March knows Sammy is a (bloodjunkie) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-02-03 01:36:00 |
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Entry tags: | dorian gray, sam winchester |
Who: March and Hunter
What: A visit to the ranch, and a teensy life-changing event for March
Where: The ranch that must not be named (apparently)
When: Recently
Warnings/Rating: Cowboy hats?
Cowboys, they used to ride horses into the ground. They’d get the angry ones that didn’t understand what the hell was going on, full-grown off the plains, then they’d jump on top of ‘em and just cling there until the horse got too tired to handle it. Then they’d do it again, until the horse figured out the kicking didn’t work, and eventually--after literally backbreaking labor--they’d get something close to tame. Then they’d start training. If none of that worked, or if the horse managed to kill enough cowboys that tried, they’d just put a bullet in it and start over with a different one.
Hunter wasn’t a cowboy. He had boots and he had a hat, but the boots were so no horse broke his toes on accident, and the hat was to keep the sun off. By the time a horse came into Hunter’s hands, at some no-name trail-ride ranch outside of Las Vegas, they weren’t in any kind of shape. Some of them were recovering from injuries, some of them from neglect, all of them from bad treatment in some way or fashion that made them honest human-hating hunks of flesh. And when said hunk of flesh was anywhere from twelve to fifteen hundred pounds, that was nothing to take light.
March H.’s horse was used to having his own way. He bit, stamped, and flat out chased anyone and anything out of his space as far as he could go. First thing Hunter did was hop into the round pen, get in there into the dirt, and scare the bejesus out of that horse. Screamed, wailed, flung his hat in the air from side to side, stamped and ran right at him. Horses react to that kind of thing the same thing as people--they avert their eyes and get the hell out of there. No time to be aggressive when you’re running.
Now he was working on establishing ground. There was a lot of running to cut off the horse’s path, since this horse wouldn’t take a halter and he couldn’t seem to decide whether he wanted to be charging at Hunter or trying to run. He literally herded the horse into corners by sprinting from side to side and taking whatever ground the big black wanted to take. Hunter wouldn’t let the horse get far, and he had a thin pole with a very long, whippy bit of string that did the job without doing any damage. Hunter would cut the black off and move him sideways with a couple smacks on the rump with the string when he pinned his ears back or tried to ignore the movement. It was a bewildering experience for so large an animal used to the stupid little people running away.
Sweat through but fairly well satisfied, Hunter waited until the black was too confused for certainty before he took a break and climbed over the metal bars again. It was around that time he noticed he had an audience.
March grew up around horsing.
Well, no, March mostly grew up around horsing. At the ripe old age of ten, he'd been summoned away from Las Vegas' dry heat, back on to Kentucky's blue grass and damp summers. So, March knew horses, except for the fact that he'd only rode a few right at the beginning, and he'd never cared to do it again. His grandmomma would have loved him to be the type to care about the family's auspicious history as breeders, but he didn't care about winning this Cup or that Cup, not March. He'd cared about the pretty jockeys once he grew to be a teenager, and he loved the smell of hay and sweat that came with tumbling in a barn, but he wasn't a horse person. Never had been, and likely never would be.
Guthrie, now he was a damn soft moment, that's what Guthrie was.
March had gone home after his stint in Chicago. He'd gone just long enough to tell his people that he was heading back to Las Vegas to take a job that didn't really exist, and to pad the lie with stories of wanting to reconnect with his half-brothers. Now, none of that was true, of course, but he hadn't been willing to tell his family the truth about anything. But during that visit, he'd gone wandering in the old stables, remembering what life had been like before he'd gone and thrown his life away for some pretty damn face he couldn't even pinpoint.
And there, looking sour as piss, was Guthrie.
The stablehand told March the horse had been intended as a travel buddy for the racers, but he didn't have the temperament for it. They couldn't sell the thing, as it was like to bite someone, and there was no riding him. March knew where the road ended for a horse that wasn't worth anything, and that was only seeping money from the stables. Poor Guthrie, he wasn't even breeding stock. He bought the damn thing for near nothing from his grandmomma, who thought this was a piss poor way to finally take an interest in the family business.
