that evening, Dean showered and pulled on a pair of boxers. All the chores were done for the night except closing up the barns. Bobby volunteered to do that on his way into town to see Ellen at The Roadhouse. Those two had been dancing around each other for as long as Dean could remember. Everyone he knew had a partner…a mate. His brother, Sam, married Ellen’s daughter, Jo, eight years ago. Benny had Andrea, a beautiful Greek woman he’d met at a rodeo, of all things. They had two kids already. It didn’t bother Dean that he didn’t have a special someone in his life. He was happy. The ranch and his family keep him busy.
Downstairs, he turned on the television. His DVR was full and he really needed to clean it out. He flipped through all the shows saved on the device. He made a disgruntled sound when he realized Bobby had taped some CMT show. He looked up on the bookcase by the fireplace at his Male Vocalist of the Year award sat collecting dust. Dean did his best not to think about his previous life. Some of it, he didn’t even remember. Heavy drinking had a way of doing that to you. The only time he picked up a guitar these days was to play at family gatherings and he didn’t even do that often.
Dean settled on Blue Bloods. He had four episodes to binge watch. When the third one was done, he heard the front door open and close. “How’s Ellen?” He called out from his place on the couch.
“She’s fine. Says to tell you she misses you.” Dean didn’t spend a lot of time at The Roadhouse. Being around the alcohol didn’t bother him as much as it used to, but the country music coming from the juke box was a reminder he didn’t need. Ellen kept a few of his songs on the old machine and it never failed that someone would spend their quarters on those selections while he was there. He knew if he asked, she’d remove them. He wouldn’t ask.
“Have her come out to the ranch for dinner Sunday night. We’ll grill some steaks. I’ll invite Sam and Jo too.” Sam and Jo lived and worked in the neighboring city of Odessa.
“I’ll do that,” the older man said, sitting down in one of the matching recliners and leaned back. “You always run around in your underwear when I’m gone?”
“No, sometimes I get naked and dance,” Dean retorted. “Wanna see?” Dean bounced to his feet and hooked his thumbs over the waistband of his boxers. He wiggled his eyebrows. Bobby grabbed a pillow from the couch and threw it at him.
“Idjit.”
Much later, the house was dark and silent and Dean was restless. He’d tossed and turned for the last thirty minutes. Working from sunup to sundown made it easy for him to fall asleep, but tonight, memories kept him awake.
He’d had it all. He was young, good looking and had a talent for songwriting and singing. His first CD went platinum and he won a CMA award. Life was good. He could have any man or woman he wanted. The price of fame was high. He partied too much and the drinking got out of control. His record label called him a PR nightmare. They covered his behavior until that fateful night in Los Angeles. Dean didn’t remember anything, but the details were told in graphic detail on Entertainment Tonight, CMT and all the country radio stations. Dean woke in a jail cell.
His career was salvageable, but he was ordered by a judge to go to a rehab facility. Six weeks later, Dean decided to walk away from his music. He bought the small ranch and began breeding Texas Longhorns and Quarter Horses. His bloodlines were sought out by people across the country. Dean didn’t have regrets, but sometimes, like tonight, he thought about the ‘what ifs’.
The next morning, Dean sent Bobby and Benny into town to get supplies while he trimmed hooves on a few of his mares. He was leading two of them back to the paddock when a bus rattled up the dirt drive. He squinted his eyes against the sun. As the black bus got closer, kicking up a shitload of dust because the damn fool driver was going too fast, Dean could make out writing on the side. “Cas Novak,” Dean read out loud. He knew the name. You’d have to live under a rock not to know about the star who shared top billing with the likes of George Strait and Garth Brooks. Yes, Dean knew the name, but he could not have told you a single song the guy sang. And he definitely wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a crowd.
He hooked his thumbs in his belt and waited for the bus to come to a stop. The doors opened and Dean glimpsed the driver, light hair, grim face. “I hope you’re happy, the bus is going to be filthy and we’ll be lucky not to have broken an axle on that sorry excuse for a road,” the driver was saying to someone behind him. The accent was foreign and snotty. Dean crossed his arms and glared. The man didn’t even have the good grace to look abashed.
