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all-alone-he-turns-to-stone · 2 years ago

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The Deal

Supernatural Masterlist

Summary: Since they were stuck in Purgatory together, they had a deal and that deal was simple. Daylight was for survival, fights, and finding Cas. Night time was for what they craved the most. For Benny, it was his blood. And for Dean, it was something he could never tell anyone.

Pairing: Dean x Benny

Rating: 18+

Warning: Smut, p in a, unprotected sex, bottom!Dean, top!Benny, pain kink, biting, biting kink, rough sex, blood, blood drinking, spn level of violence

Square: Free space for @spnkinkevents / Pain kink for @anyfandomgoesbingo / Biting for @mfbingo

A/n: I’m very close to the deadline, but here you go! This is set in season 7, Dean is in purgatory with Benny. Enjoy and don’t forget to leave a feedback!

Can be also read on AO3

It was pure.

The adrenaline coursing through his veins seemed insatiable. At every moment, it burned his limbs with a sudden energy, and here he was again. To the right he moved, then it was behind him, another one on his left, they were all around but he saw everything. Felt everything. The heavy machete in his hand, the bark of the wood he had used to make it now smooth against his skin due to wear. The blade that could split even the air in two. And when it met the flesh of his enemy to sink into it, it was easy, soft and fluid, like a knife through butter. It cut through everything in its path, skin, muscle, bone, without encountering any resistance. The head falling to the ground, the dull sound it made, no matter if it fell in the water or on the soft earth. And the scents… The metallic smell of blood was so steeped in his nose, he couldn't even smell it anymore.

He felt all of that like he was connected to it.

His muscles were burning with fatigue after all those days and nights spent without really resting. But that burn, he barely felt it, because the adrenaline never stopped flowing in him... Just like the blood of his enemies that flowed red, one of the only colors still alive in this place.

The world here was black and white. The sensations were like a mirage, moving, walking, everything seemed to slow down. It was like he had to walk underwater, his body felt lighter, but moving was more difficult.

Maybe it was just the dangerous buildup of fatigue. He had no idea. Because he couldn't stop, not for more than a few hours when they had the chance.

The dull sound reached his ears again, his now desaturated green eyes stared at the head rolling in front of him. Red invaded his sight.

“I think this was the last one of the pack, chief. We should head back soon.”

Red. So much red. His gaze stayed on the decapitated head and he didn't flinch. Completely still, he continued to stare at what was left of their enemy, only his heavy breathing could be heard. His shoulders rose and fell almost exaggeratedly, it was harsh and noisy.

“Dean.”

Hearing his name brought him back to himself, like a rope pulling him out of the water. His name, his last part of humanity. Down here, there was nothing that connected him to the real world, where his friends and family still were. His only motivation was to find his lost friend and leave this place because it was the right thing to do.

And because the longer Dean stayed in purgatory… The more he seemed to blend into this apocalyptic world. And the less attractive the idea of getting out of it was.

"Let's go."

Benny nodded even though his friend wasn't looking at him. The hunter's eyes were still on the head lying at his feet. A few seconds later and it was as if nothing had happened, and Dean was walking in the opposite direction without looking back.

The cave where they rested was not far away, and it took no less than an hour for them to get there. They never stayed in one place for too long, Dean’s human and delicious scent attracted all kinds of monsters, and not even Benny could detect them all. When the sun was shining in this colorless sky, the duo had only one goal. Survive. Find Castiel. And the night was for what they needed most.

And while the hunter rested, the vampire stood guard. It wasn't like Dean really slept anyway, the adrenaline was still there in him, he could feel it continually in him. But Benny still preferred to keep an eye out.

“You need to rest, chief.”

They had just arrived and Dean refused to lay down or even sit. That was nothing new, especially after a fight. It was the moment when the adrenaline was the strongest in him, it was like a drug. His high was strong, he was still experiencing it, and it was hard to get off.

"I don't care about resting, Benny. We had a deal.” The hunter was pacing in front of the cave, his dirty hands running through his hair which was starting to get really long. It didn’t matter how many times Benny cut it with his blade, it was always too long and grew too fast. Dean tugged his locks in frustration and turned to his friend. “What, you want your part first? I don’t care, take it.”

"It's not that Dean," Benny sighed as he took a few steps towards him, but Dean ignored his words and pulled his jacket off. The vampire rubbed his eyes and clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “You need to rest.”

“What can happen anyway,” Dean groaned and when Benny looked up, he found himself so close to Dean that his eyes had to focus to see him properly. "I'm already in hell."

“You know you can die in purgatory, right?” Benny asked, still hesitant. However, it was getting increasingly difficult to say no. Especially when Dean started to unbutton his shirt a few buttons, enough to slide his hand under his collar and pull it aside. He always wore the collar up as extra protection against the fangs he battled by day. But by night… He didn’t need the protection and recklessly exposed his throat to the monster in front of him. “Dean…”

“I know you want it. You don't crave blood like when you were alive, but you like it.” Seeing that Benny still seemed to hesitate, a long growl of frustration sounded in Dean's chest. “Fine.” Disappearing from the vampire’s sight for a few moments, Dean came back quickly but now he was holding something in his hands. His weapon he used to fight.