And now, now March was standing at the metal enclosure in a pair of khaki shorts and a long-sleeved white shirt that fit too long in the sleeves. He had flip flops on his feet, and his brown hair was all mussed atop his head. He looked younger than his twenty-four years, despite sounding real old when he talked, and he was all squint and dimples in the Vegas son. "He's a real piece of work, isn't he?" he asked cheerfully.
Hunter turned around slowly, worn out boots grinding in the old gravel. The sun was bright even if the desert winter was sharp and cold, and the caramel eyes were almost completely hidden in a long-lashed squint. He recognized the voice from the phone, but he was expecting something different. In Hunter’s mind March needed another thirty pounds and twenty years to fit with his voice. The other guy had a harmless, smiling face, and Hunter didn’t know what to do in the face of so much blatant cheer. He gave himself a couple inches space to figure it out--an awful lot like the black that was giving them both the side eye.
“I hope you’re not planning on getting in there with them on,” Hunter said, looking down at March’s slippers with something like unwilling fascination. They were completely alone out on this side of the ranch; trail rides were still running and there wasn’t anybody friendly enough with Hunter to be interested in what he was doing with the black. No dogs, either, because a few of them went on the trail and Hunter wasn’t going to bring any others out with such a skittish horse.
Hunter looked up again into March’s face. “Guess you’re not, are ya? Don’t plan on ridin’ him then.” It was obvious Hunter didn’t really approve of that. He walked away then, not entirely ignoring March, just sort of edging around him, going for a green hose attached to the side of the building near the trough. He squeaked the water on and hosed off the back of his head with ice water.
In comparison, Hunter was precisely what March was expecting. He'd already pinned Hunter as something young, and he'd spent enough time watching stablehands to know what they looked like. Hunter fit the bill real fine, and March just gave him more of that grinning. "You going to tell me he won't be happy if I don't ride him?" he said, his tone saying he didn't believe that for a second. He didn't have strong feelings on horsing, not like Hunter did, but he didn't think a horse was damned to a miserable life just on account of him not climbing onto his back. But as for getting in the ring, he was willing, flip flops and all, and he glanced down to see how mucky it was before climbing in.
Granted, March kept his back to the metal, and he didn't make any move toward the ornery black. "Don't got any boots around, I reckon?" he asked Hunter, more of that squint and grin. He whistled at the horse, and he was fearless, he had that going for him at least. He might not plan on riding the thing, but he wouldn't mind it liking him some more than it did. Because, of course, he'd been blowing smoke when he'd told Hunter the horse understood him. Horse didn't understand him worth a damn and, to be fair, March didn't understand Guthrie neither.
Hunter pulled his fingers through his hair, trying to unstick it from his scalp and shuddering melting stripes of ice off his spine as he straightened up and returned to the fence. He watched with some interest. The black was more worried about the insane man in the boots than he was about March, who never tried to make him do anything he didn’t want to do and brought yummy things. Hunter put his elbows on the fence and watched for a while, one toe behind the other heel.
Eyes on the horse, Hunter made a soft humming sound in the back of his throat. “Yeah, no, you got what you came in.” He showed a hint of one eyetooth as the black pretended to nose at the nonexistent grass. “You don’t want to be boss. You want to be friends. Like a pet bunny.” The eyetooth gave way to a full grin. Hunter thought that was hilarious. He didn’t look especially upset at the idea March wouldn’t ever get the black to do anything the black didn’t damn well decide to do. He figured it was a given. But if March wasn’t going to force him, then that was all well and good.
Of course, while the horse was at the ranch, he was gonna mind what Hunter said, and that would take a bit of training. March could pet the bunny though, as far as Hunter was concerned.
"Who says I got a right to go bossing anybody?" March asked, stepping careful through the pen and pulling a shiny apple out of the pocket of his baggy khaki shorts. He made a clicking sound with his tongue, and he held the treat out, and he laughed when the horse came and took it from him, leathery nose and big old teeth. "I wouldn't mind him liking me when I don't got food in my hand, though," he admitted, giving away that he was a real soft kind, and that the smile wasn't any kind of fooling.
