Notes: I've taken the liberty of making marijuana legal in South Dakota and Wisconsin even though at this time, recreational use isn't legal (yet). I am a SCAdian, and while I love me a ren faire, I am not a performer, so I've used my imagination and taken liberties. All the information about blacksmithing and horses I learned from Google. So if I've made any errors, mea culpa.
Dean wiped his forearm across his forehead, hitched up his cargo pants, and resumed pounding the glowing orange strip of steel with the power hammer. He flipped it with vise grips and brought the hammer down twice more. He peered down the length before shoving it back into the forge. Once the steel was a uniform glowing orange, Dean removed it and plunged it into the barrel of quenching oil. Flames flared up and the oil boiled as the metal cooled.
"You 'bout done for the day, brothah?" a soft voice drawled by the doorway.
Dean ran a file across the hardened metal to listen for any issues before setting the knife blank on the work table. He took a large bottle of water from the fridge, cracked it open, and drank half the bottle in a few long pulls, breathing heavily. He nodded to the other man. "Yeah, that was the last of the knife blanks. Tomorrow I'll go through my stock one last time before hitting the road. It's been a long several weeks for me, man, I am exhausted."
"You're getting old," Benny said with a chuckle.
"Beats the alternative," Dean answered with a smile. "Sales have been up on online orders and I just shipped a full chainmail hauberk." He moved around the smithy, shutting off the forge for the day. The sudden silence after the roaring of the blazing hot fire was deafening and the sudden drop in temperature was an immediate relief. "This'll go a lot faster if you pitch in," Dean observed, as he put tools in their proper place. Benny started tossing scrap metal into the various bins.
"This is the one out in Kenosha?" Benny asked while he worked.
"Yeah, it'll be my first year there," Dean replied while he secured a lid on the quenching barrel. "Gonna head out about 8PM Thursday, get to Kenosha around 4AM, the fairgrounds at 5AM, and then crash till 10 or so. Then I can set up the forge, the store, and the grinding wheel, and I'm ready for Saturday's opening. I'm expecting Ash some time between Friday afternoon and Saturday morning."
Cleanup of the smithy completed, the two men left, Dean locking the door behind him. "See you Monday, man," Dean said, bumping fists with his friend. Benny nodded and straddled his chrome and teal Harley-Davidson Heritage Classic. The engine grumbled to life, Benny slipped on his helmet, and with a final wave to Dean, he drove out.
Dean untwisted his hair from the bun, scratched his sweaty scalp and pulled his leather apron off as he headed into his house. He desperately needed a shower, food, and then sleep, in that order. He tossed a couple frozen homemade burritos into the oven to heat and headed to the bathroom for that much needed shower. He peeled the black tank top off and dropped it to the floor, and kicked his boots into a corner of his room. Cargo pants and underwear were shucked and kicked onto the tank top.
He growled in pleasure as the hot water hit his scalp and then he raised his face to let the needles of water wash away the sweat, soot, and grime from a long day in the smithy. He bent his forearm against the shower stall wall and rested his head against his arm and let the high pressure water hit the nape of his neck and shoulder blades. He grabbed the bar of soap and lathered it all over his body. Shampoo was worked into his past shoulder-length hair and he made a mental note to get his faire persona haircut. He stood under the streaming water and let the soap wash away.
Dean shut the water off, stepped out of the shower, and toweled dry. He wrapped the towel around his waist and padded into his bedroom, pulled on a pair of shorts, and then headed downstairs to grab the burritos out of the oven before they burned. The meal was finished within 15 minutes and Dean set an alarm on his phone. He crawled into bed, pulled the covers over his head, and was asleep in seconds.
Castiel walked down the center aisle of the large stables, comparing the list on his tablet with what he was seeing in the stalls. "Make sure to check Navarre's hooves, Balthazar," he said, making a note on the tablet. "I want them cleaned, and check the horseshoes. We still have time to get the farrier here tomorrow and take care of any problems before we head out for Kenosha on Friday."
Balthazar made a note on his own tablet and nodded. "I have to get the farrier in tomorrow anyway to look at Ladyhawke, and there are a couple of the Arabians that need their shoes reshod."
"See to it," Castiel ordered. He walked over to Navarre's stall and the large Friesian stallion came over for a head rub. He lipped Castiel's sleeve before turning his head to the feed bucket. "I'm going to head to the supply barn and make sure the gear is in order."
"You don't have to do everything, Castiel," Balthazar admonished. "Gear is Lucien and Gabriel's purview."
