August 21, 1997

We get by with a little help from our friends.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
— Elizabeth Bishop, “One Art”

Dean didn’t give Jo the whole story over the phone, but she could tell that he was serious by his request. He needed to go to the ranch when John wouldn’t be there so that he could clear out his stuff. He needed her horse trailer to transport Zeppelin. He wouldn’t return home again after this.

Jo called him back the next morning and let him know there was a window of a couple hours, if that was enough. It would have to be.

Ellen and Jo came together with the horse trailer, waiting at the end of the road for Dean’s Impala, engine idling, then following his car in up the lane.

The house loomed above him. Its aspect had changed almost overnight. Instead of the sanctum of comfort and familiarity, all he saw were memories of his father’s fits of anger. The fights and the fear and the hard words. As he got out of the car, he turned his head up to the upper windows like he expected to see a ghost there watching him.

Feet running across the gravel pulled his attention away. Jo ran into him with a hug, which earned a grunt of pain from Dean and an unsteady step back, then he wrapped his arms around her in turn.

“He wouldn’t say where you were,” said Jo.

Dean looked over the top of Jo’s head at Ellen. She had likely passed on her suspicions to Jo by now, and Dean’s appearance only confirmed it.

“I’m okay,” Dean promised, letting Jo go again.

“We’ll stay out here while you get your things,” said Ellen, leaning back against the Jeep with her arms folded. “Once you’re out of there, we’ll round up your horse.”

“Thanks, Ellen,” said Dean. “Jo.”

He went back into the house for the first time in nearly a week.

It had been a hard place to leave. It was harder to enter again.

It felt like more should have changed. Peeling wallpaper and cobwebs like some horror-movie house, long-abandoned. The only things that looked different so far were dishes piled up in the sink and beer cans lining the counter. The fridge and the cupboards were likely getting empty, but Dean didn’t have time to snoop.

His room hadn’t been touched, nor had Sam’s.

Dean stopped in his doorway. He expected to find the place torched. To find his things ripped down from the walls, papers and photographs torn, his furniture upended. John tended toward destructive anger. If John hadn’t annihilated the memory of Dean, what did that mean? Was he in denial? Or did he just not care?

Dean stepped in gingerly, like he expected to find the place booby-trapped. There had to be a catch to all of this. It was wrong that there wasn’t something wrong.

Dean unloaded the clothes from his drawer into a suitcase. Filled bags with his books and personal things. He folded up the star-pattern quilt he’d had since childhood, the one the Women’s Institute sewed together after Mary died. He left behind the ribbons and trophies. He tried to guess what Sam had left that he might still want. Taking for granted when he departed for California that it would stay where it was with someone left to guard it.

Dean didn’t have much to his name. It all fit into the trunk of the Impala. In total, two short trips inside and back out.

He entered the empty stable next. He suspected John would skin him for it, taking something with a dollar value, but that was Dean’s name on the saddle and matching tack. He carried these to the Impala and set them in the back seat.

“Is Zeppelin in the Lower Pasture?” Dean asked.

“I assume so,” said Jo. “The horses were already turned out when I got here.”

“You two go get him,” said Ellen. “I’ll be just fine here.”

He was grateful to Ellen, but a murmur of fear passed through him at the thought anyone else might come to trouble on account of him. It was what held him back for so long.

Jo walked step-in-step with Dean through the pasture as they made their way down to the river. Dean’s eyes swept over the horses they passed, taking account of each one because it might be the last time he saw most of them.

They crossed the crest that looked into the Lower Pasture. Six horses dotted the field.

“I don’t see Zepp,” said Dean.

“He’s gotta be around,” said Jo

“Ringo’s right there,” said Dean. “He’s always with her.”

“Maybe he’s in another pen,” said Jo.

“We passed all of them,” said Dean.

“He could’ve been around a shelter,” said Jo. “You might’ve missed him.”

Dean hadn’t. He never would’ve missed Zeppelin. He took a step ahead, whistling out his call.

The horses in the field responded, flocking up to him like a long-lost friend, but Zepp wasn’t among them.

Dean raced back, checking the other paddocks. Checking the stable again, then the old barn, then the shed. He outpaced Jo in his search. He came back out to the lane.

“He was here last night,” said Jo. “I fed him just like usual.”

Dean’s eyes swam with tears. “He was my horse,” he said. “I was supposed to save him.”

“Dean,” said Ellen, “we’ve been here long enough. You should go.”

“I need my horse,” said Dean. “I’ve gotta find Zeppelin.”

“Jo and I will find out what happened to him,” said Ellen. “He’s not here. It’s time for you to go.”

“No,” said Dean. He wiped at his cheeks with the back of his wrist, teeth gritted against his emotions. “I’ll make him tell me— Tell me what he did.”

“Dean, if you’re still here and he shows up, there’s no telling what I’ll do,” said Ellen. “So you get back in your car and go. You’ve done all you can here. Me and Jo will find out what happened.”

“Are we sticking around?” Jo asked.