March looked over his shoulder at Hunter, green eyes all mischief. "Nah, I don't intend on bossing him. I don't intend on riding neither," he added, not explaining that he was real careful about nearly everything that could get him hurt or get him up in a lather these days. He would have taken the challenge once, but he was still at that stage of things where he was being too careful. He knew it; he knew medicine, and he knew how sick folks thought, but that didn't mean he could help himself any. He'd been considering quitting healing on folks altogether recent. He was making money at the drag club, and maybe it might be enough for his medicines, and going out nights was risky. Riding a horse, that was risky too.
Hunter’s hair felt like it was freezing to his head in the chapped wind, but the sun was so bright the permanent squint was still in place. He watched the big black take the apple and skip away to munch on it. “Spoilt,” he observed, smirking at it. He propped a boot up in the metal railing, hung his weight there a second, and then hopped into the round pen. The horse didn’t want to drop the apple but he turned to give Hunter two full eyes of attention. A good sign. Ears flexing every which way. Less aggression, more concern. That’s alright then.
Hunter came up next to March, feeling somewhat sunworn and thick in comparison to the other man. “He likes you cuz you got food. The way you like the food mart,” Hunter observed, somewhat mercilessly. “You either okay with that or you’re not. Hey, none of that,” he said, this last to the horse, who was skirting around to see if he could chase Hunter off. Hunter spread one long palm into the cold air and stomped in a direction to cut him off. The horse skipped around the other way and Hunter resumed conversation. “You either going to work with him or get back over the fence,” Hunter told March, seriously enough. It wasn’t all that pivotal that the owner tame him, as long as the owner never planned to tame him. Hunter made a mental note to try not to get too attached to a horse that could get carted off any time the rich man lost interest. He gave March a sudden look that was less cream coffee and more flint-edged amber, as if he was potentially dangerous.
"How's giving him an apple spoiling him?" March asked, and maybe there was smirking in the asking. "If I show up here with french fries and a milkshake, that's spoiling," he added, thinking it might be worth doing just to see how Hunter reacted. He watched the horse out of the corner of his eye, not worrying about what the soft black ears were doing. March gave the impression that he didn't worry about a whole lot, and that was because he didn't worry about a whole lot. Trouble came, whether you worried or not, and there wasn't a whole lot of point in letting it get you in advance, as far as he was concerned.
"Dogs like you on account of you feeding them at first," was March's response to Hunter's comment about the food. "Then they get to liking you even without it." He paused, and he gave Hunter a grin that made his nose look too long for his tan face. "Or is that cats?" Truth was, March had always been the type to feed homeless things, but he'd never been inclined to drag them home with him. Same thing went with men and women; keeping wasn't something he did a whole lot of.
He watched Hunter stamp at the horse with a grin that grew wide. "You tell me how to work with him, and I'll do it. Just tell him he can't go stepping on my toes," March replied, pretending he didn't notice that sudden look. If Hunter was thinking something, March was plenty willing to be patient and wait it on out until he told.
If some owner showed up with a Happy Meal and planned on taking it into the stable, Hunter’d probably drop the bag--and maybe the man too--into a water trough. He wasn’t thinking about it just then, though, because March’s lack of fear indicated a comfort around horses that the majority of people didn’t have, and he’d know better than to try to feed his horse something dangerous. Hunter’s concern was therefore more for himself than the animal. Hunter could be pretty animal himself when it came down to it.
Hunter looked away from March, successfully convincing whatever the prickly part of himself that did the judging that he wasn’t a threat. “Horses aren’t like dogs or cats. They’re herd. They work in a big group. Tough on top. Weak on bottom. Either you’re boss or he’s boss. Don’t go both ways. So for a while he’s gonna hate you. Horses don’t have puppy love like dogs. They don’t come back when you hit ‘em. They run or they bite you to make you stop. You give ‘em an inch, specially a big black gelding like this bastard here, and he’s gonna run over you so you don’t get the chance to be boss.”