“Zar, just shut up for once in your life.” A deeper voice came from the dark interior and then another man appeared on the steps of the bus. He made eye contact with Dean and Dean swallowed hard, forgetting how to breath. He was drop dead gorgeous. Dark hair, looking like it hadn’t seen a comb in weeks, but sexy as hell. It didn’t look like he’d picked up a razor in the last few days either. The aviator sunglasses had Dean at a disadvantage. “You’re Dean Winchester.”
“I am,” Dean said, not offering anything else.
“I’m Cas Novak.” The stranger held out his hand. Dean ignored it.
“I figured as much,” Dean drawled, with a nod to the side of the bus, where not only the man’s name was plastered, but his picture, as well. The other man dropped his hand to his side. Dean knew he was being rude, but he left the country music scene for a reason and he didn’t appreciate it pulling up in his driveway.
“I was hoping to talk to you.” Dean ran his eyes up and down Novak’s body. He was well built and dressed in tight jeans, cowboy boots, a white t-shirt, and a plaid overshirt. If Dean’s bold perusal made him uncomfortable, he didn’t show it.
“Unless you’re here to buy a horse or some cattle, I’m not interested in anything you have to say.” Dean heard a snort of laughter come from the driver. Novak tilted his head to the side and gave Dean a half-smile.
“I think I might want a horse. Can you show me what you have?” Dean didn’t expect that answer and it took him a couple of seconds to come up with a suitable response.
“You didn’t come here to buy a horse.”
“No, but I’m willing to do that, if you’ll talk to me.” The breeze was ruffling his unruly hair and Dean’s eyes were drawn to it again.
“Look, I don’t know what you’re selling, but I ain’t buying. So, you might as well climb back in your fancy bus and go back to Nashville or wherever else you came from.”
“I’m not selling anything. I think I’m buying a horse.” Dean could almost hear the unspoken ‘checkmate’ from the man. He set his jaw and nodded.
“Fine,” he said through clinched teeth. “I’ll show you what I have.” Yeah, he’d show the man alright.
***
The pictures on the internet didn’t do the man justice. The pretty boy had turned into a beautiful man. Cas was intrigued. Some of the links had hinted to the fact that Dean Winchester was bisexual, but there was never any proof. In another time, Cas would have asked for a taste. He had bigger plans though and it didn’t involve sex.
After he’d finished the song, he’d run his idea by Gabe. His brother was pleased Cas was able to write again, but less than thrilled about the idea of a duet. At least, not a duet with a washed up, alcoholic singer. Reba, Carrie or Miranda would have been fine with Gabe. Unfortunately, the song needed to be sung by two men and Cas had his heart set on Dean Winchester. He knew Winchester’s voice would harmonize with his perfectly.
The moment Cas finished the show in New Orleans, he’d told his band and road crew to have a nice three days off. Then he had Balthazar point the bus west. It took twelve hours to cross the huge state, but Cas used the time wisely. He called in a few favors to get the location of Dean’s ranch. When that quest was finished, he sat at the table and hashed out another song. Cas just knew their voices would sound great together. The only obstacle seemed to be Dean Winchester himself.
From the time Cas had stepped off the bus, the man had been rude. Now, he was following the rancher towards a fenced pasture. The bowlegged gait shouldn’t have given Cas filthy ideas. He shouldn’t be fantasizing about those same legs wrapped around his waist. “These are all the stock I have for sale. They are all mares with a few young colts thrown in the mix. If you want a filly, it’ll cost you. I don’t sell them unless they prove they aren’t good for breeding. I do have a few geldings that I’ll sell, if you’re just wanting a good riding horse. They’re in the next pasture over.”
Winchester stopped at a rail fence and leaned on it. Cas came to stand beside him. Several horses raised their heads and looked in their direction. Cas didn’t ride. He sure as hell didn’t want to buy any livestock. “I’ve written a duet and think you would be perfect for it.”
Cas could almost see the tension radiate off the cowboy. He made a guttural sound in his throat and spit onto the ground. “No.” He paused for a beat and then pointed. “See that blue roan out there? That colt will make a great cutting horse. He’s flashy enough for the show ring too.”