"Dean, no," Benny grabbed Dean's wrist and sighed again. The hunter waited patiently without moving. "With that, you'll just bleed to death." Benny picked up the blade and put it on the ground. Thirst and hunger, he no longer felt them. However… “You still haven't healed,” his cold fingers brushed the scars still present on Dean's neck. Small holes in rows one behind the other, two half-moons meeting each on their side.

Since he was still holding Dean's wrist, Benny began to examine it. And the longer he stared at that part of the human's body, the more he began to salivate. His fangs came out in spite of himself, sharp, and his mouth parted as his eyes were obsessed with that fragile skin.

“Go on,” Dean hastily rolled his sleeve up to his elbow. “But be sure to not make a mess, we don’t want to- fuck!”

Dean couldn't even finish his sentence that a strong burn spread through his forearm. After several times, he got used to the pain, but the feeling... It was still unpleasant. And not because he didn't like it.

As Benny drank his blood, he held Dean's arm with both hands. He was feeding and letting out moans of appreciation without holding back, he loved it. Loved the taste of blood. Even if he didn't feel the unbearable hunger for it, he liked it and wasn’t ashamed of showing it.

Dean liked it too. A bit too much.

After a few seconds, the pressure on his wrist disappeared and Benny took a few steps back, wiping his mouth. Immediately, Dean wrapped a piece of cloth around the wound, wincing at how sore it still was.

“Satisfied?” Dean grumbled, trying to hide his true feelings by showing displeasure.

"Yes," Benny replied, his breathing rapid and deep. He looked at the human with a surprisingly even hungrier look than before he fed, his eyes burning and unsated. “I think you enjoyed it too, Dean.”

Without looking at it, Dean knew what his friend was talking about. Last time, he attributed it to the excitement that it was his turn to finally get what he needed. But he couldn't deny it anymore… The uncomfortable lump that was deforming his pants was strictly caused by Benny's bite. "Shut up," Dean swore, entering the cave after picking up his jacket. "It's my turn now."

Of course, he wasn't going to talk about it with Benny. Talking about his feelings, how what they shared was the only thing that still made him feel alive. How much he loved that control he had over his own pain. How giving his trust and literally putting his life in Benny's hands made him feel human. And how the pain… Burning, pinching, feeling his blood leave his body, excited him.

It was very dark in the cave, and that was exactly what Dean wanted. He didn't want to see, he just wanted to feel. To feel the touch, the weight of another body against his, anything to remember what it was like before.

That was the deal. The day was for survival. Find Castiel. And the night was for what they both needed most. For Benny, it was the gluttony of being able to drink human blood without feeling hungry. And for Dean, it was something he could never tell anyone. Something he refused to even think about. Something he refused to look at.

In the cave, he settled his jacket on the cold ground. Then he took off his shirt and put it next to it, and finally his pants and underwear. He didn't have to undress for that, he didn't have to do anything. He was the one who wanted it, after all. Benny didn't force anything.

Dean laid on his side on his clothes. It was more comfortable than lying on the cold hard rock directly, but Dean was shaking all the same. In purgatory, it was impossible to feel. Neither hunger, nor thirst, nor cold. But it wasn't necessary. Because the place was so empty and full at the same time, so dead and alive, so bare that it was overwhelming. And all those things Dean couldn't physically feel were omnipresent in him. Hunger, but not for food. The hunger for a touch, for a reality, for the heat of the sun on his skin. Thirst for control, even if it was only one thing. And cold. It was so cold… He needed a presence with him and that was one of the reasons for the deal he made with Benny.

Benny’s skin wasn't warm, but feeling the body pressing behind him filled Dean with heat. A single moan of relief escaped his mouth as the vampire’s naked chest pressed against his back. His hips were placed against his butt and Dean could feel the hardness poking his back, meaning that, like him, Benny wanted it. Eventually, his legs intertwined with his and strong arms wrapped around his figure.

It always started like this. Only a touch, body against body, to exist in the same space. Then, slowly, things became more… Intense.

Benny didn't move at first, but after a while when only their breathing could be heard echoing in the cave, his hands wandered. Caressing Dean's shoulders first, he traveled the body in front of him, exploring it with his fingertips and tracing every muscle of his chest. Chills immediately swept over Dean, his skin filling with goosebumps at the vampire's touch. A growl followed and Benny got the message.

The exploration of his hands descended to finally stop near Dean's hips. There, he gripped the flesh and squeezed, knowing without words that this was one of those times. It was not the time for hugs and touches. Dean wanted it now and without delay.

It was one of those times he needed to feel something intense, just to have something to feel.

No words were needed to understand each other. It wasn't the first time they'd done this, the bite marks that covered Dean's body were proof of that. The older ones were only beginning to fade.

With one of his hands still firmly gripping Dean's hip, Benny roughly turned him onto his stomach and forced him to raise his pelvis. Dean let himself be manipulated like he was only a rag doll waiting to be used. Benny didn’t wait, because neither of them wanted that or were patient enough, and entered a finger directly into him. There was no preparation or care, it had to be raw and rough, that’s what Dean wanted. Benny only used his spit as lubricant, and even if it helped a bit, it removed none of the pain.

