Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10683963.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural, The_Scorpio_Races_-_Maggie_Stiefvater
  Relationship:
      Castiel/Dean_Winchester, John_Winchester/Mary_Winchester, Charlie
      Bradbury/Jo_Harvelle, Jessica_Moore/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, Castiel, Castiel_(Supernatural), Jo
      Harvelle, Charlie_Bradbury, John_Winchester, Mary_Winchester, Ash_
      (Supernatural), Gabriel_(Supernatural), Balthazar_(Supernatural)
  Additional Tags:
      Riding, scorpio_races_-_Freeform, dean!rider, castiel!rider, Horse
      Racing, Violence, Ocean, november_-_Freeform, Destiel_-_Freeform, dean/
      cas_-_Freeform, bottom!Dean, Top!Castiel, Both_Underage, Slow_Burn,
      slowest_of_burn, Internalized_Homophobia, parents_are_eaten_lol, John
      Winchester's_A+_Parenting, On_Hiatus
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-04-20 Updated: 2017-04-24 Chapters: 5/? Words: 9221
****** The Draw ******
by izzbelle
Summary
     Scorpio Races based destiel AU.
     All ideas/plots belong to the outstanding author Maggie Stiefvater.
     Dean Winchester has a lot of issues. An absent father, more unpaid
     bills then he can count on his fingers, and a grumpy horse for a
     friend. He also lives on an island where people race flesh eating sea
     horses every November. Fun times.
     Castiel Novak has a few less issues. The big one is that he knows he
     will die on the sand like his father as the statistics go. He needs
     out before he looses himself to the November sea.
     This is a story in which Cas trains Dean to win his life back
     (totally not because his face is really nice).
     ON HIATUS UNTIL DEMAND
Notes
     I will post individual chapter notes at the end so check those out
     for any serious warnings
***** Chapter 1 *****
The small wooden boat capsized and the two other people alongside Dean plunged
into the cold November water, their heads bobbing below the black frothy waves.
Thunder crashed so loudly above, he felt the ocean shake and sheets of rain
assaulted the currents. The water violently tugged at his clothes, all warmth
being torn from his body within seconds. What heat remained was frozen by the
pit of fear in his stomach. In the distance he could see dark equine shapes
moving just beneath the surface, cutting towards the group of people. His sight
was taken from him as a sharp pain seized his foot, pulling his head into the
brine. Muffled by the liquid, Dean was surrounded by screams, which only seemed
to grow in pitch until he felt warmth seeping from his ears. The water around
him slowly bled into the colour red, the dark figures in front of him now being
dismembered. Fighting the pressure on his leg, a shout erupted from the boy now
struggling to reach the other people, though the thick wine coloured fluid
swallowed his words and ran down his throat, suffocating him. Thrashing, Dean
felt his muscles begin to weaken as he sunk farther from the steely light above
him.
Dean woke, his threadbare sheets soaked with sweat and knotted by his feet, his
thin pillow lying lamely in a pile against his chipped door. The morning island
sun filtered in through his window, casting a fragile light over his room,
raindrops still fixed to the glass from last night's storm. The unfilled
dresser in the corner cast a much too large shadow over the small space,
dwarfing his bedframe. The stale air was still with silence, only broken by the
occasional rustle of grass. Chilled morning air from the seeped into his space
from cracks in the glass, urging him to wake.
Dean took deep breaths. Placing his feet on the uneven floorboards, he stood up
only once certain his legs would take his weight and waddled, careful not to
stab himself with a splinter, to throw on a paint splattered t-shirt and a torn
up pair of jeans. Not wanting to wake the other occupant of the house at the
asscrack of dawn on a Saturday, he forced his shaky hands to steady when
pushing into the kitchen.
Dean glanced at the empty cabinets save a handful of apples from the tree
outside and sighed. Dad hadn't been home for days again, and that meant that
there would be no substantial money on the counter for at least another few
weeks. The odd jobs Dean picked up covered the meagre amounts of food they had
for them and the animals, but the power bill had been left for a month now and
threats of it being shut off hung over their heads. John managed to keep up
with the payments when he wasn't drinking, as the nearby hotel paid pity to the
local drunk with one leg and a dead wife, but there was rarely a time when the
man didn't come home with a bad hangover.
Dean didn't start his unofficial job until midday and the crooked clock in the
hall told him it was seventy thirty. Another shuffling sound came from the
other side of a thin entrance. This noise came from the lot outside which was
more of a sand pit surrounded by a broken picket fence, scattered machinery
peppering the hard packed ground. A rusted dirt bike stood propped up against a
weak looking shed, hay strewn around which a handful of chickens picked at.
Pushing out of the meagre house, Dean whistled softly into the damp October
air. With a low rumbling nicker, a black head poked out from the shed and
looked unimpressed at the boys call. Dean popped his hip out and murmered
disapprovingly to the horse, "So that's all the thanks I get for paying your
rent, eh? I see how it is," Turning his back to the creature he stood huffing
dramatically in anger. Slowly, the large spindly horse grumpily padded out to
its owner, this act noticeably practiced by the pair, only given away by a
slight amusement that sparkled in her amber ringed eyes. Shuffling her mouth
along his shirt's collar and soon nibbling on Dean's short sandy hair, the boy
finally let out a breathy snort of forgiveness and turned to the nearly black
mare, threading his hands into her mane and scratching hard, earning him shove
as the large animal leaned into his touch.
Grabbing a heavily used halter, he tied her to a hook on the side of the shed
and started brushing shavings and sand out of her dappled side. Mumbling to the
horse without pause, his ritualistic one-sided conversation coaxed the tension
out of both of their shoulders. Not bothering to grab the worn saddle in the
corner, Dean bridled the Thoroughbred mix, who took a few tries to open her
mouth. "Gotta go Baby, Sammy's almost up." The grumpy mare only replied with a
swish of her thick tail, but the twitching of her muscles gave away her
readiness.
