Chapter title is from song by Jim Croce.
44
Time in A Bottle – Jim Croce
Honestly, he hadn't counted on Toby's reaction.
"But ponies are for girls!"
Sam made a noise like a snorting moose, kind of muffled, like Sam was trying not to laugh.
They were standing just beyond the corral clustered together in an awkward bunch, Toby with an expression of righteous dismay on his face. Alright, so maybe the kid had a point. They were looking at a bunch of ponies, and a couple of little girls riding ponies, and a dearth of boys and men, but when he saw the sign for horse riding lessons, how would he have known?
Sam coughed again, trying to swallow a lung or something.
Dean scowled.
"Fine. Maybe we should just…"
"Hmm."
And without saying anything else, Zee walked off, away from them, towards the stable. What the hell was she up to now? She came back minutes later, leading a sleek brown mare by the reins, followed by a dude with a bit of a beer belly holding a kid's riding helmet and leading what was decidedly a dappled gray pony.
"At least it's not a farty donkey." Sam murmured under his breath.
She ignored that, stopping a little ways away and looked at Toby.
"Ponies are just the first step."
Dean could tell she knew what she was doing from the way she repositioned the reins. He was expecting she would use a mounting block, and maybe that's why the whole thing hit him so hard, because he was caught completely off guard when she just went for it, one hand in the horse's mane and the other on the pommel, foot in the stirrup with a step and a light vault, one leg over the horse's hindquarters without stopping, as elegant and fluid a mount as any hero in every Western he'd ever watched, and sweet baby Jesus that was incredibly hot. His imagination got a little away from him when she steadied herself against the mare's sides with her knees before seating herself securely in the saddle.
His mouth was suddenly dry, probably because his jaw was gaping a bit. His entire body had kind of seized, so Sam sounded entirely credible when Sam elbowed him and urgently hissed.
"Dean! Your tongue's hanging out."
He actually had to stop and check, which was bad enough. Sam was laughing to himself, a low chortle that got cut off when he whapped Sam on the back of Sam's head. The sun was too bright and that's why it was so warm, not because she nudged the mare around and slanted them a look, challenge in the high arch of one brow.
"Well boys, coming or not?"
He lost track of what they were doing, having a hard time with this insane overlap of his two favorite things, Westerns and women, never having imagined them together quite like this when Sam elbowed him again, a little more heated embarrassment behind Sam's whisper this time.
"Dude. Eyes up. Keep it PG, man."
It really wasn't his fault what was level with his line of sight, and it wasn't his fault her jeans really, really fit, and surely Sam wasn't asking him not to look at the sweet curve of denim right in front of him, but Sam's sharp elbow caught him square on the ribs again and with a cough, he redirected his attention off to the right to the stocky cowboy holding the riding helmet, who said:
"Your girl's got a good seat."
Oh, hey, wait a minute, now.
"She's not…" he started.
Zee's icy voice finished for him from up on her high horse. "…his girl."
"Oh, right. Sorry." And Cowboy looked at Sam standing beside him, "So, are you and your…"
"Brother. His brother." Sam stuck out a hand before things got more off track. "Sam."
"Sam. Carlos." Carlos looked his way expectantly.
"I'm Dean. And this is…"
"Toby." Toby piped up and moved on to his newest obsession, looking at Zee with hero worship eyes. "Can I do that?"
Carlos laughed, amused and completely getting it, "I'm sure you can, kid, but not right yet, not today. How's about we start with getting to know your pony first, hmm?"
They finished the afternoon with currying and brushing, Sam giving him a surprised side-eye from time to time, because yes, he did know how to ride, and yes, there were things Sam didn't know about him that he'd learned in those four years Sam was away. But however well he rode, it was nothing compared to the way she rode, like she'd grown up doing it, like it was in her blood.
Carlos took the saddle from her, watching the easy familiarity of her motions as she smoothed the brush over the mare's shoulder.
"You ride often, Miss?"
Had he not been looking straight at her, he wouldn't have caught it. Like thunderstorms and night drowning out sunshine, the shadow in her eyes, none of it showing up in her voice at all when she answered too evenly.
"No. Not anymore."
Sam woke up with a start, because there was a noise that sounded like Dean humming, one hand keeping time on the steering wheel to Lynard Skynard's Simple Man on the radio. For a second he wasn't sure if he was awake or asleep, swamped by a sense of déjà vu, because it felt like old times, with the grooves of the Impala's upholstery pressed into his cheek, dry and secure against the rain pattering on her windows, the cloudy skies roiling overhead illuminated by the occasional flash of lightening. He blinked the sleep hastily out of his eyes, glancing out to check on the flatness of Nebraska still sweeping by, raindrops pelting down heavily on newly plowed furrows. Surreptitiously he snuck his left hand over the scar on his right, and felt along the hard ridge of skin on his palm.
His scar was still there.
He sat up and Dean cast a look his way.
"How long was I out?"
Dean thought about it for a minute.
"Since about Lincoln, I'd say."
Spray from an eighteen-wheeler passing in the opposite direction engulfed the windshield for a moment. In the side mirror he could see the headlights of Zee's SUV behind them, and the wipers running at full speed.
He hadn't been sure, for a moment.
This all seemed a little bit too much like it might be a dream.
He hadn't realized how right this all was to him, being on the road again, the nightly kaleidoscope of motel rooms with their beaten up mini-fridges and eclectic décor, the erratic water pressures and maybe-will-work heaters. It all felt more natural, more home, somehow, than the bunker's solid walls—the Impala's wheels eating up the miles, asphalt rolling away beneath him and the sky open overhead, the rhythm of his life from his earliest memories on, when things had been, and he hadn't known it then, good.
He sat up a little straighter in the seat.
"Where are we?"
Dean glanced in the rearview mirror before answering.
"Just passed Broken Bow."
Halfway, give or take.
No. It wasn't fair to count the trip in miles, because they hadn't exactly made for Cody in a straight line. It was taking far too long and going far too fast, memories piling up, dare he say it, on the good side of the scale for once, and part of him cringed, waiting for the other shoe to fall. There always was one.
Dean started humming again, absently, with his eyes on the road and the crook of a smile on his face, thinking about the baseball game they'd been to, probably. An afternoon sitting in the nosebleed seats, far above the outfield, Toby loaded down with more hot dogs and peanuts and popcorn and pretzels than he could possibly eat, because Come on, Sam, when's he going to be able to do this again? was what Dean had said.
Plenty of times, Dean. He'd almost replied. He's got his whole life ahead of him.
But he'd held his tongue, because that wasn't what they were talking about, was it?
Instead all he'd said was, "I'll go get us some beers."