Dean welcomed the intrusion, the pain and the burn with pleasure. A small moan mixed with a growl of discomfort escaped his lips, but Benny didn't stop. Dean rested his head against his clothes and took deep breaths as Benny started moving his finger and added a second without waiting. The hunter's body tensed, he clutched his clothes and gritted his teeth, but all his muscles relaxed when the vampire finally touched his sore spot.

A long moan shook his body as Benny continued to press on his prostate every time his fingers found themselves inside to their fullest. But it was too long, the preparation took too long. To signify that he was ready, Dean reached back to grab Benny's wrist.

The absence of his fingers in him was not very long. Because as soon as the vampire pulled them out, Dean could feel something bigger pressing against his entrance, straining to enter despite the incomplete preparation. But that's what Dean wanted, he wanted to feel that pain, that burning, the divine sensation when the head finally went through the ring...

“Oh fuck…”

Dean’s length spilled some precum that fell all over his clothes, he didn't see it, but he felt it. At the same time that Benny's cock was finally inside him, Dean almost came straight away, but he managed to hold himself back.

“Can’t go further if you keep clenching, stop being a little prude and let me fuck you, will ya?”

Without waiting for his response or for him to obey, Benny continued to push into Dean. It was slow, desperately slow and a real torture for Dean as he felt every inch of the cock entering and stretching his insides to the max. He felt so full, and yet Benny kept pushing in, and when he thought he was finally completely inside, Dean was surprised there were still inches to go.

Finally, Dean felt the vampire's pelvis against his ass and understood he was completely buried inside him. Dean’s cock was so hard it hurt, but again, the human welcomed the pain as pleasure. Finally, he felt. He felt something, even if it was pain. He felt it.

"Move," Dean ordered, and the word was barely out of his mouth that Benny obeyed. Pulling completely out of him quickly took the breath out of Dean's lungs, he hadn't expected it, but what was even more intense was how Benny buried himself fully in him again. The burn spread down his back, he felt like he was being torn apart, overrun, though he knew Benny would never go that far to hurt him. He couldn’t bleed any more, or else their little arrangement would be interrupted by hungry creatures attracted by his blood.

Benny repeated the movement and this time his growl accompanied Dean's moan. It felt so good, feeling used like this, like a mere toy, being fucked without any respite or restraint. Leaving control to another but without losing it completely. It didn't take long for Dean to cum the first time, and it felt so good that he didn't even think of taking the clothes off under him so he wouldn't get them dirty. It didn't matter right now, nothing mattered except Benny and him. Benny's cock that continued to rip inside him and hit his prostate, causing moans so loud that Benny had no choice but to act.

The vampire grabbed the human's hair to pull him on his elbows and clapped his hand over his mouth with more force than intended. But that abrupt move only sent a jolt of pleasure through Dean, who tensed as a second orgasm took hold of him. It was almost dry, his balls were tight and pulled up so he could eject what little seed he had left in him. Dean's eyes rolled into the back of his head, his vision turning white as the orgasm seemed to last forever.

Benny continued his thrusts without slowing down, but Dean was so caught up in his pleasure that he didn't notice. He didn't hear Benny's swearing or his breathing becoming more jerky and heavy. He didn't feel the hand squeeze his hip hard enough to leave a blue mark on his skin.

All he felt was the pain and pleasure of being human as Benny poured into him in a growl he couldn't hear. Then, fatigue engulfed him in a long dark tunnel and he fell asleep a few moments later.

∼ ∼ ∼

It might seem like a pretty unfair deal to some. After all, Benny was making a lot out of it. He could drink human blood in purgatory, savor it, feel the heat of the delicious liquid in his throat. And he could fuck a submissive human and break him in any way he wanted.

But in reality, he was the one who suffered the most.

The only way to get Dean to rest was to fuck him until he passed out. It was also the only way he could make him feel anything and give him a reason to keep fighting when giving up would be so easy. Not give up on Castiel, or give up on the idea of getting out of here. But giving up his humanity and simply becoming the killer machine he was meant to be. A monster like all the others here. Killing for pleasure and not for survival.

The deal kept the human sane.

And it was the same for Benny.

For Dean, it was just a deal. Fuck to forget, fuck to feel, fuck to stay alive. But for Benny, it was a way to feed his obsessions. His bloodlust would only increase tenfold when they would be out of here, but not only that. Because even if it was only sex...

Benny was beginning to feel an attachment to the human. And it was not a sane one.

The vampire watched the hunter sleep. Like that, so peaceful, so vulnerable, he didn’t look dangerous at all and yet he was his deadly predator. And Benny was his.

In here, he didn’t feel the need to feed, he did it because he could. He did it because he liked it. But out there…

Benny had no idea what he would do to not completely lose his mind over these two obsessions that lay in one sleeping person next to him.