Lifting himself up onto the tall animal, Dean scrambled for a second for a hold
on her slick hair before he found balance and swung a leg over her back,
holding the reins taught. His weight now pressing into hers, Dean could feel
the mare's body tense in eagerness. No need to tap his boots to her sides, as
the mare's reedy legs were already dancing on spot, Dean's eyes landed on the
fence at the end of their street and he set his jaw in focus.
Baby abruptly threw her head up tearing a few inches of rein from Dean's hands
and with this new freedom she shot off, slick black body sliding into lengthy
stride. Dean slipped farther away from withers with a short laugh at her
impatience. The older boy softened his body, and fell into a natural position
on her back, crouched over slightly, eyes trained on the fence coming into
focus, a soft smile playing over his lips.
Tightening the reins an inch and sitting back more tersely, Dean collected the
horse into a shorter stride to clear the lofty fence. With ease, the mare
pushed off, flicking her back legs up in joy, leaving feet between her and the
picket. Landing, she sprayed gravel and sand everywhere, scrabbling for hold as
Dean sharply turned her to the right, into a field that ran alongside the dirt
road. Haphazardly bolting in the direction he pointed her in with shake of her
head, Dean whooped loudly and let his reins now swing loose at her slim neck
his smile splitting into a grin. As the pair hit the grass and Dean loosened
his grip, he noticed the steadiness in his grasp he hadn't had since he woke
up.
A loud grumble sounded from the road to their left as a gangly boy atop a dirt
bike rode beside them. "It's cheating to leave the person your racing with
asleep, you know, is it because you know the only time you'll beat me to town
is in your dreams?"
"Don't be a bitch, Sam, we're leaving you and your rusted tricycle in the
dust,"
"Okay Jerk, just close your mouth or you might get a mouthful of my ass
kicking," With Dean's shouts of protests of respect to older brothers, the
younger of the two pulled into a lead as the road veered in a different
direction. Cursing, Dean gently pressed Baby's sides with his boots and urged
her into a sprint as he folded further on her back, winding his hands to knot
in her mane. "Today is the not the day I loose to my kid brother," He spoke
quietly into her flattened ears. The mare only flicked her ears in response
though Dean felt pride pulse through him as Baby's breath laboured and the
hollow thump of her hooves on the ground became a rapid beat as they cut
through the coarse island meadow.
Dodging sheep and rushing through water-laden hedges, both could see Laurence,
the only town on the small island, in the short distance and Dean could almost
taste the small (and first) victory against his twerp of a brother. Eyes
trained on the oncoming brick buildings, just coming into full view, Dean's
brain didn't register that he was off of Baby's back and crashing towards the
ground until he landed on his back in the soggy grass.
All air pushed out of him, he gasped trying to fill his lungs, but only smell
of rotting decay entered his mouth and nose, causing him to involuntarily
retch. Looking around, shaking the black circles from the side of his vision,
Dean saw the source of the smell. Heaving his empty stomach again, the teenager
scrambled to his feet and held his t-shirt over half his face. Baby was only a
few feet away huffing fearfully with wide eyes at the bloodied mass of flesh,
which had caused her to spook. Dean could only assume that the animal was once
one of the countless sheep or cows that lived in the pastures and it had
wandered too close to the fence. It looked like it had been skinned and chunks
ripped out of its meatiest parts.
The mangled body at his feat was a reminder to Dean that November was almost
upon Laurence, and with it brought more death then at any time of the year.
Although the unusually large storm must have drawn one out, it was only time
before more of the sea horses emerged from the island's waters, hungry for
flesh and just as untameable as they were last year. This of course, did not
stop the idiotic people of Laurence from capturing the beasts, and each year
for as long as the island existed, racing along the beach. Dean tried to hold
his anger back and understand the age-old ritual, but it did not stop the
resentment that boiled in him every time he was reminded of why he was left
without a mother, an incapacitated father and countless nights without sleep.
Whistling for Baby to come over, Dean swung himself onto her back once again
and set towards the near town at a steady trot, though his mind was no longer
on him and Sammy's competition, but the fight for survival that would take
place in the next months.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     Castiel.
Chapter 2
Castiel was flying. Cold ocean water sprayed his face in a fine mist and the
ragged cliffs of Laurence to his left began to blur together. Thighs and arms
burning from holding the animal beneath him in a straight line along the surf,
he was grateful for the late October air. He risked a glance down to the bare
muscular form he pressed between his legs. An expanse of gold slicked with
sweat and salt water stretched out far below him, muscles rippling under thin
skin as the huge animal engulfed the beach with its hungry strides. Angry waves
crashed into boulders embedded in the soft earth with bone crunching force,
roaring fearsomely at the pair.
The creature's slim legs extended and contracted, stretching out for what
seemed like miles from Castiel's vantage, perched just behind its serpent like
neck, currently rounded into a rigid arc. The boy's thin fingers adeptly ran
through the animal's milky mane, and without stop knotted and unknotted the
hair into three pieces, tugging slightly with every tie completed. With every
pull at the hair, the creature seemed to be dragged back.
He remembered when his father had dragged the beast out of the water. How it
had taken ten people six hours just to tear the creature from the surf, four
more to drape it in pounds of iron and crosses to silence its eardrum bursting
screams. That the group, short of three people who lay broken to the side, has
just managed to keep him from thrashing, standing like a gilded king, golden
coat blazing in the early morning sun and murder in his black eyes. He
remembered it took exactly 3 gallons of holy water pumped into the water
horse's veins and stomach, until the steaming liquid had poured through its
nose and mouth just for the beast to lower his head, hate still burning darkly
in his eyes, lips pulled back to reveal sharp canines.