“Horses will work with you if you’re boss, or they’ll ignore you if you’re not. So it’s up to you. Sometimes people don’t want to go through all that, and the horse don’t like it any either. But if he’s here, he’s gonna mind me, so you can do it or you can get out of the way. Otherwise somebody’s gonna get hurt when he gets into a temper.” He watched the black relax clear on the other side of the pen, one toe back, head drowsing. A second later Hunter decided he better say something nice. “Seems like he likes you, though. Don’t go charging at you when you get in. Guess you never asked him to do anything he didn’t feel like doing.”
March had hit on too many boys sitting on horses to have anything like fear. He knew not to get on the wrong side. He knew to bribe with food. And that's about all he knew. But it did him plenty good, and that was all he was concerned with. He wasn't scared of folks, either, and he didn't have any reason to think Hunter would be scared of little old him. Hunter was a handsome thing, in that rough old sweaty way that ranch hands were, and March didn't see the scarring beneath the surface. He was a little like Jan in that way; the type of folks that hadn't let bad their childhoods make them twitchy. They'd gone the other way instead, coping with smiles and laughter and finding the good in the real terrible, least when they were wide awake.
"You telling me Guthrie thinks I'm weak?" March asked, all fake insult and a real fond look at the big black horse way on the other side of the pen. "Guthrie, you're hurting my feelings, son. See if I sing at you next time," he called out jovially to the drowsing horse. He turned his attention back to Hunter a second later. "You tell me what working with him's all about, and I'll think on it. That fair?" he asked, expression going as somber as March's expression went when he wasn't thinking on his stepmother or his death sentence. "I never asked him to do a thing, and he never asked me to do a thing. That's my favorite kind of man," he added, a definite trace of flirting in the deep voice that was so ill-suited to the boy in the flip flops. "And next time, I'll wear some close-toed shoes." Grin.
A thin cloud took some of the glare out of the sky, and Hunter turned away from his long stare at the horse and temporarily paused his considerations about the direction of Guthrie’s ears in favor of March’s throwaway grin. Flirting wasn’t entirely alien to Hunter. He made it real clear with the cut of his jeans and the close tailoring of his shirts that he didn’t mind the attention, and he had chipping crescents of color on his nails meant to imply from which direction he liked it to come. All the same, it was easy to see that Hunter viewed these things as kind of signs, not because he had any idea of his own impression or appearance. Hunter had no idea what men saw when they looked at him, except that he hoped they’d read the signs as he meant them, and if they liked it then they’d say something, and if they didn’t they’d leave him be.
Hunter had a hard time reading March. Nobody was that happy, period. Hunter had a hard time believing it, but it seemed genuine. March was moving into the territory of “unbelievably lucky enough to be that happy.” Hunter felt like he was talking to a bizarre creature rarely seen in the wild, like a lottery winner. In the sudden shade of the fortuitous cloud, Hunter’s lashes widened and the brown eyes became deeper, more trusting, more confused. “You mean money? People never ask you for money?”
Oh, March had noticed, but he wouldn't have given a damn if the nail polish was missing. He'd been lucky in his life, and he'd never got so much as a black eye on account of his leanings. His surname was Kentucky gold, and everyone had known which way he came from before he'd even figured it out himself. Plus, no one broke your nose in the social circles he'd come face-to-face with puberty in; bruised knuckles weren't real pretty at the Derby. He'd been out, plain as day, in college, and he'd never had to deal with being out after, because he'd stopped shopping after. He'd put men on a shelf, and he intended them to stay there. But there was nothing wrong with smiling pretty at the cowhand. Wasn't any harm going to come from it.
March grinned. "I don't got liquid cash. No one asks me for a damn thing, on account of there being nothing to get," he admitted. It was the whole reason he had to work for his medicine these days. Because the trust paid housing expenses and food, and his grandmomma had agreed to pay for Guthrie's keep out of some soft spot, but everything else was on him. Fun, his grandmomma always said, wasn't her responsibility. He considered clarifying, explaining what he'd meant by saying the horse didn't ask anything of him, but he refrained, liking the game of coaxing Hunter into asking if he wanted to know.