“Not a bit,” said Ellen. “Joanna Beth, you are not working for John Winchester another day. You go on and grab your horse and load her up. We’re finished here. All of us.”

Ellen gave Dean one more look, and it sent Dean to the front of his car. He got in, wiped at his eyes again, and left his home behind.

---

Cas tried not to burden him with it, but Dean understood how difficult taking over the clinic made his life. As it was, Cas devoted more attention to Dean than he ought to, when there was so much to sort out at work. Over the last few days, Dean had patiently bided his time at the cottage, holding back his selfish desire for more of Cas’ time, even on the days when Cas came home later than he promised.

Today he couldn’t wait.

He stopped the Impala outside the clinic and swung through the front door into a reception area with dark wood panelling and a green-topped desk. It was Amelia on reception duty today. Dean knew her vaguely from school and knew she worked here with aspirations towards veterinary school, but that was the extent of their association and it didn’t grant him any extra cordiality. Amelia looked up from her clunky computer monitor as if she was already impatient with whomsoever approached.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I need to see Cas,” said Dean. “Is he here?”

“Do you have an appointment?” Amelia asked, looking back to her screen. She hammered at a few keys. “I don’t have ‘Dean’ here.”

“No, I—”

“Or any Winchester.”

“I just need to talk to him,” said Dean.

“Well,” said Amelia, “he’s out for an on-site visit. Is this an animal emergency? We have another doctor here, now.”

“It’s— I needed Cas—” He didn’t want to put Cas in a compromising situation. Starting rumours at his work about Dean showing up half-deranged and desperate for him.

A door opened from one of the clinic rooms into the lobby. A client exited with an orange kitten in a cat carrier, escorted out with a stream of chatter and a few final pieces of advice by the white-coated doctor Amelia referred to. This must be Balthazar.

“What’s the nature of your emergency?” Amelia asked.

“It’s not like that,” said Dean, gaze flicking around the room. His urgent stammer appeared to have caught Balthazar’s attention. “I just—”

Amelia sat up more primly. “Dr. Novak’s schedule is very full,” she said. “If you don’t have an emergency you’ll have to wait.”

“I have a minute,” Balthazar interrupted, leaning his elbow on the upper ledge of the desk. He gave a loose, rolling gesture of his hand. “Go on, then. What’s your issue?”

“I just need to know when Cas is back,” said Dean. “Or where he is. I need to talk to him.”

“About… an animal of yours?”

“Yeah,” said Dean. That much was true. “It’s my horse. Zeppelin.”

Balthazar lifted his chin, a look of understanding crossing his face. “You must be Dean.”

“Yeah,” said Dean.

“Balthazar. Call me Balth, if you like. Why don’t we step into the back office? You can tell me what’s the matter.”

Amelia narrowed her eyes faintly as he passed by, evidently as displeased at Dean lacking an appointment as she was with this upstart veterinarian who’d skipped due procedure.

Balthazar led Dean into an office with a desk, computer, and long filing cabinets at the back. The half-broken window blinds were open as far as their mechanics allowed and looked onto an uninspiring parking area. Balthazar leaned back against his desk, folding his arms.

“Something’s wrong with your horse?” he asked.

“He’s missing,” said Dean. “I went to get him from my dad’s today and… he wasn’t there. I don’t know if you’ve seen anything or heard anything here…”

“I’m afraid not,” said Balthazar. “You clearly don’t think the horse escaped out an open gate. Do you think he’s sold it?”

“Or worse,” said Dean, head turning away. Would John have taken him somewhere and shot him? Had he left Dean’s room alone because he’d already destroyed the one thing that mattered?

Balthazar flicked his glance over Dean, lips pressed. “My understanding was that the Winchesters kept prize stock. Is your father the kind of man who would hurt an animal he could profit off of instead?”

There was fair logic to Balthazar’s question, but John might not have been operating under logic. It was true that John treated the horses well. He knew down to a dollar what they were worth. But there were kill farms who would pay just enough to make vengeance worth it.

Balthazar continued, “Am I correct to guess that he’s not old, he’s in good health—”

“He’s going blind,” said Dean. “I never told my dad. But if he figured it out since I left…”

“Ah,” said Balthazar. “That could change things.”

Dean didn’t want to hear it, fighting back against the way his mouth twisted in despair. His cheeks hot, his eyes watering again. “Zepp was there just last night,” he said. “I should’ve gone back for him—”

The office door opened behind Dean. Cas didn’t bother with a knock, eyes finding Dean at once. Unlike Balthazar, he didn’t wear a medical coat: his camel-coloured button-up was tucked into his belted jeans and marked with dirt from recent work.

“Dean, what is it?” he asked, a hand on Dean’s shoulder, eyes rapidly scanning over him as if he expected to see some kind of injury.

Dean didn’t know how to say it again, his jaw trembling when he tried to bring up the words. Of everything that had happened, this was suddenly the worst.

“It’s his horse,” Balthazar supplied. “Zeppelin. When Dean tried to retrieve the horse this morning, it was already gone. He’s worried his father sold it. Particularly worried if that man worked out that the horse is losing sight, it will have gone to a kill farm. Beastly practice. Where’s the nearest abattoir?”