Cas released a frustrated breath. “Could you at least listen…”
“No.” Winchester nodded towards another horse. “Not sure what you’re looking for, but that mare over there…the chestnut with the white blaze and white socks on her back legs…now, she’d make a great barrel racer. Her mama was National Champion a few years back.”
There was a throbbing in his temples. The bastard was giving him a headache. “Fine, I’ll take her,” he snapped. The slow smile on the other man’s face made him see red, but he held his tongue.
“Follow me to the office and I'll get the paperwork done. You going to take her with you or have her shipped?”
“Does it look like I can take her with me?” Cas asked, his voice laced with sarcasm.
“That fancy bus looks big enough to hold her,” Winchester drawled. The man’s eyes squinted against the glare from the sun, but they were filled with mirth at Cas’ expense. Without waiting for Cas’ reply, the cowboy walked off. Cas had to hurry to catch up. He followed Winchester into the dim light of a barn and through a doorway. The office was tidy. A single window let in the natural sunlight and dust motes floated in the air. The scarred oak desk held a slim laptop and metal filing cabinets lined one wall. Another wall held several cheap bookcases. Those were crammed with books, trophies, pictures, and other odds and ends. Winchester went to one of the file drawers and pulled it out. He let his fingertips skim over the folders.
“Here we go. Have a seat,” he said, indicating a wooden chair in front of the desk. The cowboy took the cracked leather chair behind the desk and opened up the file. “Here’s her pedigree and her vet records. You’ll get a copy of all this. Her registered name is Winchester Winning Hand, but you can change it when we transfer ownership.” Winchester slid a few documents across the desk. Cas had no idea what he was looking at. “My advice though…leave her name as is, she’s worth a lot of money with my name tagged to her. My bloodlines are well known. You can call her whatever you want…”
“How much?” Cas could arrange a bank transfer and maybe donate the horse to a charity auction.
“Forty thousand…and if you want her bred to one of my studs, I can cut you a deal on the fee.”
Cas blinked at the green-eyed man in stunned silence. Forty grand for a horse? He didn’t pay that much for the classic Camaro he’d bought a few years back. Before he knew it, he’d signed on the dotted line and was the proud owner of a farm animal. Winchester was droning on and on about shipping options and Cas found himself just nodding.
They stepped out into the sunlight again and Winchester was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “Nice doing business with you, Mr. Novak. Have a nice day, ya hear?” And damned if the man didn’t tip his hat. Cas stepped up into the bus and found Balthazar lounging on the sofa, a copy of Playboy in his hands. He removed his sunglasses and set them on the counter.
“Well, is he going to record the song with you?”
“No.” Cas tossed the envelope containing the horse’s…his horse’s paperwork onto the table.
Zar sat up and tossed the magazine aside. “You must be losing your touch. You were gone long enough, I thought you’d have him on his knees begging…”
“He sold me a horse.” Cas sat down wearily and scrubbed his hands over his face. How had he let the man goad him into buying a damn animal?
“I don’t think I heard you correctly. I could have sworn you said he sold you a horse.” Cas turned his eyes onto his friend and gave him a scathing look. Balthazar began to laugh. Soon, he was clutching his sides, almost hysterical. Cas wished he had the power to smite the man.
“Can you please get us out of here? You’re paid to drive this bus…so drive the fucking thing.” In a fit of temper that would rival a toddler’s, Cas stormed into his room and slammed the door. Angry with himself and royally pissed at Winchester, he sat heavily on his bed, hands over his face. He heard the rumble of the bus’ engine and felt the bus begin its journey down the long, dirt driveway.
The next stop on the tour was Houston. Balthazar would find them a place to stay and they’d do the eight hour drive in the morning. They had plenty of time.
Cas stared at his guitar and wondered who else had the right voice to sing the song with him. He ran his thumb over the screen of his phone and pulled up the songs he’d downloaded. Winchester’s voice filled the room.
Thought I was over you, thought I could start anew
I got a new job, new friends on the other side of town
But here you are again just like a long lost friend
And when I touched your hand it started all over again
I can't help myself here comes that feeling
Just like a raging river rushing over me
No I can't help myself here I go falling
Head over heels falling for you again
Winchester was wasting his talent. Too bad he couldn’t handle the fame and let alcohol ruin his career.