Hunter turned away from the horse, finding him an easy read in comparison to the man. He stuck a boot on the first rung of the metal fence and threw a long leg over, straddling it for only a second before turning and landing with a little puff of pale dirt on two boots. His hair was finally drying--or at least not dripping, and his shirt was cool. He felt steady, strong on his own territory. He seemed to expect March to follow, and waited to see if the flip flops sent him face first into the dirt (not because he was vindictive, but because he was curious at how they were managed). “Lot of money to keep up him,” Hunter said, because to him anyone that could afford a horse was rich. Anyone who could afford a house was rich.
March did follow, and he didn't fall on his face in the dust, though he looked down at the caked stuff on his bare toes and frowned some - bad shoe choice. But he went and followed, keeping just far off enough that no one felt crowded. Despite the fact that the air had some bite, March was already sweating on account of that long sleeved shirt and all that floppy hair, and some of the brown tendrils were starting to stick here and there to sweaty skin, even though he hadn't done a damn thing to go sweating over yet. If he was coming back to work, he'd be bringing something lighter to wear. "I guess that means you don't feel like telling me what I need to do to go training him to think I'm alpha horse," he said, walking slower than Hunter, intentionally not pushing himself none. "My trust's paying it. My grandmomma signed for it," he explained. "Money isn't going nowhere."
Hunter didn’t pay all that much attention to the shirt. He had decided a long time ago that you could predict men from their arms and their eyes the way you could predict horses from their ears and tail. So instead of admiring the sticky stretch of neck (which he might have done, in a different place) he watched the casual swing of March’s loose fingers and then, a bit more delayed, the bright twinkle of his big round eyes. Hunter didn’t know what March was talking about; when people said trust he assumed it meant believe in other people. He didn’t see how trusting made money go nowhere, and because he was sufficiently reassured by March’s behavior, he let it show. None of this was at all intentional, and Hunter didn’t realize why he did the things he did. Now he said, “So your grandma is paying for it,” he clarified, seriously, trying to understand where the money was coming from. “You want to work with him you’ll do what I did back in there, with more work for both of you. And steel balls.” Grin.
"You want me to stomp at him some?" March asked, grinning wide and coming up behind Hunter after a few slow strides and caught breath. He was a bit shorter than the man at his side, all tight muscles that didn't see nothing strenuous ever. "My grandmomma pays for my living. It's a trust fund. So it's not really her. It's years of horsing, but she administrates it," he said plain. He'd never felt any shame at taking what came to him from being born. He didn't feel special on account of it either. It was just how things were, and he let it be. He grinned wider then, moving ahead of Hunter and looking back at him, all squint and flirt in the bright light. "Maybe I don't got steel balls. We might be in for some trouble if they're required." He paused, and he regarded Hunter, clearer now that they weren't clear in the middle of nothing. "You been here long?" he asked curiously. At the end of the day, March was a music man, a writer of songs, bluegrass and folk and the kinds of things that came with words that told stories. He honestly wanted to know about the cowhand, and his curiosity was plain as the sun shining down on their heads.
“Administrates it. Huh. Lucky you.” They ended up near the wet horse trough on the outside of one of the outlying barns, facing out into the blank desert. The trail riders came in the other way, and judging from the empty beer can and the stack of old planks, Hunter came out here whenever he was on break. He folded down, heels to ass, and set his long legs scraping out toward the scrub brush. Dug out a cigarette pack and a lighter from a hollow under the boards. The empty beer can’s purpose was obviously makeshift ash tray. “Few months. Maybe getting to be a year, something like that.” Hunter tipped out the cigarette pack toward March inquiringly, the length of his plaid-striped arm more than capable of getting it halfway up March’s length while the other man was full standing. “Long enough to know if you don’t got steel balls the horse will just trample you flat.” Grin.