The animal did not sound for the rest of the journey. The stable had special
prisons for the monsters, iron barred stalls with crosses and sigils etched
into every inch of the thick oak that boarded the metal. Castiel's father has
taken him aside immediately, telling him to never go near the locked cell if he
wanted to come out again. Mr Novak prided himself in a fearless tact with the
water horses that only lead to success, but something apprehensive glinted
dangerously in his aged blue eyes. "We didn't catch a capaill uisce Castiel, we
caught the devil," He said softly as the pair climbed to their house a short
walk away from the racing barn. "And he will tempt you."
From his house every night, Castiel could hear the stallion's cries for the
ocean. They were not the furious shrieks of him being torn from his home that
he sounded day after day of training, but lonely keens. The skinny raven-haired
boy could not stop his heart from twisting painfully with every call the horse
made for its home. The sounds only increased with every day closer to November
as the ocean's magic grew stronger.
Not being able to help himself anymore, Castiel pulled on his boots and crept
past his father's room. Slipping out of his house, he paused and grabbed a
small lantern hanging from their porch. Soon he was padding down the entrance
to the barn turning towards the section which kept a handful of water horses,
his pulse quickening. The stallion's soft rumbles still held a deep ferocity
from a short distance. Sliding the wooden door open, wincing at the creaking
noise. He was not the only one who heard the noise, and as soon as he stepped
into the shadows, his lamp giving him a small sphere of dim light, there was
only silence.
Freezing for a second, Castiel could only stare dumbly ahead, just making out
the glint of the iron bars in front of him. Stepping one more pace forward, the
boy hesitantly held the lantern out ahead of him and squinted. The light had
found the stallion's murky eyes, glittering wetly in the small flame, void of
any emotion save cautious intrigue at the feeble human. If he strained his
ears, he heard a faint tinkling noise the iron chain blanket made as the horse
quivered slightly in discomfort. Silence was for the first time in Castiel's
life, uncomfortable and so slowly lowering himself onto the cool stone, he
began to whisper across the small void to the creature. The shivering stopped.
Every night for months he crept down from his house to ask it questions about
the sky and the sand and the sea. He told the stallion about his mother's
absence, how the only place he felt he fit was atop monsters, asked it to take
care of his father, pleaded with it not to eat his only family. Content with
the silence he got in return, Castiel felt a pull to the caged horse with a
slender gold head that greeted him every night with pricked hears, listening
with interest.
He burst into the stable in the early hours of the morning on a chilled April,
the sun still hours away from rising, lamp swinging forcefully from his pace.
He dropped the light on a nearby feed box and jogged up to the confinement,
pressing his hands to the bars. The usual chiming of iron chain-link was
amplified to a sharp clanging, the golden horse in front of him shaking
violently from the overzealous assortment of religious emblems draped across
his back.
Muttering angrily about the cruel reprimand the water horse had gotten for
attacking a young trainer today, Castiel apologized profusely to the stallion,
murmuring excuses for his father's harshness and explaining why his father
wouldn't let him help train the creature. Pausing, he reached into his pocket
and stood staring at the key he snatched from his father's coat. Taking the
heavy padlock in his hand, the boy fit the key into the hole, and glanced up at
the giant, taking in his loftiness fully. As always, he was unable to read any
emotion except vague curiosity. Taking a shallow breath, he turned the key,
hearing the pop of the mechanisms inside. Determined to continue what he came
to do, Castiel caught the reflection of his father's deep blue eyes in the
dented metal and setting his jaw, he pushed the cage door open.
Like he did with the other, older water horses he worked with that the racing
stable held captive, Castiel breathed deeply, calming himself and pressed his
iron ring into the stallion, pushing slightly, willing the horse back. Leashing
it with a frayed rope, he tied the still shuddering creature to one of the
bars. Ring still pushed into its shoulder, he gingerly he began stripping the
layers of iron off of its back. Castiel untangled every rosary from its mane
and tale, and lifted the weights from the creature's slender ankles. Taking a
rag from his pocket in the weak firelight, the boy gently rubbed into the
stallions sweat crusted hair, brushing the golden hide into a silky texture.
Working into his neck, Castiel felt a sharp pressure on his shoulder and his
heart jumped into his throat, entire body stiffening minutely. Feeling his
heart beat jump into an impossibly fast pace, he shifted his eyes, not daring
to turn his head. When he found the monster's snakelike neck craned, mouth
resting heavily in the crook between his neck and back, rubbing back and forth
and grooming, his body sagged in relief. And, for the first time in years,
Castiel found a smile softening his stony expression.
Castiel, as expected, grew into one of the most talented riders in Laurence in
the next years, and yet his father still kept him away from the metallic
capaill uisce, night visits were only time with the horse. This only changed
four years ago during the Scorpio Races when a grey mare ripped his only
relative from his high perch on the stallion, tearing into his neck. Castiel
lost his father that day, but gained his best friend.
His partner let out a dramatic war cry, picking up his already thunderous pace
and the lean teenager was brought out of his thoughts. A burst of sharp
laughter ripped its way out of Castiel's mouth at the ridiculousness of his
horse and the monster beneath him, sensing the good mood, asked for more rein.
Feeling more than slightly high on the adrenalin of the first run of the racing
season, the boy threw the reins out in front of him and let the horse beneath
him devour what was left of the stretch of sand.
The animal came to a sudden stop in front of a cliff, bouncing in place.