Forever taglist: @nitnat6245 @b3autyfuldisast3r @eevvvaa @wickedinspirations @fictional-affairs @awkward-and-indecisive @katbratsupernaturalwhore

Supernatural Tag List: @sexyvixen7 @stixnstripesworld @charred-angelwings @treat-winchesterswith-kindness @lyarr24 @fiftyshadesgrl @this-is-me19

Dean Winchester Tag List: @akshi8278 @siospins2 @kazsrm67 @wtrpxrks @deanwanddamons @thoughts-and-funnies @charred-angelwings @jensendreamland @deanswaywardgirl @happyt0exist @waynes-multiverse @djs8891 @this-is-me19 @syrma-sensei

#spnkinkevent #anyfandomgoesbingo #mfbingo #Dean Winchester x Benny Lafitte #supernatural dean x benny #supernatural dean winchester x benny #supernatural smut #supernatural dean smut #supernatural dean x benny smut #supernatural denny #supernatural dean x benny lafitte #smut #purgatory!dean #the deal #biting #biting kink #pain kink

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zepskies · 12 days ago

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The Honorable Choice - Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC

Summary: June 1872. Captain Dean Winchester of the U.S. Cavalry is tasked with one job: break a wild mustang. He just didn’t expect the woman who infiltrates his camp, intent on freeing her tribe’s horse.

AN: I got inspired after a recent rewatch of Spirit: The Stallion of the Cimarron (literally a perfect movie), as well as having Yellowstone in the back of my brain. I thought this idea might be a good fit for this @jacklesversebingo prompt.

Disclaimer: I’ve done extensive research for this one, both on the American Indian Lakota tribe, and on American history during this time in the late 1800s (AKA: the Old West, during the American Indian Wars and the Sioux Wars). Of course, one of my main goals is to avoid inaccuracies, both historical and cultural.

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Western AU

Song Inspo: The Spirit Soundtrack

Word Count: 4.6K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only to be safe. Racism/racial slurs, attempted sexual assault (not successful), protective Dean, angst, some violence and some action.

🐎 Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

🎙️ Listen to the podfic version here!

Part 1: Pride & Prejudice

June 1872

Dean hears some of his men shouting, along with the telltale cracking of bone that would make a less seasoned soldier wince. He spares a look to Benny, his Lieutenant, and sets down his glass of whiskey.

Dean’s path takes him brusquely out of his office and toward the stables. He grabs his gun and his hat on the way there, setting the latter on his head.

Is it too much to ask for one night where he can drink in peace?

Dean comes to find a young woman being detained by two of his men, Kline and Novak. Roman sports a bloody nose and his eye is already beginning to swell. The woman fights against their hold.

Even under the pale moonlight, Dean notes the way she’s dressed: a deer skin dress cinched at the waist, over thin pants and shoes. He surveys her tan skin, her black hair that blends into the night, twisted into a long braid, and the anger in her dark eyes.

“What have we got here?” Dean says. He stows his gun in its holster as he approaches her, resting his hands at his belt.

“I caught her breaking into the stables, Captain,” Roman says. He prods with a hiss at his busted nose while trying to stem the bleeding. That’s going to be a bad break.

She remains tight lipped, stubborn.

“Probably doesn’t even understand English. Savage bitch,” he says. Dean shoots him an impassive look to cover up his annoyance.

“Put a cork in it, Roman,” he orders. Then, he focuses back on her. “You’re a Lakota, aren’t you?”

Aside from their main mission here in the Dakota Territory, the Colonel has been fixed on fighting back against the Lakota Indians, especially after they sabotaged the supply line last month.

The proud tilt of the woman’s chin is her only answer to Dean’s question. Her gaze drags down his form with disdain, like he’s the savage. His mouth twitches mirthlessly.

“The Lakota rear up their own horses pretty damn well. Why would you want to steal one of ours?” he asks.

She glances away from him, first at her feet, then over at the camp’s latest “guest.” Dean, Benny, and a few of his men wrangled up a horse a few days ago. He’s a beautiful Kiger mustang with a nasty mean streak. He barely got through a trim this afternoon, and almost took a chunk out of Rufus when he tried to brand the horse.

The Colonel ordered them to tie the horse up to a post just outside the corral—no food or water for three days. He’d turned to Dean with a firm set to his face and issued a single order.

“Break him.”

Now, Dean catches the furtive look the Lakota woman gives the horse, who flicks his tail. The animal stares right at her, as if into her eyes.

“Oh, don’t tell me you here for him,” Dean says with a chuckle. “That thing’s a little too much for you, sweetheart.”

That earns her attention, steely and unimpressed.

“He is too much for you,” she says. Her voice is smooth, and would even be pleasant, if not for the circumstances. “He is one of ours. You will never break him.”

Dean's eyes widen a fraction. He glances back at the mustang.

So that's why she's here, he thinks. She's trying to mount a rescue. Dean feels a twinge deep inside, but he can't allow himself to care about that. They've collected a strong horse that will be a good support for their objectives here, once he's broken.

“Ah, well see,” Dean says, tipping his Stetson up to meet her gaze. “That’s kind of our specialty.”

“Sir, should we take her to the stockade?” Novak asks. He seems reluctant to do so to a woman, even an Indian, but he’s always been good at following orders.