"She doesn't want me spending it crazy," March explained of his grandmomma. "The old bird's smart as can be. Business head on her like you wouldn't believe," he said, proud and fond and everything loving toward the tough old broad that had made him go do something with his brains, instead of letting him be a spoiled thing that did nothing. "Every time I wanted to do something, she'd let me if I challenged myself to do just a little more. I wanted to play guitar, but I had to learn violin. I wanted singing lessons, but I had to join choir. I wanted to leave the house, fine, but there had to be college." He shrugged his shoulders, and he grinned. "Pushy old broad, but real smart." He shook his head when Hunter offered the smoke. "Unless that's a joint, and it isn't, you can hold onto them yourself." As for steel balls, he just sat down on the edge of the trough and looked unapologetic. "I just wanted to keep him from being put down. If I can't get him liking me, it's no big thing, long as he's somewhere. That horse is the one emotional decision I ever made."
Hunter shook his head, as the cigarette was just a cigarette, but he wasn’t apologetic about it. He snapped a plastic lighter at the end of its short, fragile life, and shielded the flame from the harsh breeze coming around the edge of the barn. Hunter squinted sideways as he listened to the tale of the grand southern lady rich as Solomon. He had absolutely no conception of such a person. It wasn’t that he didn’t think women could be rich and powerful, it was just that the idea of one forcing you to do all these things didn’t sound that smart to him. It must be a rich guy thing.
Hunter let out his first exhale of smoke. The wind stretched it out and whipped it away before it had a chance to do much more than creep from the curve of his lip. “He likes you fine. And, I guess if you don’t piss off your grandma, he gets to keep living, right?” It had a hint of sarcasm to it. Hunter had a long time to adjust to the fact that people could save or kill any animal they chose, but maybe there was a sliver of resentment there. March had done some saving, but he still couldn’t guarantee the horse could stay saved.
"My grandmomma isn't likely to cut me off," March said honestly. Sure, there was stuff he was keeping from the old woman, but it wasn't anything she'd cut him off for. When he came out of the closet, she was the first one telling her friends how proud she was. Knowing he was sick, that would scare her something fierce, but that was all. She'd already settled on a cousin as backup, since chances of him procreating weren't real high. "But if you're worried about the horse, then you tell me what we got to do to get him at the point where he can go somewhere he will be safe long term." He knew there were places like that. Ranches and farms and places sick kids went to ride ponies. He knew the horse was an ornery cuss, but if working him meant he'd be around in the long run, then March was willing to try at it. After all, horses lived a good long while, and there was no guarantee that March would do the same.
Hunter took his time. He thought about what March said, carefully, turning it over in his mind, trying to decide if he could trust him. For Hunter, an animal was not a small thing, their care no less. They gave trust according to their natures, and kept it unless it was betrayed. Hunter was not necessarily soft-hearted--he’d kill a rabbit and eat it just like most of the people he’d grown up with--but deciding to raise one, to take on that trust, that was a serious thing. He took a lungful of willful tar and then let it out. “First we’ll get it so he don’t try to take your arm off if you stick it in his way. Then we’ll see about the rest.” A sliver of soft brown gaze presented itself to March over the sharp line of a cheekbone. “If you’re not lookin’ to ride, you don’t need to do much except come by. Stand around some. Do what I say. He likes you, so you standin’ where I say, that will help.” Dark-chipped nails dug thoughtfully into his jean seams just at the knee as he thought.
March's grin was all olive squint, and he shook some dust off his bare toes. "I can do that," he said, looking around at the big wide open. It didn't look a lick like home, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't like being outside the limits some. He liked driving, top down and something with twang blaring loud enough to be heard over the rushing breeze. Sure, he could come on out and stand around. He'd bring a string next time. Horses weren't averse to music, surely, and Guthrie should get a notion of who he was named after. The idea, silly damn thing of an idea, made him grin. It was a moment, as it were. Something real simple, and that didn't really seem like nothing much at all.
No one had died, and no one had gone bleeding, but March's outlook had gone and swerved. It was a 180 on the road of life. March had avoided outside for near a year, unless he was treating someone, and he'd still caught himself the cold to end all colds come winter. He grinned over at Hunter. "Maybe I'll try riding him some after all," he said, clear out of the blue, and he didn't even notice with the angry little Winchester in his head went quiet. Truth was, he felt pretty damn good just then, and it was evident on his face, even if he didn't go explaining it worth a damn to the man sitting in front of him.