Castiel slipped off him, used to the large fall. Playfully nudging his owner,
the blue eyed boy was not responsive, his eyes on the ocean. He was distracted
by the crest of a wave, which was rapidly changing into what looked more like a
top line of an equine. The gold stallion now turned his thinly boned face to
the roar of the waves to match his rider. The draw of the sea was not strong
enough in October to be any interest to him. He had not swam freely in the
November waters of Laurence for five years, though the young man by his side
was more than a reason to stay. Their bond had become something legendary after
an undefeated four-year title.
Turning towards his partner, the animal allowed Castiel to lower his head,
cradled in his hands. Foreheads pressed together, the boy whispered to the
animal.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Summary
     Dean.
Chapter 3
He had just walked home, giving Baby a rest from pulling around various pottery
pieces for the local house goods shop. Letting her loose in the yard, Dean felt
around in his jacket pocket for the bills he had brought home, grabbing the
worn pieces of paper, a pleased light trickling into his gaze. Pushing into the
house, which was permanently unlocked, he froze as he spotted a dark haired man
hunched over the kitchen table. Brows furrowing in confusion at the sight of
the man, Dean started towards the barren table slowly, as if approaching an
injured animal. “Dad?” He said softly, voice tightly guarded. John Winchester
lifted his face to reveal a greying head, face etched with age and eyes darkly
bloodshot. The corners of the man’s lips slipped down slightly and the wrinkles
around his eyes deepened.
“Dean. You’re supposed to be at work.” The words were no question and the words
were devoid of many emotion. The boy across from him straightened his back and
threw his shoulders back, as if preparing for a battle.
“I always come home now, you haven’t been home in weeks. The bills,” Dean
teetered off, uncertain if his next words would provoke something more violent.
John sagged suddenly. This was far off the man Dean had come to fear most of
his life. The gruff man looked broken.
“Sit down. We need to talk.”
 
Dean slammed through the door to his shed, fist clenched in anger and his jaw
set tightly. Baby who was in the corner, attempting to chew down the low
quality hay, startled, the whites of her eyes flashing before recognizing her
rider. The sandy haired teenager made a beeline to the wall and grabbed her
bridle.
“The fucking coward, the fucking piece of crap, what? Blows our lives to shit
and abandons ship? No, fuck that fuck him.” He faced the horse, his eyes
shimmering with angry tears. His shouts turned into a hoarse whisper. “He’s
leaving Baby. The house, Sammy’s school, you, everything is gone.” His hands
fell limp to his sides. Dean’s family had moved endlessly before water horses
had murdered his mother. The house that they owned in was the last place her
two sons had seen her alive in. It was all they had and all they wanted. “He
says he sees her everywhere. Even in me and Sam.” The more Dean thought about
it, the more it made him want to punch the old man’s face in. The brothers
would have to live in an orphanage for the next year until Dean turned 18 and
Sam would end up in the system for the rest of his under aged life. They would
loose everything, including each other. “Let’s get out of here.” He never
pushed Baby so fast out the gate.
Dean shot down the main road, dodging the few trucks that came their way with a
little less room than what was considered dangerous. The black mare hardly
flinched as the last vehicle’s horn blasted loudly to their right. It was not
rare for her owner to push both their limits after an interaction with his
father. Plunging beneath the tree level, the setting sun was being smothered by
storm clouds as the green billows thickened above their heads. Dean flattened
his body to the thoroughbred’s slim figure and ignored the slight spritzing of
rain that had surrounded the pair.
The light around them was slowly suffocating and Dean hadn’t realized the
impending storm until it was practically upon the horse and rider. The trees to
their left were barely visible in the inky black shadows of the forest and the
fields overlooking cliffs on the right were blending into one dismal grey
horizon.
A deep rumble sounded in the distance as the dirt road in front of them
exploded with large pellets of water driving hard into the gravel. The drops
thundered on the pair, who were soaked immediately and encased in a curtain of
falling liquid. Dean pitched forward on her back as the mare’s foot slipped out
from under her and the two stumbled in the dirt quickly turning mud. Dean sat
back and tugged lightly on the reins, letting the mare choose a slow trot to
continue at. Beyond the white sheets Dean could see nothing but blurry grey
forms of trees. A loud curse slipped out of his mouth as he yelled into the
abandoned looking surroundings. Stopping Baby, the teenager looked around him
for anything that looked vaguely familiar, but still the rain pounded on.
Urging the horse into a tentative walk, careful she didn’t slip or go off road,
he decided to follow the soft ground until they reached the main road, which
led into the town centre. Nothing but the drum of the weather and faint
rumbling of thunder in the distance accompanied them for what seemed like hours
of walking, the usually mild journey dragging on.
Out of the bland distance came a loud snort. Dean nudged Baby’s sides with his
boots but the mare was stuck in place, suddenly haunches tensing and moving
backwards swiftly. Whispering empty words of comfort to the horse, Dean’s heart
flat lined when a second noise broke through the heavy throb of the storm. The
hungry screech that sounded in front of them belonged to a large black shape
approaching the pair at a fast pace. Dean swung Baby around, slamming his heels
into her sides urging her into a sprint, but again the mare lost footing in the
mud and slipped. In the second the two stumbled and regained lost speed, the
creature was on them.
The smell hit Dean first. It was salt and seaweed and decaying flesh and copper
and everything he has ever hated about Laurence. It was a capaill uisce. His
mind flashed to the day half a month ago when he found the mangled body of an
animal on his way to work. Grounded in a storm, confused by the downpour and
starving having just emerged onto land, the capaill uisce on his tail found
itself dragging its fetid, half water logged body through the streets of
Laurence in search of meat. Dean imagined him and Baby’s bodies unrecognizably
mauled on the side of a muddy little road. He imagined Sam having no one once
John left. He imagined Baby’s screams being cut off as her throat was ripped
into, the betrayal of the trust she put in him. Swamped with fear, Dean
couldn’t think over the pounding in his chest and the fiery surges of adrenalin
to his body. He wracked his brain for solutions for both their lives. The only
concept he could hold on to was that they were never both going to outrun the
monster. Nearly blinded by the wind and rain whipping his face, Dean couldn’t
tell if he was crying or not. He hoped he wasn’t, crying on your deathbed was
so not okay.