Dean opens his mouth to reply, but another voice cuts him off. Colonel Asmodeus Sanderson steps out and takes a look at their captive.

“Not the stockade,” he says, with that Southern drawl that betrays his Kentucky roots. “Not yet.”

He approaches her with a slow, calculated gait. His hands gather behind his back. Dean gives her credit for looking Sanderson in the eye. She seems rightly wary, but not afraid.

“We won’t hurt you. I give you my word,” the Colonel says, “if you’ll lead us to your people’s camp.”

He takes a hold of her chin, turning her face this way and that, like he’s examining a dirty animal, and all that he’ll have to do to make it clean. She spits in his face.

Dean bites the inside of his lip against a smile. She’s got as much fight in her as the mustang. However, he has to school his face back into stoicism when Sanderson rears back in anger.

The harsh smack rings out in the clearing, along with the woman’s cry. Dean doesn’t allow himself to outwardly react, but inside, his spine tightens as he fights his instincts.

Only Kline and Novak’s hold on her arms keeps her upright. She pants for breath, but again, she meets the Colonel with a face that doesn’t give away anything, despite the reddening mark on her cheek.

“The post,” he barks. “Three days. No food or water.”

Dean is kept busy by his duties. He makes sure the camp is running in order, accepting shipments of supplies and ammunition, among other things. Cas Novak is in charge of the stables, caring for the horses and putting them through their training. Jack Kline is young and strong and a good assistant, along with others in his unit.

Right now, Dean and Benny are going over the plans with Colonel Sanderson for continuing construction on the railroad, from here to the Black Hills. It’s a path that cuts straight through Sioux territory—the bands of Dakota and Lakota Indians that occupy the land.

“The natives are fightin’ us tooth and nail,” Sanderson says. “But maybe our guest will be able to help us…negotiate.”

Dean remains quiet, ignoring yet another uneasy twinge in his gut. He didn’t join the army to fight the Indians. He doesn’t always understand their way of doing things, but he understands why they fight—to protect their land, and to protect their own. It’s the same reason Dean fights, when he has to.

He joined the army because…well, it felt like the right thing to do at the time. His father had been a Cavalry Major, and he’d died an honorable death, now about a decade past.

Has it really been ten years? Christ.

Dean wipes his brow. Even with the windows open, the office is humid and smells like ass. He glances outside, where both the mustang and the woman are tied to their posts under a sweltering sun at high noon.

Not for the first time, Dean wonders what his dad would think of him now.

After the meeting, Dean and Benny fall into step together to inspect the camp. The summer sun shines hot on their blue uniforms, and occasionally they raise their hats to mop the sweat from their brows.

Things are running as usual, but many of the men’s eyes occasionally turn to the posts. Dean’s attention wanders there too without him realizing, catching on the woman’s dark hair. It shines even blacker in the sunlight, like a raven’s wing. He knows the shade because his dad used to have a feather kept in his journal, like a bookmark.

“You okay, brother?” Benny asks. Dean realizes what he’s doing, and his attention returns to the task at hand. Get it together.

Always forward, never backward.

“Just fine,” Dean replies. Benny gives him a knowing look.

“A bit unsavory, ain’t it?” he says. “Keeping her chained up without even a lick of water.”

“The Indians are getting smarter, bolder. They’re ambushing our men, going after our supply lines, and now, stealing our horses,” Dean says. “This is strategy.”

Benny shrugs slightly, making a sound of agreement. Dean hesitates, his gloved fingers flexing against his sides.

“If she was a man, you guys wouldn’t give a shit about putting a bullet through her head,” Dean says.

Benny’s gaze shifts downward. He doesn’t reply, but he concedes the point all the same.

They continue their route, and Dean keeps the rest of the conversation on the work at hand.

Mila has gone far longer without drink, but the sun is particularly unforgiving today. She’s prayed and prayed for even one cloud to glide overhead and shield her for a while. It’s not much better for her companion. He paces in place, occasionally tugging his head against the rope that binds him to his post.

She makes a clicking sound at the horse, getting his attention. She calls him by his name, and his ears flicker in her direction. He offers her a short whinny in response.

“I see you, Mato. I am with you,” she says in her native tongue. She hopes the sound of her voice will soothe him. He looks tired and hungry, but his eyes flick hard and untrusting on any man who comes near him. His spirit isn’t broken.

“Hey! Shut the hell up over there,” Roman shouts at her from where he and Cas are taking a short lunch break. Cas gives him a certain look, crossed mostly with annoyance.

Mila resists the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she closes them and tilts her face back to the sun. In a way, it feels cleansing. Maybe it can wash away the stench of the White Men’s hands on her body, manhandling her, checking her for weapons.

She spends the rest of the day watching the camp. One of their leaders, the Green Eyed One, called this a fort. It does look fortified, with tall walls made of thick wood constructed to form a cage—whether to keep others out, or to keep the men and horses in.

She identifies the Colonel as their chief, of a kind. Green Eyes is second in command, followed by the Bearded One with a strange voice. Even the scruffy Blue Eyed One has some authority, mostly over the Child Faced One. There are too many others to rank them all, but she knows the Loud Mouthed One is arrogant, even after she broke his nose. The way he carries himself, he clearly thinks he has more power than he actually has.