“It used to be in Oregon,” said Cas. “But that one burnt down in July. Now, I guess… North Platte, Nebraska. On this side of the border. The others are in Texas, it would be too far. But we should look north, to Alberta, too.”

“I’ll get on the phone,” said Balthazar. “Have you got any pictures of your horse, Dean?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. In the car.” He’d just picked up the one of him and Zeppelin from his bedroom today. He couldn’t stand the thought it might be the last photograph he had.

“There should be one in his vet file, too,” Cas noted.

“It could help us identify him, if that’s where he’s gone,” said Balthazar. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He left the office, but not before exchanging a meaningful look with Cas. He closed the door after himself.

Dean immediately turned to Cas, body collapsing into the arms that opened to him. He felt weaker than he used to be, always asking and asking for more comfort, more sympathy. He feared he taxed Cas, that Cas would get sick of Dean always in one crisis or another. Dean needing so much.

“We’ll track down Zeppelin,” said Cas, hand lifting to stroke through the short hair at the back of Dean’s head.

“He hates me enough to hurt Zeppelin,” Dean said. He didn’t want to think about his horse on one of those overcrowded trailers full of horses in distress. Even if Balthazar reached someone at the abattoir, got an honest answer, and got a positive ID, Zeppelin would be suffering on the trip there. They were never given enough food or water. Why waste the money on something to be slaughtered?

“We don’t know that’s where he is,” said Cas. “It might be more complicated than that.”

Dean pulled back. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Cas wore that look Dean had seen before, more often with others. Cas, being practical and forthright, couldn’t understand the nuances of what Dean might not be able to bear hearing.

“I just mean that John might have arranged a private sale,” Cas explained. “To some other buyer. It could be much harder to track down your horse and buy it back.”

Dean would have to buy Zeppelin back. He hadn’t thought of that. No matter who had him, the horse wouldn’t be returned just because Dean said it was his. He didn’t have the money.

“If Balthazar doesn’t get anywhere with the pen in Nebraska,” said Cas, “it might be necessary for me to contact John directly.”

“No,” said Dean.

“If it means finding out where Zeppelin is,” said Cas. “I’d have to try.”

Dean parted from Cas, walking away from his touch. He sat against the desk where Balthazar had perched earlier. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he said. “I didn’t want to drag you into everything.”

“I haven’t been dragged anywhere,” Cas said. “I think you know I’m not someone who withstands an environment I abhor. I would rather be with you, facing down hardships, than without you, anywhere.”

Dean looked up from the floor, words catching on his tongue. “You’re too good to me, Cas,” he said.

Cas shook his head, eyes lifting in a half-exasperated roll. He looked younger in this light, in this room, with two shirt buttons undone and the way his collar fell open around his neck. Sometimes Dean thought he had the wisdom of ages, but for a moment the youngest version of him surfaced. Only four years older than Dean and still a young man.

“You don’t listen very well, Dean,” he said. He pinned his gaze on Dean and crossed the small office to him. He rested his hands on Dean’s thighs, keeping him in place. “I love you. And I want to help you. And anything you asked me, I would do. There’s no bitterness, no quid pro quo. You don’t have to be easy-going, you don’t have to sacrifice yourself. You aren’t selfish for needing help. You don’t have to do everything on your own anymore.”

Dean’s lips parted, wanting out of habit to find an exception that proved these things couldn’t be true. But Cas spoke so plainly, and his eyes were so clear and serious. To contradict him would be an insult to his intentions.

Dean had faith in Cas. This moment tested his trust to the very limit. He either had to believe Cas or call him a liar, and Cas wasn’t a liar.

He swallowed and nodded his head.

“So there’s no such thing as ‘too good’ to you,” said Cas. “Let’s be clear.”

“Okay,” said Dean.

Cas considered Dean for a moment, then gifted him with the same trust. That Dean had heard and understood.

“But don’t call my dad,” said Dean. “Not without me there. And only as a last resort.”

Cas nodded.

Dean lifted a hand to trace along the buttons of Cas’ shirt, an idle touch. He tipped his head faintly to the side. “Balthazar knew who I was when I mentioned Zeppelin,” he said.

“That’s because I told him about you,” said Cas simply.

“You told him about my horse and everything?”

“I guess so,” said Cas.

“And he knows we’re together?” Dean raised his eyes from Cas’ shirt. “Is he gay?”

“He likes women,” said Cas. “A lot. But I’ve heard the word ‘heteroflexible’ cross his lips.”

Dean laughed despite himself, which made Cas quirk a smile in return.

“He’s a good friend,” said Cas. “It’s… It was nice for me to have someone to tell.”

Dean slid a hand up Cas’ arm, bracing and comforting. Sometimes he lost sight of just how lonely Cas’ life made him. Cas gave up so much just to survive.

“You told him the name of my horse,” said Dean. “Cas, you might be hopeless.”

“Yeah,” said Cas, drawing closer till he was just a breath away from a kiss. “I think I am.”