Baby sounded a terrified cry as the water horse snapped at her haunches. The
water plastered boy’s heart wrenched and he had made his choice. He would have
to throw himself off so Baby could run faster.
Pounding his legs against her side once, the mare gave her everything to him
and shot forward using the last of her energy. Dean flung the reins in front of
him and his burning legs released their hold on her slick back. Quickly
slipping onto her flanks, he hit her once firmly on the back, urging her to
keep running. The solid body beneath him was gone and for a split second he was
flying. Hitting the ground, Dean spun around and scrambled to the side of the
road, fumbling near the tree line for a weapon. He prayed to the gods that look
down on Laurence, whoever the sick bastards were, that his brave little mare
was still running for her life. Finding a long thick branch, he held it in
front of himself just as large jaws lined with sharp canines bit down cracking
the thick wood. Squinting up at the monster thrashing its large head trying to
remove the branch from between them, Dean gagged at the decaying smell oozing
from the gill like slits of nostrils. He blinked rapidly attempting to see more
than a looming brown creature but the only thing he could make out was the
flash of very white, very sharp, very close incisors. Dean’s arms shook and his
breath was coming out in laboured puffs, the monster bit down harder and the
branch began to splinter. He was fighting a loosing battle. Dropping his only
weapon, Dean backed into the road hoping to find a stone of some sort, a small
voice reminding him he was just prolonging the unstoppable. The giant form
shook its long neck trying to dislodge the imbedded wood. The desperate boy’s
heart sunk as he failed to find another weapon. Setting his jaw, he stood up,
not aware the creature had already dislodged the branch. The capaill uisce had
slunk over to him, lunged at his face. Throwing his body onto the torn up
earth, Dean narrowly missed having his cheek removed. Dean’s breaths were short
and shallow now the fear coursing through his veins extinguishing any energy he
had , his grit wilted and the was left making a weak attempt to crawl away. The
monster reared Dean saw its razor like hooves flash as they came crashing down
on top of his ribs. Pain seared through his entire body and gathered in his
spine as the hungry animal rose again to finish its prize off. Dean closed his
eyes.
A shrill almost pony like whinny sounded in front of him and Dean’s eyes shot
open as he recognized a small black thoroughbred, dwarfed by the size of the
brown monstrosity, as she barrelled into the carnivore. The horse had only
shifted the animal slightly and it had now turned its attention on the larger
meal, clearly aware of the fact it was about to get two dinners. Dean got on
shaky legs, clutching at his sides, each rib feeling 100 pounds too heavy and
shouted at the black horse now striking from back legs, voice gruff with pain,
“Dumbass horse, get the hell out of here!” Dean tried to get close but the
shrieks and failing limbs were indistinguishable. He stumbled too close and one
small, shoed hoof meant for a capaill uisce’s neck, crashed into his skull.
Hot waves of black flooded his vision as he drifted out of conciseness. The
ground felt hard on his back, the rain felt hot on his cheeks and there was a
squealing sound that was too loud in his ears, machine metal grinding and then
a load thump. Groaning Dean tried to sit up, the loud noises around him
replaced by a gentle ringing coming from his own ears. He lifted his head a few
inches to be blinded by a pair of luminescent looking headlights lighting a
familiar lifeless form on the ground. Dean screamed loudly, the broken sound
raking pain from his damaged chest to blood wet mouth. Nausea gripped him and
his dead pitched backwards the small height he had raised it, slamming into the
dirt. Grief was his last thought before Dean passed out.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Castiel’s arm was really sore; he couldn’t even lift the damn thing without
wincing.
He had been driving home in his father’s old pickup and literally fender bended
a water horse three seconds from snapping a skinny thoroughbred’s neck like a
toothpick. The not so much a horse was still fresh out of the water, it’s
sodden brown coat shinning in his headlights slicked in a thick layer of sea
slime. Castiel hard braked a little too late and jumped out of the car. The
capaill uisce lay motionless in the mud, its head turned at an unnatural angle.
The black horse stood breathing loud in the skirts of his headlights, cloaked
in the heavy patter of rain. Castiel started towards the animal slowly, hand
held out murmuring assurances. The animal continued to ignore him, and instead
lowered her head to something just out of his sight. He carefully stepped
through the mud, not wanting to slip and fall in face first. As he got closer,
the boy caught sight of reins hanging loose at the mare’s neck. She was scared
and bloody but still made no move, meaning to Castiel’s years of experience,
she was either hurt or tied down. The bridle complicated things though, did she
escape or was there a rider someone out there in the dark.
The teenager came close enough to make a grab for the horse’s bridle and
started moving his hand slowly towards her face. Within seconds the mare’s eyes
flashed white and her ears pinned, with a squeal she snapped her jaws
menacingly at his fingers. Retreating quickly, Castiel heard a soft groan from
behind the mare and his head snapped towards the sound. Squinting into the
dark, he ran, slipping the entire time, back to his car. Grabbing a flashlight
and a stick off of the ground, he jogged over the angry horse. Shinning the
beam of light back and forth, Castiel finally found the source of the soft
noise. A shot of surprise rushed through him and he pushed the unwilling mare
to the side with his stick. Crouching down, he grabbed the bloody form’s wrist
to check for a pulse. The pulse was strong but the boy beneath him was still
very much unconscious. Looking over his body, there were numerous scratches and
a sizeable looking blood patch seeping from the torn slit in his shirt. Castiel
worriedly lifted the boy’s rain soaked tee, his gaze raking over his freckled
dusted stomach and chest for more injuries. A large purple bruise stretched in
a small arc over his left ribs, a deeper cut darkening the crest of the shape.