In her mind, Mila conjures up different plans of escape. All of them fall short in some way. The men didn’t find all of her weapons; a small knife is hidden deep in her boot. She could saw at her binds within an hour, but even with Mato to carry her out and away, the problem is escaping this camp without alerting the men. Without getting shot.

She has three days to think.

That night, the moon refuses to give her clarity. Her stomach is too empty, her throat too dry, her tongue thick in her mouth. Her attention shifts in and out of consciousness, until the sound of boots crunching in the dirt trills unease down her spine. More alert, she sits up straighter.

The Loud Mouthed One. The one they call Roman comes to taunt her, offering her water, then drinking for himself instead. He comes closer to examine her. He has a small bind over his broken nose.

“You know, you’re a pretty one,” he says, taking another cold sip as his gaze drags over her form. “For a wild thing.”

His face nears hers, clean shaven, though his thin smile reminds her of a rattlesnake. Dread and repulsion churn at odds in her stomach as she realizes what he's really here for. It doesn't matter if he truly wants her, or just wants to pay her back for his face. Either way, he means to take her here in the dirt.

She looks away, not wanting to let him see her fear, or the dread tightening her stomach, rising into her throat. He winds long fingers into her hair. At first the hold is gentle, deceptive. Then it's tight against her scalp. She hisses in pain when he tugs her head back and forces her to look at him. Her breathing quickens as she tries to pull away.

He draws in close to try and claim her in a kiss, but she head-butts him, hard.

He cries out and stumbles back, his flask falling to the ground.

He angrily grabs her and hauls her up to her feet. He pushes her hard against the post and unbuckles his belt, just to stuff it in her mouth. With his free hand, he begins to undo his pants.

She refuses to cry out, even though she spits out his belt and fights him, trying to kick out his knees.

Suddenly, the man’s body is ripped away from her. Mila loses her footing and falls to the dusty ground, sliding against the wooden beam she’s tied to. The wind is knocked out of her, but when she raises her head, she watches with wide eyes as the Green Eyed One beats the other man into the dirt. It doesn’t take much, just a few well-placed fists.

Roman lies there catching his breath, and he spits a wad of phlegm and blood. His left eye will match his nose, that’s for sure.

Green Eyes looks angry and disgusted. He huffs and puffs while staring down at his subordinate. He pushes back his short brown hair and points an ungloved hand at Roman.

“Get back to the goddamn barracks. You’re gonna be mucking out stalls until shit’s coming out of your ears,” he growls.

Roman doesn’t argue, though it’s obvious that he wants to. He just picks himself up, makes a show of straightening up his open uniform jacket while catching his breath. He walks past Green Eyes with a resentful, angry look. Green Eyes watches him until he disappears inside.

Then, he turns to her. His gaze softens somewhat, but it’s still unreadable. He crouches down in front of her, resting his arms on his thighs. Mila’s gaze briefly falls to his hands. They’re calloused, the hands of a laboring man. He carries himself like a warrior.

“Sorry about that,” he says.

It’s not what she expected. Mila eyes him warily when he moves closer. She presses her back against the post until it hurts her spine. He raises up his hands placatingly.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says.

“That is what your Colonel said,” she says. Her voice cracks with dryness. “I didn’t believe him either.”

His lips flicker at a rueful smile. It wrinkles crow’s feet around his eyes, breaking his stony face.

“Fair enough.”

He reaches for his belt and retrieves a flask, similar to the one his subordinate carried. He extends it out to her.

“It’s water, unless you prefer whiskey. I know I do,” he says.

She raises a brow at him, but hearing the sloshing inside the flask, her thirst takes over her wariness, and even her pride. She tentatively leans forward. He brings it closer so she can press her lips to the opening. Despite his Colonel’s orders, he lets her drink as much water as she’s able. When she’s done, he pockets the flask and sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

That, she will not give him. Names are sacred to her people, and this man, while seeming to have a shred of honor, isn’t worthy.

“Don’t wanna even tell me your name?” he says. He nods slightly. “Okay, well, I’m Dean. Captain Winchester, to this band of delinquents.”

He gestures around the camp with a dismissive hand. Mila only watches him. She’s never seen a White act like this, breaking his leader’s rules, being…kind.

What a strange man.

But if he had any real convictions, he would untie her and let her go, along with Mato. She won’t hold her breath.

Dean’s brows raise up toward his hairline, and his full lips form a pout. Realizing he’s not going to get anything more from her, he lets out a tired huff and straightens up.

“Well, goodnight,” he says.

He finally leaves her alone, but she can’t help but follow the swaggering path of his bowed legs and heavy boots. They carry him away and back indoors.

A strange man.

By the morning of the third day, Dean is ready to do what he does best. Or at least, one thing he does best.

He’s no stranger to horses. He grew up on a farm in Lawrence, Kansas, where he and his brother would help take care of the animals. Dean was older, so he helped his father till the land and train the horses. Sometimes he and Sam would sneak off and race their favorite ones, until their mom called them back for dinner.