"That may be, but you know how Gabriel likes to take shortcuts and how much that pisses Michael off," Castiel said as he headed out of the large horse barn and headed to the supply barn.
He paused midway and watched the activity on the horse farm. Three horse trailers were being hosed down and once they were dry, straw would be put down. He could see Michael near the larger trailer, the one that will transport three Arabians and the three chargers. Michael was making sure the graphics on the side of the trailer were in tip-top condition. The smaller trailers were for the two Friesians, Navarre and Isabeau, the second smaller trailer for the two Andalusians, Ladyhawke and Gaston.
The eighteen-wheeler trailer truck was backed up in front of the supply barn. Garb, pavilions, camping furniture, trappings for the horses, armor, and weapons were neatly loaded. Riding tack was currently being loaded with Lucien and Gabriel supervising. Castiel walked up to them.
"You make sure we have plenty of lances for the jousts?" Castiel asked. "You can be sure Michael will be counting them after what happened at last weekend's faire in Minneapolis."
"No worries, baby bro," Gabriel said with a smirk. "Mikey won't have anything to complain about. Opening weekend will go off without a hitch for us."
Castiel simply grunted in response before heading to the main horse barn to check on the other horses chosen to participate in this weekend's events. The Friesians, Andalusians, and chargers would be used for the joust and melee. The Arabians would join the heavier war horses for the Queen's Progress several times throughout the day. Each horse was chosen with care. Their temperaments needed to be able to deal with noise and crowds and children coming up to pet them. And of course they needed to be able to put on a good show.
Things were going to be busy on the ranch for the next 48 hours, and it would barely slow down for the next two months. Horses would need to be rotated, gear would need fixing or replacing, garb would need mending or replacing. Castiel checked his watch and headed toward the big house. It was dinner time.
"Tell me again how you can have a Viking blacksmith in Elizabethan England?" Donna asked as she tilted Dean's head to the side. She carefully ran the straight razor along the side of his scalp, scraping off the last of the light brown stubble.
"Well, one, I'm a vendor not a faire performer - although I do participate in a few skits, and B, if vendors can sell elf ears, fairy wings, and shoulder dragons, I can have a Viking haircut. Which according to that home DNA kit site, I come by honestly," Dean explained, watching Donna Hanscum in the mirror as she worked her craft. The sides and most of the back of his head had been shaved and was now being scraped of any remaining hair and stubble with the topknot secured out of the way. Donna walked to a warming drawer and shook out a damp, hot towel. She wrapped it around Dean's head and face and he groaned in ecstasy, sliding down in the barber's chair. "Gods, Donna, that's freakin' awesome."
"Oh, hush, heathen," Donna said with a laugh as she unwrapped Dean's head from the quickly cooled towel.
"Pagan," Dean clarified with a smirk. "I've got the hair rings I made and a pair of pliers. They're in my jacket pocket."
Donna removed the pliers and the muslin bag of hair rings and set to work on Dean's hair. A section of hair was separated then twisted along the scalp. She threaded a metal ring around the end of the twisted hair at the scalp and pressed the ring closed with the pliers. She braided the rest of the section, threaded a second ring at the bottom of the braid, and closed the ring tight with the pliers. She repeated the process another eight times.
"Okey-dokey, we're done!" Donna said, whipping the salon cape off from around Dean's neck. She did a quick touchup with a straight blade at the nape of his neck, but Dean was good to go. Dean looked at himself in the mirror as he dug his wallet out of his back pocket.
"Perfect job, Donna," Dean said as he handed her $75. "I'll see ya next week."
With a wave, he headed out to his car. The door of the '67 black Impala creaked as he opened it, and the rumble of the engine announced her presence to everyone on the street. Fifteen minutes later, he was pulling his baby into the garage. For working weekends, Dean used a midsized camper that had a trailer attached to it which contained the mobile smithy, the grinding wheel, finished merchandise for sale, and an inventory of raw material to be worked on. He was on the road by 7:30PM.
Dean arrived at the fairgrounds at 4AM, Friday morning. He slept until 10, and then got to work setting up the mobile smithy. At 11:30 he was checking fuel hoses to the forge when a familiar voice hailed him.
"Dean! Welcome to Bristol!" a woman's voice called out. Dean's head popped up from behind the forge and he grinned.
"Your Majesty! Good to see you!" he wiped his hands, stood, and headed to the front of his stall before enveloping the smaller woman in a big hug.
"I don't play the queen here," Charlie said, wrapping her arms around Dean's waist before stepping back. "I'm in charge of the wench and wastrel walks here."
"So you get to drink beer and mead all day?" Dean laughed. "Can I have your job? You can sweat away your day in the smithy."