The capaill has struck at him.
Cursing at the injury, Castiel, trying to blot out the stab of worry for the
stranger, awkwardly dragged the boy across the mud, his horse following and
finally stopping to snort at his out-dated car, clearly insulted by its state.
Once he hefted the heavy body into the back seat, he turned to the mare. The
rain had cleared almost completely and the night sky was beginning to peak
through the mist. Walking over and catching the reins faster to avoid any teeth
on hand action, he pulled them over her broad face and paused to run his hands
down her marred neck. Bite marks littered her sides and top line but she stood
rigid. Both hooves were covered in dark blood. Her brown eyes sparkled, daring
him to look at the damage she caused on the broken body of the uisce stallion.
Castiel sighed and walked her over to the side of his car, and getting into the
driver’s seat he stuck his hand holding the reins outside of the window.
Castiel had rented his father’s house out to a family a year ago. The empty
space was only a reminder of his lonely life and he found his small apartment
over the barn he worked at, filled with the soft clamour of daily life,
slightly less depressing than sleeping in his dead father’s bed. As he pulled
into the yard, going at a much faster pace as he began with, he was tempted to
laugh at the small horse’s defiance. Refusing to go less than 15 miles per
hour, which was a steady canter, even then she had tried to yank the reins out
of Castiel’s practiced hands and proceed on her own at a faster pace, which
seemed impossible considering the amount of blood she lost and the slight limp
of her front left leg. As soon as he stopped the car, the mare shook her head
and finally pried the reins from his now rubbed raw palms. He hissed as the
leather burned his sensitive skin. The courtyard was fenced in and so Castiel
decided to deal with the unconscious human in his truck first.
That was six hours ago. He had wrapped the (16 or 17 year old he decided) up
and gave him his bed. If questioned it was agreed between him and himself that
he would not admit to undressing him. The mule downstairs had proved to be far
more difficult as, as soon as her owner disappeared, she refused to even be
touched. He instead left out water and a flake of the barn’s high quality hay,
hoping before the pair left he would convince the mare to be washed. He would
deal with this later though, at least when the sun broke.
At seven hours he worried his guest wouldn’t wake up. Eight hours later he
wondered if kidnapping was an apt description for his kind gesture of picking
him off the street. Nine hours of pacing without sleep tempted him to call one
of the other barn’s staff to inquire casually about murder charges. Instead
Castiel had groomed Grace into a perfect gold sheen, eaten three bowls of
cereal and taken one very long shower. He had managed to corner the mare with a
bucket full of apples, which were hard to come by on the island even so near to
November. Unfortunately for him, before he could snatch the bucket away, she
had by a miracle of nature managed to inhale at least 10. He eyed her warily
before leading (tugging mercilessly) to the hose. Two hours later, she stood
irritatingly happy, at the fence to one of the grass paddocks nearest to
Castiel’s section of the stable. She had bitten him three times while he
applied poultices to her cuts. His patience wore thin. He crossed the yard and
up the stairs to the splintering wood floor of his bedroom. He put a hand on
the boys shoulder, shaking it slightly. No response. Turning around, he began
to make a move for the door. A loud groan erupted from behind him and as
Castiel turned, a large coughing fit wracked the boy’s body. Large green eyes
flew open and he could feel the pain radiating from the body on his bed as it
drew in a large breath and choked on the air, gasping. Castiel strided over and
placed a hand on the boy’s chest lightly, holding him down on the bed. “Don’t
move too much and stop taking big breathes, you have cracked ribs from getting
stepping on.” He snapped with a little too much force.
The other boy had clearly mentally recovered from his near death experience
with his extended nap and his now angry glare reminded him way too much of the
black thoroughbred downstairs. “Who the fuck are you and where am I?” He
demanded.
Castiel felt annoyance simmering in his chest and tried to hold the frustration
from his words at the nameless, now revealed, rude person. His hand pressed
down minutely harder on the boy’s broken chest and he saw the other teenager
try to hide a burdened wince. “If I were you I would treat me with a little
more respect considering I rescued not only you, but your horse from a capaill
uisce.” Not adding the bit where he almost ran all three of them over in the
process, he released his hold on the boy. Letting out the breath he has been
holding, his hands wandered to run through his hair. “I found you on the street
last night in a storm. You were getting your beauty sleep in the mud and black
beauty almost ate me. So you’re welcome.”
Green eyes set his jaw stubbornly, his hands tight in Castiel’s embarrassingly
thin sheets. Castiel looked around his little wooden room for a minute,
composing himself trying to summon a rare sliver of pity for the other
teenager. By the time his eyes settle back on his guest, something seems to
unwind itself rapidly in the boy, because in a turn of events, he wears a
casual smile, “I guess I should ask who my saviour’s name is then, huh?” There
was more than a hint of sarcasm in his question but Castiel’s head still hurts
and he needs a cup of coffee, so it would have to do as whatever twisted
apology it was.
“Castiel Novak. I assume you will need a car to wherever you are going.
Whenever your body allows, your mare is downstairs,” He sees the boy’s face
pale, realizing his unattended horse. Moving under cracked ribs is a mistake
without care, Castiel knows from countless times Grace in training threw him
around like a rag doll. The rider lets out a pained whine, and stops flailing.
Shuffling more carefully now, he places his bare feet on the floor, throwing
the covers off. He stares down at the loose canvas pants hanging around his
hips and bare chest, bandage firmly taped in place. He slowly makes eye contact
and shifts his eyes away to the corner of the room, where a clump of bloody
clothes are rumpled, then snaps them back.