In fact, part of what earned Dean his rank in the U.S. Cavalry was how well he could command a horse. His own is resting in the stables.

Today, he’s getting in the ring with the mustang.

…Well, not right away. He lets a few of his guys go first to tire him out. Even after three days of no food or water, the horse is living up to his bad attitude. He bucks each of them off after just a few seconds in the corral. Dean can tell it’s becoming a kind of game for the horse. His dun-colored coat shines in the sun, his brown socked legs kicking up dust and manure as he brays angrily at whoever tries to mount him.

Dean notices the Lakota woman watching with an amused smile on her face while she sits with her hands tied to her post. She’s enjoying the show, like she knew this would happen. It seems to give her energy every time another man is thrown off the horse and limps out of the ring.

Dean shakes his head. Pitiful.

He puts two gloved fingers to his mouth and whistles the entire clearing to attention. He saves Kline the chance to bruise his spine and pats him on the shoulder. Dean steps into the corral and positions himself into the stirrups, wrapping the reins around his hand. The horse is breathing hard, but he’s not done. He’s still got fight in him. Dean sees it in his brown eyes.

“All right, mustang. You’re big and bad. I get it,” Dean says lowly. “But I don’t scare easy. Gimme your best damn shot.”

Cas and Benny give him wary looks from where they stand outside the gate.

“Hold onto your hat, Cap,” Benny mutters.

Dean adjusts his hat and rests his gun on the post for safe keeping. He wants to feel as natural as possible, like it’s just him and this horse, out back in his family farm. He holds on tight to the reins. He’s fully prepared for how the mustang takes off at a galloping clip around the ring. He twists and bucks, but Dean claps his thighs tight and holds on for the ride.

The horse gets smarter.

He runs for the water trough just outside the ring. He slams Dean against the side of it once, twice—and manages to throw him off, with Dean landing right in the water trough.

He bursts out from the dirty water, sopping wet and spluttering in anger. He looks over at the horse trotting around, whinnying and tossing his head like he’s laughing. Dean can’t help it. His anger fades, and he smiles.

This guy’s got some brass balls, I’ll give him that.

The Lakota woman laughs. Dean hears it and his head swivels toward her. She bites her lip, but she knows she’s been caught. Despite his injured pride, Dean’s lips curve with a smirk. Just gonna laugh at me, huh?

“I see things are going well,” comes a familiar drawl.

Dean’s face falls as he looks up and finds Colonel Sanderson. Dean pulls himself out of the trough and tries to squeeze some water out of his uniform. He clears his throat.

“Well, uh, it’s going, sir. Just gonna take a little more time than I thought,” Dean says. He quickly reclaims his hat from the ring, giving the mustang a smart berth. After he climbs back out, he goes over to the post where he left his pistol.

“Hold him steady,” Sanderson barks out the order, but not at Dean. The other men wrangle the horse back into the pen, where Sanderson climbs up and mounts the horse himself.

To his credit, he stays on longer than even Dean thought he would. The mustang gallops and circles. He tries slamming Sanderson on the sides of the corral, tries bucking him and bucking him, but the man clings on, even when his hat falls into the dirt.

The horse is exhausted. He eventually stops in the middle of the ring, panting for breath, his legs shaking slightly. Dean straightens at attention.

So does the Lakota woman, he notices. She looks worried, her brows furrowing.

Sanderson swipes a hand over his graying hair and moustache to collect himself. He raises his head with an arrogant smile.

“You see, gentlemen. Any horse can be broken,” he says. He kicks the horse with his spur. “Move along, mustang.”

To everyone’s amazement, the horse obeys him. He moves forward at a slow clip. All the men applaud, even Dean, belatedly.

“There are those in Washington who believe the West will never be settled,” Sanderson continues. “The Northern Pacific Railroad will never breach Nebraska.”

His gaze draws over to the woman. Her eyes are filled with tears as she watches the Colonel makes his rounds.

“A hostile Lakota,” he says in derision, “will never submit to providence.”

She stares back at him with steel in her watery eyes.

Dean doesn’t realize his jaw is clenched tight until he feels the strain in his jaw. He forces himself to relax, with his hand on his dampened belt.

“And it’s that kind of small thinking that would say this horse would never be broken,” Sanderson says. “Discipline, time, and patience. That’s all you need to level a wild thing.”

Just then, the horse stops abruptly.

“Mustang?” Sanderson asks in warning.

Dean tenses. He knows what’s about to happen.

“Sir!” he calls out.

But it’s too late.

The stallion revs and charges, bucking even wilder than before. He swings his head and rears back high on his hind legs with a powerful bray. Sanderson yells in fear and strain, but he stays on the creature’s back.

The horse’s angry eyes take on a darker shade of conviction. When all four of his hooves hit the ground, he finally bucks hard enough to get the Colonel off his back, though he still clings to the reins near the animal’s head. He comes face to face with the horse’s crazed eyes. His own are wide and full of terror.

Hot breath heats Sanderson’s face. Then the horse swings his head and tosses the man out of the ring. In the process, the horse falls on his side and shatters a section of the wooden beams that fenced him in.