Charlie shook her head and pouted. "I don't get to drink. I'd be drunk off my ass after the first group, and I have three groups throughout the day."
"Poor you," he said sarcastically. They said their good byes, promised to share a beer and a joint at the before-the-faire bonfire party later that night, Charlie left, and Dean resumed setting the forge up. Fifteen minutes later, he was still fiddling with a hose when he heard footsteps approaching in the dirt in front of the stall.
"You're a day early!" he called out, and then blew into the hose, hoping to dislodge whatever was in it. He upended it, gave it a shake and a pebble fell out. Dean grinned in satisfaction.
"I'm not a faire guest," a gravelly baritone said.
It was a whiskey and honey and the morning after a night of incredible sex kinda voice. And Dean had a completely visceral reaction to the sound. A tightening in his chest and gonads, and goosebumps on his arms, the voice was like a feather sliding down his spine and caressing the divot at the small of his back.
The sensations and thoughts passed through Dean in seconds and he stood to see who had entered his stall. Sea green met sky blue and it was all Dean could see. He mentally picked his chin up off the floor and coughed to restart his brain. "Uh… what?" he asked dumbly.
"I'm not a guest, Bastian," the man repeated.
"Buh - Bastian?" Dean looked confused and then rubbed his eyes with his hand. He needed the blood flow heading back up to his brain. He extended a hand. "It's Dean. Bastian the Blacksmith has better alliteration and sounds more ren faire."
"Are you KIDDING me?" Castiel yelled, wishing he had something to throw. "You promised you had everything under control, Gabriel!"
"I'll call Hannah," Gabriel said, trying to placate his irate brother. "She can fly the coifs up from the ranch and be here in a few hours."
"You'd better make the arrangements," Castiel said, only slightly more calmly. "In the meantime, I'm going to see if any of the faire vendors have regulation coifs."
He stalked out of the costuming tent with a scowl and went in search for a likely vendor. Twenty minutes of meandering around near empty lanes he spied a grinding wheel in a stall and headed for it.
"You're a day early!" a husky voice called from the back.
Castiel stepped back and tilted his head, appreciating the sound. "I'm not a faire guest," he called out.
And then a fucking Viking in what looked like a leather kilt stood up from behind a forge. "Uh, what?"
"I'm not a guest, Bastian," he clarified.
"Buh - Bastian?" the Viking looked confused and then rubbed his eyes with his hand. He extended the other hand. "It's Dean. Bastian the Blacksmith has better alliteration and sounds more ren faire."
"I'm Castiel," he said and closed his hand around Dean's. Calluses, warm skin, a lingering scent of soot. And a jolt of electricity. He glanced at Dean before stepping back and cleared his throat, wondering if Dean felt it too. Wondering if Dean would feel it too. "I'm with Heavenly Horde Productions, we do the jousting and staged combat. I was wondering if you have regulation coifs for sale. I need four."
Dean swiped his hand against his side and nodded, and Castiel took note. "The real stuff isn't out on display. Faire guests tend to like the look of chainmail but not the weight or the price, and since they don't need it for combat - even staged combat - they buy the aluminum mail, not the steel. Gimme a minute and I'll get you the good stuff."
Dean headed behind a curtain, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, taking a minute to collect himself. By Brokkr's beard, Winchester, get a fucking grip. Are you 13 years old and just hitting puberty when the hormones raged and you had a semi all the time? Shit. He dragged out a container and picked four coifs from the bunch. He ducked back into the front of the stall and handed the coifs to Castiel. "Normally they're $200, but since you're buying four, I'll sell them to you for $150 each."
"That sounds fair, and is appreciated," Castiel said while he inspected the chain mail hoods. They were an important piece of armor for a medieval fighter, giving an added layer of protection for the neck between the helm and gorget. He looked each one over carefully. It wasn't that he didn't trust the blacksmith, he'd inspect the work of anyone that supplied his company with armor or weapons. "I assume you take credit cards?" he asked as he dug a hand into the back pocket of his jeans. He frowned and checked the front pocket, then the pockets on the left hand side. "Shit, I don't have my wallet with me."
"Your campsite is hard to miss," Dean said with a lazy grin. "I'll come by a bit later. Take the coifs in the meantime."
"Thank you, Dean," Castiel said. He gave Dean a once over, taking in the hair, the earrings, the tattoos, the utilikilt, and the muscles… dear God, the muscles. He smiled softly, and headed back to his campsite.
Dean experienced another feather-light touch down his spine and he closed his eyes. Gods above and below, was this what love at first sight felt like?