He starts slowly, eyebrows furrowed, “These are not my clothes.”
Castiel tries to keep his face from flushing; there was nothing to be
embarrassed about. The freckled boy was damp and bloody. He doesn’t delve
deeper into how he knows just how freckled he is. “That would be correct.”
Castiel apparently also fails in surmising the other rider’s character, because
the boy lets out a short laugh, wincing slightly at the movement, and sticks
out his hand “I’m Dean, thanks for saving my ass.”
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Summary
     Dean.
Chapter 5
Cause Dean is basically family with the Roadhouse owner, and has blown
raspberries at her daughter since the dawn of time, nobody really bothers him
when he sits at the bar, a beer cradled in his hands. Ellen Harvelle owns a
meat shop in the back that mom and dad used to use for Christmas dinner and
hunting the bigger things that lurked in the forests of Lawrence. Mary and
Ellen used to be close. The place always kind of smells like leather and blood
and beer to Dean, but he used to do homework in one of the ratty booths at the
back, so it’s familiar. Tonight Sam was in bed early so Dean thought it was an
okay idea to take a quick trip to scrounge up some cash. Maybe get a little
drunk too, but he had a near death experience not 48 hours ago so he figured he
deserved it.
The condensation on his bottle drips onto the dented countertop and said
Harvelle daughter, Jo, squeezes his shoulder tight in her strong grip. “Look
Dean, you can’t blame yourself for running into a water horse. It’s was just a
freak accident. ” He grumbles something about responsibility and Sammy, the
usual shit. The fact is, if he weren’t such a lucky idiot Sam would have
nobody. Dean, without the sheer godsend of Cas, would be on the side of the
road, a half eaten hunk of meat. And Baby would be no better. His Father was
not known for his parenting skills, but Dean should have stomached it,
shouldn’t have let the hurt dig its grubby claws deeper in him. Jo looks at him
with understanding and a little bit more sadness Dean thinks he can handle
right now. They grew up with each other and Dean pities her for how many self-
deprecation sessions she has sat through. Jo lost her dad before she could
remember, but she still gets it to some extent. She removes her hand and clears
her expression, “So who picked your sorry ass off the side of the road,”
“This rider from that fancy barn north of here. Weird name too, must be some
old Lawrence shit: Castiel.” He rolls the word around in his mouth, trying to
place the foreign syllables. “Jo, ain’t that the name of some ocean spir-” His
word trails off as he catches Jo’s eyes go wide in his peripheral vision.
“What?” Dean demands, putting his beer down quickly and glancing around.
Jo seems to shake her surprise and looks at him hard from the other stool, her
eyebrows knitting themselves to match her hard-set mouth.
“You sure you’ve never seen him before?” Dean nods firmly, Jo’s tone only
adding to his confusion. “Don’t fuck with me, Dean,” She huffs in irritation at
him.
“Oh so now you’re going to tell me you know him too.” Dean shook his head,
smiling. Cas seemed like he hadn’t talked to another person in months, let
alone got out enough to get to bars on the south side of Lawrence.
“I see him once a year, every year.” Jo looked pointedly at him. What the hell.
Jo shrugs at him, “I don’t know Dean, just thought you’d hear about him around.
He’s kind of the shit in the November racing circle, won his first when he was
14. Rides this gold thing the mainlander’s say is worth a big buck.” Dean
looked up slowly, fixing the blonde girl in front of him in an incredulous
stare, “He’s weird though, you’re right, got this creepy thing with the capaill
uisce going on,” She turns her head away and looks at him out of the corner of
her eye, a dangerous smile pulling at the corners of her mouth half wrapped
around her beer. This late at night the bar was always hazy with the burn of
cheap cigarettes, a deep red haze over their heads from the heat lamps. The
people around them look like shadows as they lower themselves to the pool
table. Dean could just overhear a deal in the back for beef hearts at the
butchers door. Jo’s voice lowers to a salacious whisper, a fraction louder than
the muffled din that presses in on them, “They say Castiel Novak talks to the
capaill.” Dean lets out a breath, his head falling into his hands as Jo starts
laughing hard. He runs his hands down his face hard, letting his fingers rub
out the invisible dirt.
“Fuck you. Should I be worried crazy’s contagious?” This earns him a shove but
he takes it, slipping off the barstool. “Been fun Jo,” He turns to her a little
more seriously, “Take care of yourself,” He knows Jo and her mother like to
watch the races, kept tabs on the training. The Roadhouse is where if you sign
up if you want to run, it’s where all the betting is held on a giant chalkboard
in the back. Mainlanders who came to Lawrence for the November race would come
in and order margaritas and other fancy crap. Ash the bartender, would complain
and Ellen would laugh when they asked their ignorant questions about the island
natives, but money was money. And it was hard to come by on this goddamn island
so he didn’t think about it too much. Given the chance, Dean’d milk the race
for all it was worth, hell; Dean would milk just about anything.
With that thought, he staggered over to the pool table to go hustle some old
guys with God complexes. The stupid fuckers always fell into the mistake of
alcohol and egoism. Dean could usually rake in about a good 250 if the regulars
were nice and plastered. Even after a year or so of this, the men didn’t seem
to be able to raise their IQs a few levels above his thick bullshit. Gordon
Walker was the youngest of the crew, and one of John’s old hunting buddies from
when he was sober. He was a game hunter from the mainland who moved over for
the wilderness and stayed for the low taxes and races. The guy sometimes saw
red, started throwing stuff around and Dean didn’t trust him. Anyone who raced
water horses for fun had to be a little off their rocker. But Dean also didn’t
think Gordon would knock on a kid half his age in public, so he hustled away.