While he shakes his head and gets his hooves under him, Dean and Benny help the Colonel up to his feet. His uniform is a wreck, and now, with a bruised body and likely a couple of broken ribs, the man is fuming.

Kline and Roman wrangle the horse’s reins and keep him more or less in place. The Colonel shoves Dean and Benny off of him. He reaches for his gun at his belt and aims it at the mustang. Dean goes rigid in shock, but he knows he can’t interfere. If he does, it could warrant some major discipline.

The Colonel pulls the hammer back on the revolver, but before he can pull the trigger, the sound of cutting rope and a feminine yell breaks the silence in the clearing. The Lakota woman pulls the Colonel’s arms down, and the gun goes off into the ground. Her elbow comes up quick to strike the man between the eyes. He careens back into Benny, who catches him.

Meanwhile, the woman swings up onto the mustang. She grabs a stronghold by the neck and barks something in her native language. It spurs the horse onward, and he breaks through the crowd of men at a gallop.

Dean watches with widening eyes and furrowing brows. “Shit!”

He runs to the stables where he finds Baby waiting for him. Her black coat ripples as she stamps impatiently.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he beckons. He leads the mare out of the stable, and after grabbing a coil of rope from the supply bench, he mounts her smoothly. With a subtle kick of his heel, she picks up speed to follow the mustang and his rider.

They’re already approaching the gate where the men are quickly trying to close it. There’s still a window of opportunity for escape, but not only is Dean on their heels, Roman also stands on a pile of crates filled with iron parts that are due to be shipped out in the morning for continued construction on the railroad. Roman holds a rifle. He trains his weapon on the woman, taking deadly aim.

Dean’s jaw clenches and his brows furrow. He knows then, in the breadth of a few seconds, that he has to make a choice. If he does nothing, both she and the horse are as good as dead.

Sam used to call him reckless, stubborn as the horses he spent long hours taming.

Right about now, his brother is probably right.

Dean reaches for his gun, aims, and shoots within the span of those seconds. Roman goes down before he even knows what hits him. His chest plumes with blood after he slides down the crates and flops heavy to the ground. His eyes stare unseeing at the crisp blue sky.

The mustang tears through the narrow opening in the gate, and Dean isn’t far behind. The woman is an excellent rider, far better than he expected her to be. She clings to the horse’s neck and mane, and she doesn’t even use the stirrups. She clings on when the horse leaps over rocks, and when she notices Dean tailing her, she urges the horse at an even faster gallop.

Dean’s face furrows with determination. Baby is built for speed too.

He gives her a little kick with his heel. “Come on, Baby. Go!”

He’s able to keep up with the mustang just a few yards behind, even when they reach rougher terrain, going further up and into a canyon. He follows them through every curve and dip, guiding his horse just as much as she's guiding him.

Dean takes his rope in hand and turns it above his head, but his attempt to lasso the mustang's neck fails; the woman saws straight through the rope with her knife.

"Damn it!" Dean mutters.

He's forced to let go of his frayed rope when he and Baby nearly careen off the edge of a cliff. His heart settles high in his throat as he grits his teeth, but he pulls back on the reins hard and leans in the opposite direction. Baby's able to bank left, saving them from a long way down to certain death.

They continue up the narrow path the mustang has trod ahead. It carves around and through the mountain.

Dean mentally grasps for a plan, aside from just keeping up. Without even a bit of rope, he doesn’t know how he’s going to slow the woman down without hurting her or the horse. He doesn’t want to have to use his gun.

Eventually, the canyon breaks into a patch of desert, and then, grassy plains and tall forest trees. The mustang begins to tire and slow to a stop. His rider murmurs soothing things to him, stroking his neck. She turns back to look at Dean over her shoulder in dismay. She knows she’s caught.

“All right, sweetheart. That’s enough,” Dean says.

He sidles up next to her and intends to grab the mustang’s reins.

That’s when her swift kick comes, dead in his forehead.

AN: And here we go! 😅 Feels right that November is Native American Indian Heritage Month. 🫶🏽 For that reason especially I've done my best to do the Lakota people justice, even in this little series and complete work of fiction.

There's a lot packed in this first chapter, and yep, I did borrow a bit of scene from one of the best scenes in Spirit as an homage. From here on out, we're literally going off road...

Next Time:

Dean falls out of his saddle with a yell, landing hard in the grass. The impact knocks the air out of his chest and his hat off his head, not to mention the pain that rattles down his back.

“Son of a bitch,” he wheezes, while trying to get back up.

The woman jumps down from the mustang’s back and all but leaps on Dean. Straddling his waist and grabbing a fistful of his collar, she lets out a battle cry and raises a small knife at him. It’s probably no more than two inches long.

Dean may be on the ground with a smarting forehead, but he’s still got the upper hand. He grabs her knife-wielding arm and whips out his pistol from his belt. Her eyes widen, and she stills above him. The gun lies between them, aimed for her chest. They’re both breathing hard.

Dean has a problem.

Looking into her eyes, soulful and brown, the slope of her nose and her full lips, parted with shock…

▶️ Keep Reading: PART 2