This thinking is how a tender 30 minutes later Dean ends up with a thick wad of
20s in his back pocket and a very angry Gordon with his hands on his collar,
dragging him outside. He would shout at Ash or Jo for some help, but he didn’t
need the cops on his ass to add to a list of why his week sucked. Though, when
the cool night air hit his face and he feels his still injured torso smack
against the damp cobblestone, sparks of heated pain lancing through his body,
Dean isn’t so sure anymore. His eyes snap open wide, groaning into the dark air
as he tries to get his lungs to function, he can’t see anything, but he also
can’t not move so it was possible the jackass was just watching him suffer. His
chest won’t stop heaving rapidly, trying to feed him oxygen, but every movement
is torture.
When he feels a boot clad foot connect to his stomach the heel shifting his
ribs, knocking the already scare air from his lungs, Dean’s shout is cut off.
He screws his eyes up, he feels like his whole upper body is crushed in, like
he’s grown spikes on the inside of his stomach.
John didn’t have A+ parenting skills, but he taught Dean how to take a punch
and throw one so this is not his first time at the rodeo. In the time Gordon
grabs the rest of the crew, he crawls a few yards away and manages to stand on
shaky legs, using the building to help him up, clutching at his bruised
insides. His head is beginning to feel light, but that is probably because one
lung has decided to quit on him, and he can taste his own blood. He sees Ash
out of the corner of his eye trying to get to him, but Gordon’s three friends
are holding him up. The cash isn’t in his back pocket anymore. He spits pink
liquid onto the ground, “Hey fellas, come for a party?” Dean shifts his
concentration. Gordon is big, not stocky but tall, and he suffers from raging
arrogance. He’ll throw big punches, coming too far through with his weight,
which he isn’t strong enough to hold. So when he teeters forward, fist first,
Dean makes a pained step to the right, stumbling towards the road, and hands
still at his side. Ash shouts something angry, Dean stumbles some more, and the
man comes closer. His head throbs in warning so he tries something stupid, a
last stand as such. The man is spewing, and Dean can smell the cheep booze from
feet away, “Give me the money Winchester, I swear I’ll go.”
Dean bristles, his words come out short and hard. He doesn’t have much air or
brainpower for anything with a creative flair. “I won it. Fair.” Dean still
doesn’t have the stack of bills, but he sure as fuck doesn’t want the man
beating on him to go and find it while he’s on the side of the road choking on
his own blood, so with a last attempt, he throws himself forward. His punch
isn’t good. It’s solid despite his current state but it lands on the corner of
Gordon’s face, grazing his jaw. He is dazed when the man shoves him to the
floor again, landing a punch. Gordon keeps coming back and shouting about the
money and Dean’s mind drifts dangerously after the second punch to the side of
his face. Lawrence has always been poor he thinks, someone in the world has to
be. Money is to be fought for. Dean’s eyes crack open when he hears shouting.
The weight of the angry, drunk man is lifted from his legs and the blows to his
face stop. He squints up through his one good eye, the other swollen firmly
shut. It’s blurry and he might be hallucinating, but Dean sees Castiel Novak
squinting down at him, head tilted, eyes an inky blue in the shadows, “Dean.”
Cas’ voice is gruffer than he remembers, but it pours relief through him so he
lets out a slightly hysterical laugh. Something in his chest is gurgling. Oops.
“Howdy there Cas,” The words sound wet. Castiel tells him to stop talking so
Dean stops talking. He also lets the other teenager’s surprisingly strong arms
drag him to his feet. He feels a thick wad shoved into his coat pocket, a smile
stretching over his split lip as the Novak kid looks at at him a little
wearily. He wants to tell Cas that he didn’t steal, that he’s just good at
pool. That he’s trying to get Sammy some new shoes, ones without holes and food
on their plates and Baby more grain and gas for his kid brother’s stupid
textbooks. But his lungs let out a rattle every time he breathes out so he just
gives the other teenager a shifty smile.
Castiel’s arm is looped around his back, taking most of his weight, and the
knuckles that rest on his shoulder look bruised. Dean spares a glance around
the entrance of the Roadhouse. Jo, Ellen and Ash stand outside, looking at four
unconscious bodies littering the concrete. He gives them a shaky thumbs up from
where he leans on Castiel’s side. Ellen hides her concern with an angry look
(Dean really needs to start cleaning up his own messes). Jo looks like she’s
considering strangling Gordon from where he groans softly on the floor, holding
a jaw that hangs from a strange angle. Ash looks like he’s having a bad trip,
eyes comically wide, starting openly at Castiel.
Without turning around for an explanation Cas leads Dean to the old pickup.
“I’ll return you. Again.” His voice still sounds like whiskey and Dean likes
how he smells like horses and sea water and wind, so unsurprisingly, instead of
thanking him, he tells Novak that he doesn’t need his help and he’ll get home
on his own. The boy growls a little and shoves his hands through his hair in
frustration, “Why are you so stubborn, Dean?” His eyes flash in the dim gleam
of the moon then widen in panic. “Is this-is this a suicide attempt?”
Dean wants to laugh, so he gives it a go. It’s still damp, but he continues,
“No Jesus Christ no. Jus’ got caught up in something. Gordon isn’t a friendly
guy. How’d you…?” He nods weakly in the direction of the bar. Castiel shrugs
casually “I was just buying horse feed at the butchers,” but Dean catches the
way the boy rubs his knuckles with slender, steady fingers. The blood crusted
on their ridges wasn’t his. Dean was responsible for that. He felt a flush of
shame at his ungrateful comments, but he’s still John Winchester’s kid so his
pride is already trying to find ways to avoid making an apology. He looks up
through his lashes instead, “Wanna help me into the truck?”
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